The Winter Table

[Zixin Kao]

The cold had teeth in Moscow this time of year. Sharp, gnashing things that chewed through fur and pride alike. Zixin cursed it every time it kissed his face, but today… Today it suited him. The streets below were frozen in place, movements cautious and slow, as if the whole city waited to see what would come next.

From the glass-walled penthouse of the Radiance Hotel, the skyline glittered like a constellation trapped beneath ice. Below, the boulevards of Moscow’s wealthiest district stretched clean and quiet, gleaming with salt and privilege. Up here, forty-one floors above consequence, the city felt almost tame.

Zixin adjusted the cuffs of his ink-black coat. The wool was a whisper of luxury against the charcoal collar beneath. No gold. No ornament. He didn’t need symbols. He was the symbol.

The suite had been stripped of Adrian Kane’s usual decadence. In its place: austerity. A long table of black-stained walnut bisected the room, framed by the icy glow of the windows and the low, ambient hush of a city kept far away. No waiters. No music. No distractions. Even the hotel staff had been cycled off the floor for the evening, replaced by trusted faces whose tongues were already bought.

This was not a party. This was not a negotiation. This was a claim.

A gentleman’s understanding had gone out through the channels: neutrality. No weapons. No retaliation. No blood on Radiance floors. Not tonight. Adrian’s hotel was considered neutral ground now, and no one had reason to test the boundaries yet. Still, eyes would watch from the corners, security swept and reswept. Adrian promised he would ensured it.

There would be seats at the table for the players: the Yakuza captain, likely first to arrive. Punctuality was as much ritual as reputation. The Russians would likely arrive fashionably late - though it remained to be seen whether the Stoyas, Petrovich's, or Vasilev's would arrive first. Adrian, of course, was already here. Always watching. He was both host and observer, in the way predators sometimes pretended to be idle.

Ryker would come when it amused him.

And then there was Ozymandias and Alistair. Wild cards in every way, especially allure. Zixin didn’t need their endorsement, but their presence would serve as a quiet reminder of the game already in motion.

Beyond the table, Adrian had arranged standing space around the edges of the room. A gallery for lieutenants, enforcers, middle-men. Those too important to be absent, but not important enough to speak. Besides, each party was unlikely to arrive unaccompanied. They would hover like shadows, eyes fixed on the table, ears hungry.

Zixin didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. There was no need. The room already answered to him. And the city. If it didn’t yet, it would.

This wasn’t about violence. This was about inevitability. When they arrived, he would already be seated at the head of the table.

[Kiyohito]

Yuta Hayashi

The elevator opened without a sound, and from it Yuta Hayashi stepped onto the penthouse floor with the calm of still waters calm. He moved like a man already announced. Bbecause he had been. His name preceded him the way all reputations worth anything should.

Behind him, Korii-Kiyohito walked with eyes sharp as a scalpel, his hands tucked politely into the sleeves of his black winter coat. Though barely a year in Moscow, the younger man had already bloodied more than a few knuckles and earned a place closer to the heart of Edenokōji-gumi’s operations. He said little unless it mattered.

His two lieutenants followed, one broad and silent, the other wiry with a hint of nervous energy. Both suited in  blacks, as disciplined in step as they were in blade.

The warmth of the penthouse was immediate but not completely uninviting. He paused to examine the table in the center, positioned as if it was an altar, and they all knew who intended to sit at the center of its gravity. His gaze lifted to the man himself. Zixin was already there, of course. Seated at the head like a man who’d already called checkmate and was waiting for everyone else to see it.

Yuta took it in with a single glance and nodded once to the host, his expression unreadable beneath the precise lines of his coat and gloves. He walked toward his designated chair without needing to ask where it was. He recognized placement when he saw it.

No fanfare. No bowing. He simply pulled the chair back and sat. Kiyohito and the other two remained standing behind him, ghosts at the shoulder. No one spoke. Not yet. But their presence had been registered. And Yuta was content to let silence speak for now.

[Adrian Kane]

Adrian took his time.

He entered the penthouse with the casual poise of a man who already owned the floor. Because in this case, he did. In every legal and metaphysical sense of the word, the Radiance was his. Not leased. Not loaned. Owned. Brick, air, title, and blood with links throughout the entire city. The network of an invisible army.

Tonight, though, he relinquished the duties of host. Tonight, he was something else. A guest of sorts, but an honored one.

