The Sokolov estate had never been this tense.
Crystal chandeliers. Long dining table. Silver cutlery.
And war sitting politely in tailored suits.
Roman Volkov entered first.
Behind him — Valentin, elegant and unreadable.
Then Viktor.
Mikhail. Dmitri. Nikola.
Their presence alone shifted the air.
Sergei stood at the head of the table.
Leonid beside him, composed.
Pavel and Makar flanking the right.
Nikolai silent near the end.
And Artyom.
Seated slightly apart.
Watching.
Roman's gaze swept the room.
"So this is the Sokolov family."
Sergei's voice was smooth.
"And this is the Volkov dynasty."
Viktor's eyes locked on Artyom immediately.
Not subtle. Not hidden.
Possessive.
Leonid noticed.
Pavel noticed.
Everyone noticed.
Valentin tilted his head slightly.
Interesting.
Dinner began.
Polite conversation.
False smiles.
Then Roman spoke.
"The northern route disruption."
Sergei didn't blink. "Not our doing."
"Not ours either," Roman replied calmly.
Mikhail leaned back. "Someone is playing us."
Dmitri added quietly, "A third force."
Nikola finally spoke. "Morozov."
Silence fell.
Leonid's fingers tightened on his glass.
Artyom froze.
Viktor watched him carefully.
Sergei's voice hardened.
"He is irrelevant."
Roman smiled faintly.
"Dead men don't disrupt empires."
Valentin spoke softly for the first time.
"Sometimes ghosts are the most dangerous."
Under the table, Artyom's hands trembled.
Viktor noticed.
He leaned slightly closer.
"Breathe," he murmured.
Artyom didn't look at him.
"I'm fine."
He wasn't.
Above them, hidden in surveillance feeds miles away —
Andrei Morozov watched.
All of them.
His former lover.
The man who replaced him.
The son he was forced to leave.
And the Alpha circling his child.
His voice was calm.
"Prepare phase two."