Chapter 11

11

Max

I t’s been strange. Beautifully strange.

Lyric is becoming an essential part of our lives, and none of us were ready for it. We thought it would be a one-time only fling. She seemed curious and eager enough, but then we delved deeper, and now we find ourselves enthralled, entranced, and unable to pull away from her, even knowing it’s the reasonable thing to do.

Every time we tell ourselves that this is it, this is where we draw a line and put some kind of distance between us, we find ourselves getting even closer. One day we’re talking about doing everything in our power to protect her and keep her close, the next we’re coming up with ways to push her away because the sharks are circling closer.

“We know where this conversation will go,” Ivan warns me as he comes into my office.

Artur is already helping himself to a second cup of coffee. My secretary made sure we were fully stocked for this so-called business meeting with Polina Larionova. “Where is Polina?” Artur asks, then takes a sip of his coffee. “She’s already five minutes late.”

“She’s on her way up. I beat her to the elevator,” Ivan scoffs. “She didn’t see me, though.”

“Is she alone?” I ask.

He nods once. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I never have good feelings about anything pertaining to Polina, but we need to have this conversation with her. We asked her to speak to her father, and she did. We owe her this courtesy,” I reply.

Lyric has been dodging our calls and messages for the past few days, blaming the thesis research. I’m starting to think there’s something else going on, but with everything we’re trying to manage and keep away from her, I figure if she needs a bit of space, we can give her that.

“I miss her,” Artur mutters, as if reading my mind.

“I know. We haven’t seen her in a week,” I reply.

“Which is way longer than what we’re used to,” he insists.

Ivan sighs heavily, pouring a coffee for himself. “What we’re used to. Would you listen to us? Head over heels with a twenty-something, who also happens to be the daughter of one of our enemies.”

“ One of our enemies,” I repeat after him with a bitter smile. “The fact that we have multiple enemies is a huge red flag in itself, don’t you think?”

“We’re screwed either way,” Ivan shoots back.

The office door opens, and in walks Polina, looking quite modest in her cool grey pantsuit, her platinum blonde hair pulled into a perfect bun, gold loops hanging from her ears. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she says, taking a seat in the armchair across from my desk. As soon as she’s settled, I’m bombarded by a whiff of her perfume. It’s almost sickening, an overload of sandalwood that makes me somewhat anxious. “We need to talk,” Polina says, looking at each of us.

“I presume it’s why you’re here,” I bluntly reply.

“How have you been?” she asks with a pleasant smile. Years ago, she would’ve had me at hello. Now I can barely stomach her presence.

“As well as can be, given the circumstances,” I say. “But we’re sticking to the plan, working on our strategies, and forging ahead. We’re seeing a growth in support from the other families, so we’re optimistic.”

“And the Feds?”

“Still as obnoxious as always,” Artur sighs. “But we’re clean. Our books are clean. They have nothing on us, nor will they find anything.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“What about your father?” I ask, eager to get straight to the point. The longer Polina sticks around, the more uncomfortable we all seem to get. “I understand you spoke to him about our bid for White Plains.”

She gives me a long, curious look. She has thoughts she’d like to voice, but she decides to keep them to herself, choosing to follow my line, instead. “Yes, we talked about White Plains. And I come bearing both good, and bad news.”

“You don’t say,” Artur mutters, and I give him a warning look.

Out of the three of us, he is the least receptive to Polina’s charms. The most inclined to put a bullet in her head if he has to. The most determined to keep her out of our lives forever, and therefore, the least comfortable whenever we have to entertain her.

“You see, my father’s anything but a fool,” Polina says. “He recognizes the value of your proposal, and he agrees that the price you offered is well above the market value for White Plains.”

“Okay,” I reply, with a tone that urges her to continue.

“However, he also recognizes the importance of tradition, honor, and respect. All three, he says, were lacking when you ended our relationship, Max. At least, that’s how he sees it.”

“And I suppose you didn’t give him all the spicy details about that breakup,” I say, half-smiling. “Or about the relationship itself.”

“For everyone’s safety, obviously not.”

“So basically, we’re still stuck at this stalemate, with your father thinking the worst of us, even though you’re the one who ruined everything,” I reply.

Polina offers a slight shrug. “I guess you choose to remember things differently.”

“You betrayed us, Polina. There’s nothing to remember differently,” Artur snaps. “Now, what does your father want for White Plains, other than money? Out with it.”

“He’s proposing an alliance,” she says. “A business alliance, between our families.”

Ivan, Artur, and I remain quiet for a long moment, exchanging wary glances. Ivan was right. We know where this is going, and I dread that I have to even consider entertaining what’s about to come out of Polina’s mouth. I should’ve seen it coming since the house party.

“An alliance through marriage,” she continues. “I marry you, Max, and in return, not only will my family sell you White Plains for the price you offered, but we’ll also give you our full support within and outside the Bratva. We’re prepared to renounce our own ties to Bowman’s people, if you agree to these terms.”

