The Enemy's daughter

Chaos.

One word. And I hate that word with every fiber of my being. I don't like chaos. Especially when that chaos is happening inside my own house.

All this bullshit started with reports one after another, coming in for nearly three weeks straight and every single sheet left behind a trail of irregularities I couldn't just let slide.

Units sent out vanished into thin air. Goods that never reached their destination. Or worse sent to places they were never meant to go. I've been investigating where all this began for three days now, but I've found nothing. No name. No face. Nothing identifiable. Nothing I can resolve by the rules I know.

Damn it. Damn whoever is behind all this. I'd rather face criminals from other syndicates at least they stand in front of you, armed, and screaming. But this? I'm dealing with a shadow I can't see, can't find, let alone destroy and that's making me even more furious.

"Boss, today's report."

Victor came and slid the sheet right in front of me. I took it, opened the document, and compared the numbers with yesterday's report. The result was exactly as I'd expected. Off again. Who knows where this unit was sent maybe already in Rosveky, or some godforsaken place I'll never be able to guess. I don't know. And that's driving me insane.

"Vor Morozov doesn't like this, Kirill," he said, his tone tense. "You have to do something."

I almost laughed. Yes, almost. If it weren't for the cigarette I was using to calm myself, I probably would have laughed. Who said I wasn't going to do something? I'm his son. Of course I know how furious my father would be if he knew how many businesses had been failing lately.

"I know," I replied shortly.

Why bother explaining at length when my mind was already piecing together the next plan? Talking too much only makes you easier to read. And I never let anyone read me.

I took a deep breath, the mint-flavored smoke filling my lungs clearing my head just a little from all the worst-case scenarios before I looked at Victor again.

"Give me the full list of everything written here," I said, handing him a piece of paper with a complete file list, complete with the timestamps and points I'd already checked. "I've been analyzing our movement patterns. All units always pass through the same point every seventeen minutes. That gap is the weak spot. The mastermind must be hiding there."

Victor took the paper from my hand, gave a short nod, and left.

I leaned back in my chair, lit another cigarette, and let the fresh mint taste soothe my nerves again amid this damn pressure.

Whoever is behind this, I admit they're smart. But not smart enough to keep disappearing forever. In the end, they'll get caught. And when that happens...

I haven't really decided what I'll do to them yet. All I know is that people like that usually die quite efficiently. Because we don't like blood splattered everywhere. We don't like playing aggressively. I played aggressively once and paid the price for it since I was nineteen. Repeating the same mistake is stupidity, and I'm self-aware enough not to make that mistake again at least not one that could cast doubt on my credibility as a leader.

Aggression without awareness and foundation is suicide. Too easy to read. You just need to watch for a little reaction, note the pattern, and wait for the same explosion every time that button is pressed.

That's why I hate aggressive people. They're burdensome, impatient, and they ruin things like an uncontrolled wildfire.

I don't like dealing with people like that. They only bring trouble and force me to eliminate them one by one. And that's exhausting.

I took another slow, steady breath a habit I've had for a long time.

In the end, I decided to go myself.

The air at the port felt heavier than usual when I arrived. The smell of salt mixed with oil, the noisy hum of machinery, and the grey sky pressing down as if it were trying to suffocate everything. I didn't ask questions right away. I just leaned against an old container, lit a cigarette, and observed. There were a few familiar faces coming and going. Their movements weren't natural pausing briefly, glancing left and right, then pretending to look busy. Not all of them, but one person caught my attention.

I walked closer. He was the head distributor in this area name's Dimitrov. And from the first moment I saw him, I knew: this man was easy to provoke. His emotions exploded over small things. When I asked about the missing shipment, his answers were brusque, quick, and he tried to push me away.

"I don't know anything about those goods! I don't oversee that far!"

But his eyes weren't calm. His voice was too fast. His hands clenched unconsciously. He was hiding something. I didn't press him further, because people don't like being pressured by strangers. If I pushed now, he'd become overly defensive and draw attention. So I chose to back off.

"Alright. Thank you." I said it casually enough politely, for the sake of formality.

I walked away, letting him think he'd won.

I decided to walk around a bit, searching for any remaining information in the corners of the port I might have missed. But I chose to head back earlier, because I knew how efficient and effective Victor was when handling something.

And just as I'd expected, Victor was already back waiting for me with the stack of data I'd requested.

I sat down, scanning each sheet one by one. Circling numbers. Matching times. Seeing the interconnected patterns. Until my eyes finally stopped on one name. One identity that felt too foreign too foreign to belong in our system.

"Victor," I called softly, then smiled faintly. "Someone's been using the identity of a dead person to operate. This person is organized. Whether alone or part of a group, they planned this carefully."

As I spoke, my eyes caught something tucked between the files an old shipping seal.

I picked it up. My heartbeat quickened just a little. I recognized this seal. It was the Dom Morozovykh seal from years ago. Not just anyone could have this. Not just anyone could keep it.

And on the back, stuck on with strong glue, was a small piece of paper. The writing on it was sharp, clear, and full of disdain:

If you want to know who's been taking what's yours, come to the north warehouse at 21:00. Alone.

Morozovich.

My blood boiled.

I shouldn't have come. I should have just investigated this, handed it over to my men, and let the system work as usual. But this bastard called me by name a name that shouldn't be spoken carelessly. And for Kirill Morozov, this was no longer just business. This was a personal challenge directed straight at the core of who I am, at my family, at my pride in my blood and my identity.

I looked at Victor, my voice low and firm.

"Tell the Pakhan. I'll handle this to the end. Alone."

And when I decide to handle something personally?

Then no one can guess what I'll do to this cursed bastard.