Taken by the Enemy

Paris, 10:04 p.m.

Interpol Europe Building, Special Psychological Observation Room.

“I know who kidnapped them. But I can’t prove it yet, at least, not yet.”

Vanya’s voice was soft but firm, slipping through the tension filling the small room. Her dark brown eyes stared straight at the large screen on the wall, displaying photos of three young women in elegant evening gowns. All had disappeared in the past two months. All came from elite families. And all… vanished without a trace.

She pressed a button on her remote. The screen changed, displaying the third individual’s portrait: Isabelle du Claire, 24 years old, heiress to an international diamond company. She went missing two weeks ago while attending a charity gala in Monaco. The last security camera captured her walking toward the underground parking lot, smiling, appearing to speak to someone outside the frame. Then darkness.

“This isn’t a random kidnapping,” Vanya said, pointing at the screen. “All three share too many specific similarities to ignore: young age, striking beauty, aristocratic backgrounds, and... one more thing.” He paused, letting the tension hang.

“An indirect connection to Russian business networks.”

Agent Moreau, head of Interpol’s special unit, crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure? None of them have any recorded transactions or direct affiliations with Russian organizations.”

“Because they didn’t use their own names. But Isabelle’s father holds a minor stake in a shipping company used for money laundering by...” Vanya trailed off and tossed a stack of documents onto the table, “The Volkov Group.”

A soft sigh echoed among the participants in the room. That name was no joke to them. Damian Volkov. A name whispered in hushed tones, in classified files, in the nightmares of law enforcement officials.

Vanya stood up, her slender figure graceful in an elegant yet functional black blazer. “If left unchecked, there will be a fourth victim. And a fifth. And so on. This isn’t just about the mafia. This... is a psychological game. They know who they’re targeting. And they’re making us believe that all of this is just a coincidence.”

The next day, Special Counseling Room, Interpol Headquarters, Paris

The room was cold and quiet. A one-way glass wall separated the observation room from the counseling room, where Vanya sat across from Clarisse du Claire, the sister of the third victim, Isabelle.

Agent Moreau stood on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, his face expressionless but his eyes following Vanya’s every move. Vanya was writing down the final notes from her interview with Clarisse. Her expression showing no signs of fatigue, despite having been in the room for over four hours.

As Vanya stood up and entered the observation room, Moreau immediately asked softly but firmly,

“Why are you so sure this is connected to Damian Volkov?”

“Because all the patterns point to the same conclusion,” Said Vanya.

Vanya placed the file on the metal table between them, then opened it neatly. She pointed to one of the pages, where a quote from an interview with Clarisse was clearly printed.

“Finally, I met a man who could see into my mind,” said Isabelle du Claire, a week before she disappeared.

Vanya looked into Moreau’s eyes. “That sentence isn’t just a compliment. In clinical terms, it’s an expression of someone who has just experienced a traumatic bond. Something that makes the victim feel ‘seen’ by a predator who understands how to manipulate their inner wounds.”

Moreau pulled out the victim’s photo. Isabelle, Adele, Katarina.

“Their family backgrounds were filled with pressure. A harsh father figure, or a possessive partner from the past. They all share one psychological trait: they’re easily swayed by someone who can ‘validate’ their trauma.”

Moreau was still not entirely convinced. “And you think… it’s Volkov?”

Vanya looked at him straight in the eye. “Who else has the background, power, and intelligence to understand trauma psychology and exploit it? Volkov isn’t just any mafia boss. He’s the son of a military psychiatrist. He was admitted to a psychological rehabilitation center as a teenager due to dissociative episodes caused by childhood abuse. But since the age of twenty-three, he’s disappeared from all official records. Then he resurfaced, behind the shadows of blood and money.”

Agent Moreau walked slowly toward the glass window, gazing at Clarisse sitting in deep thought in the adjacent room, still clutching her thin jacket.

“Clarisse said her sister changed in the two weeks before she disappeared. She became more withdrawn, more peaceful, but... also seemed more afraid. Isabelle seemed as though she had fallen in love. But also... as though she was preparing herself to meet her death.”

Vanya stood beside him. “That’s mental addiction.”

Moreau furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“An addiction to the sensation of being understood. To the feeling that finally someone can enter your life and say, ‘I understand what you’re feeling.’ It’s not love. It’s the strongest bond a victim can have with their abuser. And it can only be triggered by someone who deeply understands… trauma psychology.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner in the corner of the room could be heard.

Finally, Moreau nodded slowly. “Alright. You have special permission. But be careful, Vanya. Volkov is not a man who can be handled with theory alone.”

Light rain dances on the glass window as Vanya brews black coffee in her apartment, District 16, Paris. The bitter aroma is soothing, but her mind cannot rest. On her desk lie printed files of photos of the victims she has been investigating recently. Isabelle, Adele, and Katarina.

She knows how killers think; interviews have often brought her face-to-face with the darkest aspects of humanity. But she’s certain this one… is different. This isn’t just murder. This is control.

Vanya opens her laptop and revisits the folder named “Hidden Victims.” An unregistered personal investigation file not listed in the official system. She kept all possibilities within it, as he no longer trusted procedures alone.

She rolled up her sleeves and switched to another folder. She looked at an old photo she had found the day before in her father’s secret archives. A black-and-white portrait. A young man with sharp, dark eyes, standing among the ruins of an old city. The man was none other than Damian Volkov, one man who had never been caught on public camera for more than three seconds.

What was shocking was not only that Damian was still very young at the time, no more than 17 years old, but the man standing beside him was Viktor Mikhailov, Vanya’s father. She knows there was no record that her father had ever been involved with the Russian mafia.

“What are you hiding from me, Father?”

She didn’t know that at that moment, someone was watching from afar. Outside the window of her high-rise apartment building, in the Parisian night mist, a pair of eyes glowed behind the telescope’s glass.

“It’s time,” Damian Volkov whispered from a far, “to bring the enemy’s daughter into her lair.”