Ivan snorts. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“Am I?” she asks, giving him a long, slightly amused look. “I would’ve imagined you being the most eager to rekindle this fire. I may be marrying Max on legal paper, but intimately, it would be the four of us again.”

“That’ll never happen,” Artur cuts in. “You made sure of it.”

“Why dredge up the past? I’m offering you a better option for the future,” she replies, still irritatingly confident in her proposal.

I don’t know what upsets me more, the audacity of the proposal, or the fact that it does—at least from a business perspective—make a lot of sense. Were it not for Lyric, I probably would’ve considered it, if only for a moment. But as things are, it’s an absolute no from all three of us.

However, we can’t just shut Polina down either. We still need her and her father’s support, and both Artur and Ivan know it, which is why they stay quiet and let me do the talking.

“Polina, you’re well aware that no matter how you try and sugar coat it, you wronged us in the past. You made us out to be the villains because of our complicated relationship, and we allowed it because we couldn’t—and still can’t—afford a scandal of such magnitude. Not when we’re skating on thin ice while trying to move the Bratva into more legitimate fields of business,” I say. “It doesn’t change the truth, though. You betrayed us. I hope you don’t think you’re going to play us again.”

Polina shakes her head slowly. “My father was the one who suggested it. Not me. In fact, I spoke against it, but he said I should ask you, either way.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

She laughs lightly. “Oh, Max, believe what you want. But these are the only terms he is offering. Do not blame the old man for wanting to marry me into the Sokolov dynasty. It would bring the Larionov’s nothing but prestige and future wealth. Combining our bloodlines would make us stronger against everyone, including the smaller families of Chicago.”

“And I’m guessing that your father’s connections within the legal system would suddenly become available and useful to us against the Feds once I put a Sokolov ring on your finger?” I ask.

Polina nods once. “Of course.”

“We’ll think about it,” I say.

“We will?” Artur gasps, giving me a troubled look.

“We will,” I insist, keeping my gaze glued to Polina’s. The air is so thick between us, almost unbreathable. Years ago, I would’ve given her the moon. Yet now, I just want to get her out of here, sooner rather than later.

She stands up, a perky smile curling her scarlet red lips. “You’re seriously considering it? That’s wonderful news.”

“Give us time,” I say. “You’ll have your answer soon.”

“You know where to reach me.”

She walks out, her chin up and stiletto heels clicking defiantly across the hardwood floor, as Ivan, Artur, and I watch her get into the elevator. Once the doors slide shut, and she’s out of our sight, Ivan rushes to close the office door, then turns around to glower at me.

“Are you fucking kidding me? ‘We’ll think about it?’” he hisses.

“What did you want me to say? Fuck no, straight away?” I ask him, feeling my blood pressure rise. I’m angry because Polina has found a way to make our lives harder at a time when we desperately need the opposite. “We need her and the old man. We need White Plains. We need to think about it.”

“We’re not going to say yes,” Artur chimes in. “Right?”

I shake my head. “I’d rather die, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.”

“What if we have to?” Ivan mutters, as he slides down onto the sofa. He runs a hand through his short hair, his breath heavy and faltering. “What if there’s no other way?”

“There’s always another way,” Artur says. “We just haven’t found it yet.”

“Why did we expect better results?” I ask, leaning back into my chair. “Ivan said it well before Polina even walked in. We knew this was coming.”

We were hoping for better results. That’s where the dismay stems from. From the hope that maybe Polina would do the decent thing for once and set our record straight with her father. Of course, she couldn’t do that without implicating herself, without soiling her own image in front of daddy dearest. Her ego is too big. Polina would rather burn alive than stop being his perfect princess.

Either way, it’s a ginormous fuckery. We need to figure out what to do with it.

We need to transfer White Plains into the Sokolov consortium sooner rather than later, for a multitude of reasons, some of them legal. Our accountants insisted upon it, since it is key in keeping all of our businesses clean and clear of any additional federal interference. Had I known that going legit would be so fucking tedious, I would’ve stayed in the Navy.

But then we never would’ve crossed paths with Lyric. I can almost smell her hair. Taste her lips. A sweet reminder that despite everything that we’ve been struggling with, Lyric has been a wonderful, soul-rejuvenating constant. And I intend to keep her around.

“Obviously, not a word of this to Lyric,” I say after a heavy pause.

“Obviously,” Artur replies. “How would it even sound?”

Awful. It would sound awful.

A few hours later, Ivan and I are visiting one of our northside offices. There have been some logistical irregularities reported where the transportation department is concerned. We need to make sure everything is in accordance with the most recent regulations, since this particular building is smack in the middle of Matthew Phelps’s council district. He’s been sending inspectors to bother our employees on a weekly basis, slapping us with fine after fine.

This time, however, one of our administrators caught whiff of an issue before another inspector’s visit and called us.