His suit was midnight blue, cut sharp and custom-fitted to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and the line of his frame. Understated gold cufflinks winked beneath the sleeves. A tie the dipped behind a vest taught against his chest.

He made a slow circuit of the room. No greetings. No small talk. Just a quiet, assessing sweep of those gathered already.

He recognized Yuta Hayashi, already seated like a statue. Stoic and unmovable as usual. Three other familiar faces were behind him, watching everyone’s hands. Meanwhile, the Russians weren’t here yet. Typical, he supposed, and wondered which of the families would show first. Zixin, of course, already claimed his place at the head of the table, chin tilted with his usual blend of menace and playfulness. Good. Let him have his moment - kid had balls. Adrian wasn’t here to steal the show. He was here to make them remember who he was.

He completed the circuit and slid into a seat not at the head, not at the foot, but center-left. Adrian crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, draped an arm lazily over the chair’s back. The vantage was precise. He could watch every face and every twitch of reaction. More importantly, every other man in the room would be able to watch him doing it.

[Ryker]

Ryker nursed a neat glass of vodka at the downstairs bar, boots crossed at the ankle, expression unreadable. From his corner perch, he watched the parade filter through the lobby. Lieutenants and bosses alike, masked in false civility. It wasn’t a circus, not exactly, but it had all the trappings of a very grim gala.

He didn’t have final orders tonight. No target in the traditional sense. Just a whispered invitation to be present.

He dressed the part anyway: pinstriped jacket, crisp collar undone with purposeful casualty. A pocket square was folded sharp against the dark fabric, just for extra panache. 

Then his wallet vibrated.

He glanced at the caller and grimaced. The kind of grimace a soldier makes when the old general calls, and your better instincts say let it ring.

He answered anyway.

"Yes, sir?"

“You’re there?”

“Of course. You still want me to attend?”

“Yes. You’ll represent my interests. And our mutual employer’s.”

Then silence. The call ended.

Ryker darkened the wallet with a sigh like a man accepting a hangover before the drink. The voice hadn’t shouted. It didn’t need to. Orders like that came from the kind of man who didn’t speak twice.

He downed the rest of his drink, set the glass down with precision, and headed for the elevator.

Just outside the penthouse entrance, he made the expected pit stop. A mockingly polite man in a suit offered him a velvet-lined tray. Ryker rolled his eyes and reluctantly dropped his pocket knife on it.

“Careful. That knife's seen more action than your wife,” he muttered, and moved on before the man could respond.

The doors to the suite opened. Heads turned.

“Gentlemen,” he said, drawling it just enough to coat the word in mock ceremony.

He poured himself a glass of water from the decanter near the wall and took an open seat without asking. His eyes flicked to Zixin, to Adrian, then to the others, cataloging hierarchy with a spy's instinct.

[Mikhail]

Mik loved the cold. Not like the freeze your balls off, can't ever get warm no matter how many layers you wear cold. Nah. That was for losers- those who decided they wanted to prove how resilient they were.

Way he figured it, proving yourself meant being comfortable when it was cold. I mean how hard was it to freeze to death, right? Ooooo....look how manly I am, jumping into ice so my balls retract up into my throat and my dick inverts istelf into a right nice vagina.

Nah. He was good- he and his dick.- in a nice black wool coat and soft scarf to keep all the cold from sneaking down his chest. The cold on his face, searing his nostrils, in his lungs, the bite....fuck, but that was nice. Cold from the inside out, that was the good bit.

So he waited at the entrance of The Radiance for a while, letting himself enjoy the shift in season. Truth was, he was there to watch. And to learn. And to hang out his shingle. Let people see him.

The powerbrokers in Moscow had images to maintain. Protocol to keep. Honor to defend.

The irony, of course, was  that for all the power and influence they amassed, the less free they were to act. Father Guido couldn't exactly make a deal with Pater Giorgos without looking weak and all that. And God forbid some moron underling get pissed at some chump at a bar and pistol whip him so that one eye ran milky- only to find out he was somebody's brother's nephew's cousin's boyfriend. And suddenly you were in a vendetta that the whole family had to defend.

Back before Pops had died, he listened to the stories. And as fun as they were, it amazed him at how stupid people were. Or rather, how stupidly they were forced to act because of pride or some such.

So Mik had found his path, walking the between way- above and below, left and right, sideways and upside down.

And not surprisingly, he did well. He wss trusted in a way few really knew. Facilitating more than a few meetings, smoothing over brushes and problems, helping grease everyone involved....we'll hey. 

