The next morning, the sun poured over the city, but Ivan Volk’s office was dim, blinds drawn, a half-finished glass of whiskey on the table.
Anton stood silently as Ivan examined the queen of hearts card now resting on his desk.
His fingers turned it over slowly, reading the red-inked message again:
> “Someone’s always watching. Careful who you trust, Volk.”
Ivan Volk
Ivan’s jaw clenched. “Who found this?
Anton
“Dima,” Anton replied. “He thought one of the boys was messing around, but the handwriting’s not familiar.”
Ivan Volk
“This wasn’t a joke.” Ivan’s tone dropped cold. “This was a message.”
Anton shifted uneasily. “No cameras. No alarms. Whoever left it—ghosted us.”
Ivan leaned back in his chair, the card still in his hand.
“Do you know how long it’s been since someone made it inside my operation without me knowing?”
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