Pavel Putin sat in his dimly lit office, the crystal tumbler of vodka untouched before him as he slammed down his phone for the third time that hour. The device skittered across his mahogany desk, nearly toppling to the floor. The silence regarding his daughter and the mission's status gnawed at him like a hungry wolf. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the Moscow winter howling outside his window. Each passing minute without news felt like another nail in a coffin he wasn't ready to acknowledge.
The massive oil painting of his father stared down at him from above the fireplace, eyes seeming to judge his every move, every decision that had led to this moment. Pavel had never been a patient man—control was what he craved, what he demanded, what had built his empire from the blood-soaked streets of post-Soviet Russia to the gleaming towers of modern Moscow. Every decision he made altered the course of events, and this waiting game was torture of the cruelest kind.
