"Viktor Sokolov."

The name dropped into the room like a stone into still water, ripples of tension spreading outward. Every head turned toward the massive Russian at the far end of the table. Kyle’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept his expression neutral, channeling Corleone’s unshakeable calm even as his gut churned with dread.

Viktor didn’t flinch. Didn’t rage. Didn’t reach for a weapon or lunge across the table to snap Kyle’s neck like a twig. Instead, the metal-toothed giant simply stared at Kyle with an expression of... amusement? His scarred face remained utterly relaxed, almost bored, as if he’d just been accused of forgetting to take out the trash rather than high treason against the families.

Marcello’s eyes shifted from Kyle to Viktor, dark and unreadable. The Don’s fingers remained steepled under his chin, his posture unchanged, but Kyle could feel the weight of that gaze assessing the situation.

Then Viktor stood.

The movement was deliberate, almost theatrical. He rose to his full intimidating height of six-foot-eight, his massive frame dwarfing everyone in the room. The chair scraped back with a harsh sound that made Kyle’s spine stiffen. Viktor spread his arms wide, palms up, as if offering himself to the assembled families. It was a gesture of challenge and invitation rolled into one.

"You think I am mole?" Viktor asked, his thick Russian accent making the words sound almost casual. He looked around the table, meeting each family head’s eyes in turn. "You think Viktor Sokolov betray these families?" A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, devoid of humor. "Then I ask you simple question: if I truly was mole, would any of you still be breathing?"

The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade. He wasn’t wrong. Viktor "The Butcher" Sokolov was legendary for his brutality, his efficiency, his complete lack of mercy. If he wanted someone dead, they died—messily, painfully, and thoroughly. There was a reason Marcello trusted him as his primary enforcer. There was a reason the other families feared him.

Viktor had crawled out of one of Russia’s most violent cities, survived gang wars that made American mob conflicts look like playground scuffles. He’d earned his reputation in blood and bone, carved his legend into the flesh of his enemies. If he’d wanted to destroy the families from within, Kyle realized with growing unease, he could have done it a dozen times over by now.

"But if you wish to come for my head," Viktor continued, lowering his arms slowly, "here it is." He tapped his bald skull with one massive finger, the sound hollow and mocking. "Take it. Try."

This wasn’t how Kyle expected this to go. He’d anticipated rage, denial, violence—not this calm acceptance, this challenge. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he forced it down. He had evidence. Isabeau had given him evidence.

"I have proof," Kyle said, his voice steady despite the fear coiling in his stomach. He reached up with his good hand and carefully peeled back his suit jacket, then loosened his collar to expose the bandaged wound on his shoulder. The white gauze was spotted with old blood, the injury still fresh enough to ache with every breath.

"Viktor shot me a few days ago," Kyle said, addressing Marcello directly. "I came to him with questions about the drug distribution network, suspicions about information leaks. He tried to silence me before I could bring this to you. This wasn’t a random attack—this was an attempt to kill a witness."

He produced the bullet casing from his pocket—the brass evidence Isabeau had so carefully planted—and set it on the table. "This is from his signature weapon. The ballistics will match."

Viktor stared at the casing for a long moment, then threw his head back and laughed. It was a deep, booming sound that echoed off the conference room walls, genuine and unforced. He laughed like Kyle had just told the funniest joke he’d heard in years.

Then Marcello spoke. A single word, quiet but commanding:

"Switch."

The change was instantaneous and terrifying.

Viktor’s laughter cut off mid-breath. His entire body language transformed in the space of a heartbeat. The hulking, violent enforcer—the man who seemed barely restrained by civilization—simply... disappeared. His shoulders relaxed, losing their aggressive hunch. His expression shifted from brutal amusement to something calm, analytical, almost scholarly. Even his eyes changed, the wild gleam replaced by sharp, calculating intelligence.

He sighed—a sound of mild disappointment rather than rage—and looked around the table as if seeing it for the first time.

"Ah. The families are gathered," he said in perfect, unaccented English. His voice was different too: measured, cultured, completely at odds with the guttural Russian accent from moments before. "I wondered when you’d call the meeting."

Kyle felt the blood drain from his face. What the fuck?

Viktor—this new Viktor—sat down with economical grace and folded his hands on the table. When he spoke again, his tone was different.

"Kyle did indeed come to me several days ago. We had quite the encounter, actually." He gestured vaguely toward Kyle’s wounded shoulder. "Though I cannot recall with complete accuracy whether I shot him or not—my other self handles such... direct confrontations. But I am a professional, Mr. Kyle. A killer through and through. If I had shot you with intent to kill, you would not be sitting here breathing. I do not miss."

Kyle’s world tilted sideways. This couldn’t be happening.

Viktor produced a tablet from beneath the table—had it been there the whole time?—and began swiping through files with practiced efficiency. "However, I do have surveillance footage from the building’s exterior and common areas. Here—Kyle entering the building where I conduct certain business operations. Time stamp: three days ago, approximately 2:47 PM."

He turned the tablet to show the room. Sure enough, there was Kyle on grainy security footage, walking into a nondescript office building.

"Unfortunately," Viktor continued, his intelligent gaze settling on Kyle, "there are no cameras in the private rooms where our... discussion... took place. So I cannot confirm or deny what happened in that room. But what I can provide is context."

He pulled up another file. "Supporting documentation. Kyle’s entertainment industry ventures in partnership with Distort. They have a movie together—quite successful, I understand. Nakamura have tied to this Agency according to my finding. There are also digital trails, financial connections, contractual agreements."

Viktor pulled up another screen. "The charity gala three weeks ago—both of them attended. Nakamura’s picture was captured numerous times, along with Kyle’s."

He slid the tablet toward Marcello, who took it with an unreadable expression.

"Nakamura," Marcello said softly, tasting the name like poison. His eyes darkened with something Kyle couldn’t quite identify—old pain, perhaps, or fury. "I know that name. I know it very well."

Viktor—the coherent, terrifying Viktor—nodded. "Yes, Don. I thought you might. Which is why, when Kyle approached me days ago making inquiries that seemed... pointed... I began investigating him in return. His connections. His associates. His business partners."

Kyle’s mind reeled. The split personality—Viktor had two distinct personas, and Marcello could switch between them with a single word. The violent, unstable "Butcher" was a mask, a tool. Underneath was this: a brilliant, calculating operative who’d been three steps ahead the entire time.

"The mole," Viktor continued calmly, "may very well exist in this organization. But Mr. Kyle here is deeply entangled with Nakamura—a man the Don has history with. A man who should be dead but somehow isn’t. And now Kyle appears before us, wounded, accusing me specifically of being a traitor." He gestured to the bullet casing on the table. "With evidence that is... convenient. Too convenient."

Viktor leaned back in his chair, studying Kyle with detached curiosity. "So, Mr. Kyle. The question isn’t whether I shot you—though I maintain that if I had intended to kill you, you’d be dead. The question is: who did shoot you? Who gave you that casing? And what does Nakamura want with our family?"

All eyes turned to Kyle once more. But this time, they weren’t assessing a witness.

They were looking at prey. Kyle had severely underestimated Viktor but this didn’t mean he didn’t have a fail-safe.