"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.
