“Weeks. Maybe a month if we’re lucky. The investors are already spooked. Henderson pulled out this morning. Said something about exposure to ‘uncertain regulatory environments,’ but we both know that’s bullshit. Someone got to him.”
My father makes a sound that might be a laugh if it didn’t sound so hollow. “Of course they did.”
“There’s more,” Marcus continues, and I hear papers rustling. “The commercial property in Warsaw? Seized this morning. They’re claiming unpaid taxes from 2019, which is insane because I have the receipts right here—”
“It doesn’t matter what you have,” my father interrupts. “Receipts don’t mean anything when the people auditing them are already bought and paid for.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy with implications I’m still piecing together.
“What do you want me to do?” Marcus finally asks.
“Salvage what you can. Protect the core assets. For God’s sake, keep this quiet. If the board finds out how bad it really is…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
I step back from the door before I hear anything else, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Three subsidiaries frozen. Warsaw property seized. Investors fleeing like rats from a sinking ship.
This isn’t bad luck. This isn’t market forces or regulatory coincidence.
This is targeted.
***
I find Yusuf in the kitchen two hours later, drinking coffee that’s gone cold while he scrolls through his phone. He looks up when I enter, and something in my expression makes him set the device down immediately.
“You heard,” he says.
“Some of it.” I pull out the chair across from him, sitting down before my legs can betray how unsteady I feel. “Tell me the rest.”
He studies me for a long moment, clearly weighing what I can handle against what I need to know. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first.
“The logistics companies weren’t random targets,” he says finally. “They’re all in Bratva-controlled territory. Poland, Czech Republic, Estonia. Every single subsidiary operates in regions where organized crime has… influence over regulatory bodies.”
“Influence,” I repeat, tasting the euphemism. “You mean control.”
“Yes.”
The coffee maker gurgles in the background, filling the silence while I process this. Bratva territory. Coordinated pressure. Regulatory bodies that move in lockstep despite being in different countries.
“Sharov,” I say quietly.
Yusuf doesn’t look surprised that I made the connection. “His name keeps appearing in the intelligence I’m gathering. Not directly—he’s too smart for that. Shell companies tied to known Bratva operations, financial patterns that match his previous acquisitions, pressure points that align with territories under his authority.”
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the table, fingers splayed across the wood grain. “How long has this been happening?”
“Months, probably. Your father kept it quiet, tried to handle it internally.” Yusuf’s jaw tightens. “He didn’t want to worry you.”
Anger flares hot and sudden in my chest. “Didn’t want to worry me? Or didn’t trust me to help?”
“Elena—”
“I could have done something.” My voice rises despite my effort to control it. “I could have seen the patterns, traced the connections, found leverage or—or—”
“Or what?” Yusuf leans forward, his tone gentle but firm. “What could you have done against the Bratva, against Aleksandr Sharov specifically? This isn’t a business negotiation. These people don’t play by rules you understand.”
“Then explain them to me.”
He sighs, rubbing his temples like I’m giving him a headache. Probably am. “Sharov doesn’t just buy businesses, Elena. He suffocates them. Cuts off their air supply piece by piece until they’re desperate enough to sell at whatever price he offers. If they don’t sell, he destroys them completely and picks through the rubble for anything valuable.”
