The Petrovich headquarters stood tall against the Moscow skyline, its glass walls shining under the pale morning sun. Inside, the air smelled faintly of wood and strong coffee.
Dmitri Petrovich sat behind a broad mahogany desk in his office on the top floor. The space was grand but cold—shelves lined with books he rarely read, a giant window overlooking the busy city below, and a desk filled with files waiting for his attention.
His secretary—Filipp stepped inside, carrying a folder.
“Sir, you need to sign this,” Filipp said, placing the file down. “It’s for the engine repairs on one of the airplanes.”
Dmitri leaned back in his leather chair, picked up a pen, and signed with quick, sharp strokes. He handed the folder back.
“And the other matter I asked about?” Dmitri’s voice was calm,
