Page 137 of Dark King Daddy

I knew because I had been doing the same thing.

“Okay,” he said.

We stood beside the fire truck. The morning crew began arriving—cars pulling into the lot, men in work boots and Sokolov Freight jackets climbing out, stopping when they saw the cordon, the fire trucks, the blackened shell of Shed C. Daniil went to meet them. I watched him cross the wet asphalt, his shoulders set, his stride unhurried, and I thought: this is who he is. Not the man in the library with the leather folder. Not the man in the bed with the silk scarf. This man. The one who walks toward the problem.

We arrived at Orlov Marine at nine-fifteen. The morning light was flat and grey, the harbor water the color of tin. A container ship sat at anchor in the channel, motionless, waiting for a pilot.

Anton met us at the entrance. He looked like he had slept even less than we had. His shirt was clean but untucked at one side. He kissed my cheek and held my arm for a second longer than usual.

“Terrible business about Maspeth,” he said. “I came as soon as Nikita called.”

Nikita was already inside, seated at the conference table in the administrative office. His tablet was open. Two printed documents lay beside it. He had coffee. He looked like a man who had been working since the phone call at 2:47 and had not paused since.

We sat. Anton at the head. Daniil to his left. Me beside Daniil. Nikita across from us, his screen angled toward the table.

“Walk us through it,” Daniil said.

Nikita tapped his tablet. A diagram appeared on the wall monitor—four columns, each labeled with a version number and a recipient group.

“The Voronins hit Shed C. East side of Maspeth Yard. That is the location listed on version three—the schedule distributed to Kostya’s group.”

The room was quiet. The harbor fog pressed against the windows.

“So someone who received version three passed the location to Viktor’s people,” Anton said.

“Either a recipient or someone who obtained a copy from a recipient,” Nikita said. “The schedule went to six individuals. All Orlov captains or senior men in Kostya’s circle.”

He produced the list. Printed. Six names in a column, each with a role and contact information beside it.

Roman Belov.

The name was second on the list. I knew it before I finished reading the line. Roman Belov—captain, waterfront operations, fifteen years under my father. He had been at our house for New Year’s three years running. He had brought me a box of Turkish delight from a trip to Istanbul because he remembered I liked them. He had stood at my father’s funeral with his hands folded and his face grey and his eyes on the casket the entire time.

The other names were familiar too. Men who had been part of the Orlov organization for years. Men my father had promoted, trusted, leaned on. Men I had grown up seeing at Volna, at holidays, at the dock—solid, reliable faces.

I looked at the list. Six names. Six men who had received a piece of information that had ended up in the hands of the people trying to destroy us.

“This doesn’t mean any of them is the leak,” Daniil said. He had been watching my face. “It means the information passed through their circle. Someone in this group, or someone with access to their materials, shared the schedule with the Voronins.”

Anton leaned back. His fingers drummed once on the table—a single, controlled beat.

“You believe Kostya is involved?” Anton asked.

“No,” Daniil said. “Kostya is cautious. He questions the alliance because he’s protecting Orlov interests—that’s loyalty operating in the wrong direction, not treachery. But someone in his circle received that schedule and passed it on. Intentionally or through negligence, the result is the same.”

“Everyone on that list gets checked,” Anton said. It was not a question. “Even Kostya.”

“Agreed. Everyone,” Daniil confirmed. “But we investigate the individuals. Not the Orlov organization. Your captains are not suspects as a group. Six specific men received a specific document, and one of those six is the issue here.”

Anton looked at the list. I watched him read the names. I watched him arrive at the same recognition I had — these were not strangers. These were men who had mourned Mikhail Orlov.

“Roman Belov,” Anton said. “Fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years doesn’t exclude betrayal,” Nikita said. His voice was gentle. The gentleness of a man who understood that what he was saying cost something. “Fifteen years can also mean fifteen years of accumulated grievances. Or fifteen years of being in position to develop contacts outside the organization.”

Anton was quiet. Then he reached into his jacket and produced a key card. He placed it on the table in front of Nikita.

“Access to Orlov personnel and communication records,” Anton said. “Everything you need. Phone logs, financials, movement reports. My authority. No friction.”