Nikita Von James -

She was twelve when she first learned what her father did for a living.

In London, she became someone else. Not a different name—she kept that, because names mattered—but a different version. She studied criminology, then forensic accounting. She learned how money laundered itself, how trust was a currency more valuable than gold, how the most dangerous people were the ones who smiled at you while sharpening the knife.

She picked up her pen.

The house was quieter now. Her mother had died the previous spring—liver failure, the official report said, though Nikita knew the bottle had been just a slow, willing accomplice. Her father had aged twenty years in twelve months. He sat in his study, the same room she had picked the lock on so many times, and stared at the wall.

Three months later, Sokolov was arrested at an airport in Monaco, boarding a private jet with a false passport. The evidence against him was airtight: financial records, witness testimonies, photographs, and a signed affidavit from his former right-hand man. The trial was brief. The verdict was life. nikita von james

He looked up. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, then fear. Because he saw it now, didn’t he? The girl who listened. The girl who remembered.

Nikita didn’t flinch. “No. Mama was kind. I’m something else.” She was twelve when she first learned what

Nikita did not cry. She added a name to her list.

“You sound just like your mother,” Leonid whispered. “She was brave too.” She studied criminology, then forensic accounting

“I can get you out,” Nikita said. “Witness protection. A new name. A small house somewhere far from here. But you have to give me Sokolov.”

She also met a boy. His name was Samir, and he was gentle in a way that terrified her. He brought her tea without asking. He noticed when she hadn’t slept. He once said, “You look like you’re carrying something heavy. You don’t have to carry it alone.”