We drove through evening Kyiv in his car. The city lights flew past, reflecting in the windows, but neither of us noticed them. The silence was oppressive, becoming almost physically palpable. Finally, when we stopped at a traffic light, my father couldn’t take it anymore. “Kira…” his voice was hoarse. “What was that? What’s happening? What they said… about the bankruptcy. Is it true?”
“Yes,” I stared straight ahead at the red taillights in front of us. “It’s true, Dad. They almost finished the job. The final blow was supposed to land today. The merger of our companies through marriage was meant to be the final step. They would have gained control and then thrown you out of your own business, leaving you with colossal debts.”
He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I trusted him. Igor. We were partners for so many years. I thought he was a friend.” “People like that don’t have friends, Dad. They only have assets. And you ceased to be a valuable asset to him.”
The light turned green. The car moved, but the tension didn’t ease. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. “Making a scene. They’ll destroy us now. Completely. They have connections, money, the best lawyers. What do we have?”
I was waiting for that question. His voice held the despair of a man who had already accepted defeat. And that was something I could not allow. I turned to him. “Dad, look at me.” He gave me a quick glance and then stared back at the road. “They tried to destroy us, but they miscalculated. Remember a month ago when you complained that our old financial director, Petrenko, had become nervous and was avoiding you?”
My father nodded. “Yes. And then he suddenly quit and left, said he was going to his sick mother.” “He didn’t leave. He came to me. It turned out Belozerov was blackmailing him, forcing him to forge reports and leak information. But Petrenko, apparently, still had a conscience. He brought me everything: all the schemes, all the copies of the documents. He was scared and wanted to run, but Dima Voronov and I convinced him to cooperate. He’s in a safe place now and is giving testimony.”
My father slammed on the brakes by the side of the road, staring at me with wide eyes. “Dima, our lawyer? And you… you knew for a whole month and said nothing? And this wedding…?” “It was a performance, Dad. We needed time. While the Belozorovs thought everything was going according to their plan, Dima was gathering evidence. Every action they took, every forged document, every call—it was all recorded. They needed the wedding as the final chord, but for us, it was the signal to attack. They walked right into their own trap.”
He was silent for a long time, processing what he’d heard. His shoulders, previously slumped, slowly straightened. The despair in his eyes was replaced by an angry, cold determination. “So, we have a chance?” “We have more than a chance,” I said firmly. “We have proof of their fraud. And they don’t even suspect it yet. They think they’re about to put pressure on a scared girl and her broken father. They are gravely mistaken.”
He nodded, started the engine, and confidently pulled back onto the road. “What’s next?” “Next, Dad,” I smiled my first genuine smile of the day, “next, we go to war.”
Dmitry Voronov’s office was in one of the Kyiv-City skyscrapers. The panoramic windows offered a view of the city, living its bustling life, unaware of the wars being waged in these glass towers. My father and I sat at a long conference table. Dmitry, impeccably dressed as always, was calmly flipping through some papers.
“They’re late,” my father noted, nervously tapping his fingers on the table. “Let them be,” Dima smirked, not looking up from the documents. “It gives us a psychological advantage. They want to show who’s in charge, but in reality, they’re just stalling, trying to figure out what the hell your daughter pulled yesterday.”
Exactly 10 minutes later, the door opened, and two men walked in—the Belozorovs’ lawyers. Expensive suits, smug faces, thin leather briefcases in their hands. They acted as if they had come not to negotiate, but to accept a surrender.
“Andrei Nikolaevich, Kira Andreevna,” the senior one began, giving us a careless nod. “My name is Semyon Markovich. My client, Igor Stanislavovich, is deeply saddened by yesterday’s incident.” “Oh, I have no doubt,” Dima interjected venomously. “The poor man probably didn’t sleep a wink…”
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