Her father, Leonid Von James, was a fixer. Not the heroic kind. The kind who made problems disappear. People, mostly. But also evidence, loyalties, memories. He worked for a man named Sokolov, whose face was as smooth and empty as a porcelain mask. Nikita had seen him once, at a charity gala. He had patted her head and said, “Such a polite girl.” His fingers had been cold.
Once upon a time, she began, there was a girl who listened. And the world was never quiet again. nikita von james
That night, she began to write.
Yes, she thought. But not the way you mean. Her father, Leonid Von James, was a fixer