The Lady had shined on him, so far. Would it last? Probably not. But knowing that just made him enjoy it more. And killing and fucking, laughing and drinking along the way, well, at the end of the day, could you really expect more from a universe that did not truly give a fuck about you?

So anyway, Mik enjoyed the cold as he noted the entrances of the underworld greats, one by one. He showed none of his laughter to them. Image, right? It was all just PR. They postured and preened for their audience.- each other. 

Until finally his balls complained a little. Or maybe his dick. Both were feeling numb. And if he listened to anything it was his dick and balls. When they said enough, well fuck but it was enough.

He slipped through the door and followed one of the gents in a dark silk suit. Guy at the door looked at him, brief smirk on his face. Mik winked. Gregor was his boy- and gave him a cursory pat down.

Others would notice- but probably all assume he was representing one group or another. And with no one knowing, they might just chat him up to let him know the way things stood with Stoya or the Yakuza or whomever.

The ante-room was impressive. I mean how could it not be. And Kane? Jesus, but he was beautiful, in a cold austere kind of way. Mik wasn't sure he'd actually want to fuck him- the guy seemed to walk as if he had something up his ass- and not in a good way. Partners needed to be relaxed. 

Still, he could enjoy the view.

But he also noted Ryker. Been a while. That guy definitely had a sense of humor. Good for a drink or two anyway. Now only if Oriena showed up. He couldn't help but look around. Now that would be fun. He definitely wanted another crack at her. Pouty, angry, chaotic. Talk about The Lady made flesh.

She might kill him. But if that was the price, we'll, he'd count it a bargain. Crazy chicks were the best fucks by far.

He raised the glass of champagne he'd swiped from some chumps' place to Ryker and saluted. Tonight might just turn out to be more than just his job.

[Zixin Kao]

Zixin sat at the head of the table like a man awaiting the sunrise. The quiet moment was interrupted only by the shuffle of arrivals. His fingers tapped once on the polished wood with each appearance like a conductor measuring tempo before the music began.

Yuta Hayashi arrived first, as expected. Precision incarnate. His lieutenants, sweet Kiyohito among them, stood like shadows along the wall. They made no small talk. Zixin didn’t require it. He offered Hayashi a respectful nod, however. The gesture was returned, nothing wasted.

Adrian Kane, their host, had entered next draped in arrogance and wrapped up in Savile Row wool. He circled the room like he owned the damn air itself, then selected a seat precisely halfway down the table. Right where a man with no known allegiances might make himself impossible to ignore. Zixin didn’t mind. Adrian was a wildcard, but not a real threat. Not yet.

Then Ryker. Every inch of him irreverent, but not careless. Zixin knew enough about men like him to recognize obedience masked in disdain. He was dying to know what strings Ryker answered to, and Zixin didn’t like not being able to scratch that itch. Now came the Russians.

The first to arrive was Konstantin Vasiliev, patriarch of the Vasiliev family. His coat was sable, his gloves fine leather, and his eyes shrewd and as cold as expected. Nebesa’s Gate had made him one of the wealthiest criminals in Europe, and he walked like a man who knew it. A single nod from Zixin was returned with the barest incline of the head. It was an uneasy peace that bonded them ever since Zixin delivered Kiyohito to Konstantin’s justice. He studied the two faces now they were in the same room. If only Haruto was also here. It would be quite the reunion.

Behind him came Gregor Petrovich, Moscow’s vodka baron. Barrel-chested and smelling faintly of his own product, Petrovich carried none of Konstantin’s icy veneer. He laughed too loudly, shook hands too hard, and sat at the table like he’d already claimed a bottle for himself. Zixin didn’t underestimate him. There was a cunning behind those ruddy cheeks that had kept his empire flowing through every club and bar in the city. There was no sight of Gregor’s boy. Zixin had yet to meet Zholdin in person, but he was looking forward to the opportunity. Word on the street was that Zholdin was eccentric and vicious. He sounded fascinating.

Third came Rodian Mordvinov, with his son Roman a step behind. Rodian had the look of a man who’d choked men with piano wire and then taught Sunday school the next morning. His family’s alliance with the Stoyas made them lethal. But it was Roman that Zixin watched closest. That one would inherit fire, and maybe more. Their nods were brief. Territorial. But not defiant.

