Geneva was a blur of crystal water, pristine streets, and suffocating opulence. The Summit was the pinnacle of it all... a gathering of kings, presidents, and billionaires, all cloaked in the language of global progress while their eyes calculated angles and advantages.
I moved through the cocktail reception in the grand ballroom of the Hôtel President Wilson, a glass of champagne I wouldn't drink held like a prop in my hand.
I was the "Young Kurov." The heir. The man who had survived a "traumatic attempted kidnapping." I could feel the glances, some curious, some pitying, most speculative. I was a stock, and my recent volatility was the topic of quiet conversation.
Leo was a step behind me, a silent, hulking monument. I missed Viktor's specific, analyzing gaze. He would have been scanning the room not just for threats, but for motivations, alliances, weaknesses. Leo just scanned for threats. He was a bore.
