A low chuckle slid through the phone.
“There he is…” Volkov murmured. “The cold Damien Blackwood. I was beginning to think you’d gone soft.”
Damien didn’t answer immediately. He watched a car’s headlights move like a slow pulse through the street.
“If you called to reminisce,” he said evenly, “you’re wasting my time.”
Another chuckle. Amused. Testing.
“I see nothing’s changed. Still allergic to small talk.”
Then—
“I’m sure you’ve heard about my recent… misfortune,” Volkov continued, tone almost conversational. “And I’m assuming you had nothing to do with it.”
Damien’s jaw flexed once.
His voice turned razor-thin. “Are you asking… or are you accusing?”
A faint hum. “You tell me.”
“I have nothing to tell,” Damien replied calmly. “You make enemies wherever you go. It could be anyon
