“Papa,” she said.
Once upon a time, she began, there was a girl who listened. And the world was never quiet again.
Not in a diary—diaries could be read, could be used. She wrote in code, on loose sheets of music paper, hiding the words between the staves of Chopin nocturnes. Her mother, who drank sherry from morning until the world blurred into something bearable, never noticed. Her father assumed she was just practicing piano.
Her father, Leonid Von James, was a fixer. Not the heroic kind. The kind who made problems disappear. People, mostly. But also evidence, loyalties, memories. He worked for a man named Sokolov, whose face was as smooth and empty as a porcelain mask. Nikita had seen him once, at a charity gala. He had patted her head and said, “Such a polite girl.” His fingers had been cold. nikita von james
And in the end, Leonid Von James—fixer, killer, father—did the only truly brave thing he had ever done. He signed.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said. And it was true. Leonid Von James was already a ghost. He just hadn’t stopped breathing yet.
She sat across from him. Placed a folder on the desk. Inside: seventeen names, five locations, three dates. And one more thing—a photograph of Sokolov, taken from a distance, shaking hands with a man whose face was blurred but whose insignia was not. Interpol. “Papa,” she said
By sixteen, Nikita had catalogued seventeen names, five locations, and three dates of “shipments” that didn’t appear on any legitimate manifest. She had learned to pick the lock on her father’s study, to photograph documents with a disposable camera, to replace them so perfectly that even his paranoia didn’t twitch. She had also learned that her mother’s “accidental” fall down the stairs two years ago had been no accident. It had been a warning. To Leonid. Stay in line.
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.
Yes, she thought. But not the way you mean. Not in a diary—diaries could be read, could be used
She waited.
Her father blinked. “What?”
“Sokolov killed Mama. Not the stairs, not the sherry. He sent a man. I have the witness statement. I have the medical records they tampered with. I have everything.”
“You sound just like your mother,” Leonid whispered. “She was brave too.”
Nikita didn’t flinch. “No. Mama was kind. I’m something else.”