And last came the Stoya matriarch: a woman whose first name was never spoken publicly without direct permission: Valeska Stoya. Dressed in a winter-white coat that brushed her heels, she looked more like an opera patron than a trafficker and extortionist. Her dark hair was pinned back in perfect waves, her lips lined in bright red like she kissed blood. She offered no greeting, and he didn’t need to. In fact, she seemed as if this was below her very attention, but her presence was still a declaration.

Like each of the others, she arrived with two men in tow: broad, silent shadows who remained standing behind her chair. It had become a silent tradition by now. Each Russian family head arrived with two lieutenants, uniform in posture but varied in temperament: some alert, some bored, all armed with watchful eyes even if they were weaponless.

All except one.

Mikhail had appeared quietly earlier, relatively unobtrusive in his entrance compared to what it might have been and without entourage or theatrics. A man who represented no family but wove among each as if he belonged to all. He took up a position near the wall, having found himself a champagne somewhere along the way, silent but unmistakably observing. A one-man syndicate, unpredictable and wholly self-contained.

Zixin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he surveyed the room. The players had taken their places. Now, the game could begin.

Zixin gave it just enough pause to let the silence stretch. Then he spoke.

“This,” he began, voice quiet but clear, “is a first.”

He looked slowly down the line of faces.  Zixin clasped his hands in front of him, loose at the fingers. No flash of rings. No thumping fists.

“I grew up in rooms like this,” he said, gaze flicking across the Russians. “Men who carved up cities like bread. Who thought empire could be fed one bite at a time.”

He let that settle, then continued with something close to reverence.

“And yet, none of them did this.”

A small gesture to the table. The gathered storm. “None of them brought enemies and allies together in one room to break bread.. figuratively, of course. Apparently the Radiance catering doesn’t offer pastries.”

A few faint exhales of amusement, though no one truly reacted.

“I haven’t asked you here to posture. Or to claim a title. I have no crown to wear, and even if I did,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I’m far too practical to wear jewelry to a knife fight.”

That got a smirk from Adrian, a tilt of the head from Yuta, a cold nothing from Konstantin.

“I asked you here to propose something more useful than dominance. But structure.”

He didn’t move from his seat but his voice hardened slightly. “A truce, yes. But more than that. A shared vision.”

Zixin’s hand unfurled, palm up, as if offering something precious.

“The five Companion Clubs will open in the coming days. Not brothels. Not drug dens. Institutions. Veins of profit that will run through every corner of this city.”

His eyes landed on Adrian. “For those of you who do not know him, allow me to introduce to you Mister Adrian Kane,” he gestured, “who has provided the land, the leases, the laundering, and the linens. He has graciously volunteered his resources and discretion: two things that don’t often coexist among people like us.”

A nod. “The Yakuza, under the excellent eye of Mr. Hayashi, have designed and built the clubs. Elegantly. With an eye toward longevity and respectability. I’m particularly excited about Hikari, myself.”

Another gesture, now toward the Russians. “You will stock the shelves, so to speak. Your men will oversee liquor, betting, and protection. You already do this for half the city. Now it will be done under one roof.”

Then, finally, his voice cooled.

“My people will provide the entertainment. The companions. Special companions. Human channelers: weak ones that we can control. Carefully sourced. Discreetly trained into cooperation without loose ends. And no unwanted eyes.”

“This alliance is built on one shared truth: if we fracture, the Ascendancy will come for us no matter how high of friends we have. If we overlap, the Atharim will hunt us. If we draw too much blood, the politicians will pretend they never knew our names.”

“But if we work together? We won’t just survive. We will be the shadow behind the spotlight. The real council behind the Sphere.”

Then, finally, Zixin leaned back and folded his hands.

“This is not a monarchy. There is no king here. Only partners. And if any of you feel otherwise: now is the time to speak.”

[Mikhail]

Mik did nothing to draw attention to himself. Well, aside from being the perfect image of male potency and sexuality in the room. And it wasn't like he could turn that off. 

So other than big dick energy, Mik mostly just stayed off to the side, watching and noting. And he noted and watched.  Xixin's words were plenty filled with potential and opportunity. 

But for Mik, it was far more enjoyable to watch those who seemed to light up at- or glower and bristle at- his offer. 

Herding cats. It could be done. Of course it could. He'd once seen a show at a zoo or whatever where cats performed all sorts of acts. The trainer had commented that people thought cats couldn't be trained like other animals.

