The car idled beneath the dim wash of a flickering streetlight, its engine humming low like a restrained threat. Night had already settled fully, wrapping the empty road in silence.
Inside, Lucien Volkov sat in the backseat, one arm draped lazily over the leather, though there was nothing relaxed about him. His gaze was fixed ahead, distant… calculating.
The driver didn't turn immediately.
"Your father is asking questions again," he said at last, his voice carrying that thick, controlled accent that never quite softened.
His name was Sergei Orlov, a man who had seen too much… and said too little.
Lucien's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't look at him.
"He always is."
A pause stretched between them, heavy and deliberate.
Orlov adjusted his grip on the wheel. "You should call him."
"Why should I? .", Lucien said coldly.
"You have not returned to the estate in weeks."
That got a subtle reaction.
Lucien's fingers curled slightly against the seat.
