The meeting was set to take place at an exclusive club Markov owned. It was the kind of place where deals were made in whispered conversations, and alliances were forged over glasses of the finest whiskey.
When we arrived, the air was thick with the scent of cigars and expensive cologne. Zahra stayed close to me, her eyes scanning the room with a mix of awe and apprehension. She was out of her element here, but she hid it well.
Markov was waiting for us in a private lounge at the back of the club. He was a tall, imposing man with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes. He didn't rise as we entered, but his gaze flicked to Zahra, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
"So," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "This is the ghost's daughter."
Zahra stiffened beside me, but I placed a hand on her arm, a silent warning to stay calm.
"We need information," I said, cutting straight to the point. "About Dominic Vazklov."