Except they totally could. Cat or not cat, they wanted thay sweet sweet food. Their hunger gave the trainer a lever.

Xixin was showing the treat. And Mik watched to see which bit right away and which waited. 

Kane drew his eye again. Something about him rubbed Mik the wrong way. And....wouldn't you know it but the Lady flirted in and out of view around the man.

Bitch.  She would take up with a guy so prim and proper he probably struggled to wipe his own ass. Usually as a fun ride up to the top before she let him take the slide down all by himself, suddenly wondering where she went.

Mik laughed at the image and with it his irritation drifted away. Just a fucking game. And this one was....interesting. It was a sense of unity that didnt fit them.

Would Mik help? Of course! If nothing else, watching the chaos ensue would be worth it. And in the meantime, well...there would be a lot to do.

He nodded slightly at Xixin. Guy probably didnt know him from Adam. But best to start the ceremonies early. Get people taking sides loudly and early. 

He couldn't help but smile. The Lady was about tonight. And he sensed a lot of fun ahead.

[Adrian Kane]

Zixin’s voice droned on, but Adrian wasn’t listening to the words so much as the currents they stirred. He leaned back in his chair, the cut of his suit immaculate, fingertips steepled lightly in front of him as his eyes wandered the table.

The Yakuza contingent wore their smugness like lacquer. They’d built their empire on patience, and the faint twinge curling at the edges of their lips said they believed they’d seen this kind of meeting before. The Russians were harder to read, but not opaque; a slight twitch in the jaw here, a tightened grip on a glass there. Mikhail, though… Mikhail’s gaze was razor-bright, measuring Zixin with open calculation, a faint humor playing at the corners of his mouth as if he was already envisioning how this might fall apart.

Adrian watched it all, filing away expressions and silences alike. Zixin was angling for consensus, for mutual prosperity, for the illusion of equality. And it might even work for now. But the thing about equal seats at a table was that they were only equal until someone paid for the table itself.

When Zixin finally ceded the floor, Adrian let the silence breathe for only a moment. Then he spoke. “As all have agreed how you’ll work together, you should decide where you’ll work together. That’s why you’re here, in my house, not some smoke-filled backroom.”

He took a slow step around the table. “The Radiance is not just a hotel. It is, from this day forward, neutral ground. You meet here, you speak here, you negotiate here. Safe from interference, from surprise, from each other. My security makes sure of that. Break that rule, and you’re not just out of my hotel. You’re out of this… enterprise. Permanently.”

He let the weight of that sink in, his gaze sliding briefly toward the Russians, then the Yakuza, then Zixin and Mikhail. “My services,” he went on, “are exclusive, discreet, and very expensive. You will find them worth every coin paid.” His tone sharpened as he explained in words that did not need explicits.

“Specialized housekeeping. Teams that restore a room to perfection, no matter what fluids or fragments have been left behind. Contracting services for… unique needs. Reinforced walls, hidden rooms, soundproofed chambers. Cleaning for clothing, yes, even bespoke, no matter the stain. Trash disposal for… unwanted materials.” He didn’t need to spell that one out. “Fast. Untraceable.”

By the time he circled back to the chair from which he rose, his palms rested lightly on the back of the chair. “This covenant makes us not an alliance of friends. Not a council of equals. But a pact. Break it, and you are erased. From business. From the streets. From existence. Any violence in this building is a direct breach of The Covenant. And breaches are… final.”

Adrian sat. He could already see it. The slow bleed of reliance. A meeting here, a cleanup there, a secret room that no one else could have built so well. Eventually, every person in this room would owe him something. And debt, Adrian thought, was the most exquisite form of ownership.

[Mikhail]

Mik paid attention to the reactions of the different factions present as Xixin spoke. The Russian families, of course, were the most pissed. 

I mean this was Russia, right? Their native homeland. They had hooks and power and position that went back over a century- it wasn't like Orgasmic  Crime didnt exist back in the Soviet days. 

So to have Triads and Yakuza- foreignors- seated at the table with Mordvinovs and Stoyas and everyone in between....well, he could see how they might feel a mite bit put out.

Well Pops was Solntsevskaya Bratva. A name that had commanded fear and respect at one time. Peolle not to be fucked with. Now, it was just a lingering memory that old timers and semi retired players reminisced about.

Nothing lasted forever. And while he was Russian, he never particularly derived any sense of identity from that. Once his family was gone, so was his tribe.

