Page 114 of The King's Pawn
Not like this.
He calculates, exploits, and eradicates problems when he finds them growing into too much of a hassle to continue dealing with. Curiosity is for the kind of men who haven’t already decided whether someone is useful or disposable, and Aleksandr Volkov has always been the type that decides fairly quickly in that regard.
Heneverwastes his energy on the military. He’s always preferred the underbelly of our networks—weapons traffickers, smugglers, private militias. Men who move in the dark without uniforms or rules. Soldiers who answer to chains of command are nothing like what he prefers to deal with. He despises rules he can’t break without repercussions.
“What interest does the Iron Pact have with Borchin?” I ask.
He exhales. “The Pact doesn’t.”
That has my brow lifting higher.
Interesting.
“I was hoping,” Volkov continues, voice measured now, “that you might have crossed paths with him. Professionally or otherwise.”
The implication settles between us.
This isn’t Pact business. This is Volkov’s business.
Which makes this infinitely more unsettling.
Whatever schemes Aleksandr Volkov gets himself tangled up in on his own time have never been my concern. All four of us learned long ago how to keep our side ventures cleanly separated from the Pact. None of it matters so long as it doesn’t spill across borders or threaten the balance we’ve spent decades maintaining. That understanding is the only reason the Iron Pact has survived as long as it has.
We don’t pry. We don’t ask questions. And we certainly don’t call one another fishing for information unless something has gone horribly wrong.
Which means this phone call is already a breach of etiquette.
Volkov doesn’t reach out unless he’s either cornered or circling something dangerous enough that he wants corroboration before acting. The fact that he choseme, of all people, only deepens my unease. We tolerate each other, we respect each other’s authority to… some degree, but we are not confidants and we’ve never pretended otherwise.
If he’s asking about a man like Borchin, then either the man has brushed too close to one of Volkov’s operations or Volkov has stumbled onto something he doesn’t yet understand how to manage.
Neither option is comforting.
I stay silent on the line a moment longer, letting the quiet stretch until I can almost hear him growing uncomfortable. Whatever this is, it isn’t casual curiosity. It’s the first tremor before something shifts indefinitely.
“I haven’t,” I finally say.
“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Unfortunate.”
“For whom?” I ask.
He scoffs softly, the familiar edge returning to his tone like armor snapping back into place. “None of your business, Sokolov. Hasn’t anyone ever told you to mind your manners?”
“And yet,” I reply calmly, “here you are calling me for a favor.”
“It isn’t a favor. It’s an information exchange,” he counters immediately.
I lean back into my chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath my weight. I lift my pen from the desk, using it to roll between my fingers absentmindedly. “And what, exactly, would we be exchanging? You have nothing to offer me.”
“A favor.”
I let out a low breath through my nose that’s almost a laugh. “Again, you have nothing to offer me. What good would a favor do?”
When he speaks again, annoyance bleeds through despite his attempt to keep his tone even. “I’ll… have your back when it comes to Viktor Morozov’s daughter, your keeping her at your estate. If Malyshko brings it to the table to debate again, I’ll be on your side.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I toss the pen onto my desk again. “Malyshko’s already given me his stamp of approval.”
“What?” Volkov snaps, the word sharp with disbelief.