But you know, that kind of thing never really hurt Mik. Just one less thing to worry about. Of nothing, he could be part of everything. 

Roman and Rodian Mordvinov better learn that soon. Of all the Russian families, they seemed to be the most put out about the new players in the game.

Not that Mik felt a desire to give them some advice. Nah. Way he saw it, if you were too stupid to put your umbrella up, you deserved whatever fell on your head. Besides, he was sure they'd not like his telling them their business.

But it might mean he start casually positioning himself to be a....let's say helper, should someone else decide to take over. Mordvinov's biggest claim to fame were the pills that only they made. Vlad Perov's stuff was priceless. And rare. And somehow,  Mordvinov had gotten ahold of their source.

But you dont build an empire on one product. A lesson they didn't seem to get. So maybe Mik finds out the source. And maybe Mik sells that source to someone. And maybe aside from a nice paycheck- and pills!- , Mik also gains another favor.

Favors were the real currency, here. It might seem contradictory, but in the Orange Crime world, honor and obligation were its backbone. When they did what they did, the need for trust was even higher.

And then- of course- Kane spoke. Yeah, clearly, it was sour grapes on Mik's part. Because god, but he was beautiful. In just so so many ways. And for all of Mik's disinterest and dismissal, he still found himself drawn to the man.

The proposal was....daring. No. Brilliant. A neutral ground. A place where they could ply their trade honestly. 

No, he totally got it. And if he wasn't careful, he might just end up living here. He loved his place. But it was just a place. He didn't care about possessions,- at least so that they were part of his identity- so people often assumed he was poor, or just scraping by. 

Not close by a long shot. He did very well for himself. He just didn't care. He could walk away from anything and while he might miss his jacket or his jute ropes or some of his toys, he knew he'd be fine without them. The Lady giveth and the Lady taketh away.

When all was said and done, the room erupted in quiet talk. Who would be the first? After watching for awhile, he decided to break the ice. People were unsure as to whether this was on the up and up. 

Mik didn't have power in the conventional sense. But his reputation was as good. And Kane's proposal just tickled so many of Mik's fancies.

He noted where the man sat, careful not to be the first or most eager. Dick riding was a thing- and pathetic. But maybe  if Kane saw him as an ally...

Flagging a server for a Long Island and shotgunning the remainder of his champagne, he made his way toward, Kane, smile broad on his face. And relaxed as he sat down. "Gotta say, it's a good idea. Actually put a little organizing in Organized Crime."

His eye wandered, only occasionally making contact with Kane's. "Clever to blind then with the obvious."  And then he raised an eyebrow will giving him a wicked grin. "It will be too late before they realize what has happened.

And he raised his glass in salute, meaning it.

[Zixin Kao]

Zixin leaned back in his chair as the chatter unfurled around the table. Adrian’s smooth words still lingered in the air, yet Zixin kept his gaze elsewhere. He knew exactly what Adrian would say. Adrian had no subtlety in that regard, always calculating, always angling for control through polish and poise, but Zixin refused to directly watch him deliver it.

The man unsettled him. It was ridiculous, really. Adrian Kane was no Syndicate overlord, no blood-forged rival carved out of the streets. Zixin had slit throats with less hesitation than Adrian poured a glass of wine. And yet something about him. That quiet arrogance. That infuriating patience. Zixin could feel it, crawling beneath his skin like static.

Instead, he watched the others. The Russians squinted at Adrian’s pitch, their gruff features caught somewhere between agreement and displeasure. They didn’t like being told what to do, but they liked even less the thought of Zixin holding the keys to the Radiance. Neutral ground under Adrian’s banner was palatable, even welcome. It gave them space to breathe, to scheme, without the Syndicate claiming the walls themselves.

Around the edges, the middle-men lingered, silent but observant. Mikhail’s expression was sharp, intrigued, his eyes narrowing with the curl of curiosity. Zixin noted it. Catalogued it.

He sat forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice cut across the layered conversations with calm precision.

“There is one more voice you should hear tonight. One more guest at this table.”

His gaze slid toward Ryker, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as if savoring the man’s irritation before it bloomed.

“Ryker, if you would be so kind. Do the honors.”

Ryker’s jaw tightened as every head swiveled toward him. He looked like a man forced into the light when he’d rather remain in shadow, but he complied, leaning back in his chair with obvious reluctance.

“Carter Volthström,” Ryker said flatly, his tone carved with disdain. “Yes, that Volthström.”