“We’re missing several documents, including the last three manifests for July,” our eager logistics administrator, Trent, says as we walk back into his office.

“What do you mean we’re missing transport manifests for July?” Ivan asks Trent, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. “That’s a fifty-thousand-dollar fine right there.”

“I’m well aware, Mr. Sokolov, but I swear I don’t know how it happened. We usually keep everything right here in this office. The manifests, the travel logs, the passes, everything. And my assistant is good at labeling it.”

“When did you notice they were missing?” I ask.

Trent sighs heavily. “That’s the thing. I don’t think they were ever submitted. Not on paper, anyway. But we need them to explain some discrepancies in fuel consumption for that period, otherwise the inspectors from the city council will have a field day with this. Like you said, sir, fifty grand.”

“Fucking hell,” Ivan mutters. “Let me see the ledgers.”

Trent is a good guy. He’s been under our employ for a few years now. He’s a fair man with a good work ethic. His father worked for our father, and Trent inherited his position, though he did start out in the loading bay, first.

I don’t trust anyone fully, except Ivan and Artur, but I do know that Trent wouldn’t allow such issues to arise, especially during such a stressful time. If anybody hates city inspections more than us, it’s him. Without hesitation, he unlocks one of the file cabinets and takes out a heap of ledgers for Ivan to sift through.

“We need to figure out what happened to that missing fuel,” my brother says.

“One of our employees could intentionally be responsible,” I add.

Voices boom beyond the wall of glass. I look out and see a familiar, yet disturbing sight—a river of FBI windbreakers spilling into the bay, manhandling our employees while waving a search warrant for everyone to see. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I scoff and leave the office, running down the metal steps to get ahead of the situation. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask the agent waving the warrant.

“Search warrant for your premises,” he replies with a dry tone.

“Yeah, I figured that part out. For what?”

“Suspicion of trafficking and other illicit activities.”

I snatch the warrant from his hand to read it. The legal jargon is all there. Nothing but circumstantial garbage at first glance, which tells me that this is just another attempt from Smith and his cohorts to bully us.

“My lawyers will need to verify the validity of this warrant before we let you search anything,” I try my luck.

The agent gives me a broad, overly confident smile. “Knock yourself out. They’ll tell you the same thing they told you the last time we paid you a visit. Suck it up, buttercup.”

“Your audacity is spectacular,” I reply, my fists itching to wipe the smirk off his face.

Ivan steps in. Shit. I didn’t even see him coming. I don’t like the darkness in his eyes. I know it all too well. It’s muted rage that is about to get really, painfully loud. The agent, however, doesn’t immediately sense the threat. It will be his undoing, and I’m not sure I can help him.

“This is harassment,” Ivan says.

“We have a warrant. Back the fuck away and let my people do their job,” the agent replies.

I wonder if he’s one of Smith’s lackeys or if his arrogance just comes with the windbreaker and the badge. But Ivan doesn’t care. He’s got close to a foot on the guy and he didn’t join me down here to play nice with the Feds.

“You do your job and whatever the fuck else you need to do, but our employees deserve to be treated with respect,” Ivan says, then nods to the side where two agents are shoving a few of our drivers into a corner, tossing and turning everything over in their path. “It doesn’t look like they’re searching for anything. It looks more like shit-stirring and destruction of private property.”

“You need to mind your own business and let my people do their job,” the agent says, one hand already on his holstered weapon.

Ivan’s eyes grow wide with amusement and not the good kind. “Are you seriously threatening to shoot me?”

“Ivan, come on.” I try to get in between them, but my brother has reached his breaking point. Even I can’t stop him. “Ivan…”

“If I feel like my life is in danger, I will shoot you,” the agent says. But it’s that constant smile of his that has the hairs on the back of my neck stiffening with irritation. Ivan is right to call him out, I’m just not sure about his choice of attitude. “Back away—now.”

One of our drivers cries out in pain when an agent twists his arm behind his back. A skirmish erupts a few yards to our right, and Ivan immediately jumps in to put an end to it. The agent watches him, fingers nimbly grasping his gun, ready and almost eager to unholster it.

“Ivan!” I call out, but it’s too late.

My brother throws the first punch, resulting in one agent falling backward, completely disconnected from reality. Fuck. The other two Feds try to tackle Ivan, but he’s not an easy man to take down. He swings left and right, dodging punches and delivering one blow after another, until a taser hits him in the back.

“Ivan!” I shout again and rush to help him, but I’m pulled back by more windbreakers.

“Stand back!”

“Don’t move,” one of them says to my brother.

“How the fuck is he going to move, you’re electrocuting him!” I snarl, struggling to get free. Granted, I could throw some punches of my own and break a couple of jaws, but the situation is fucked up enough as it is. I can’t risk making it worse. “Somebody help him!”

Ivan is on the ground, twitching, until the handler of the taser finally turns the power off. Two of his colleagues get on top of my brother and cuff his hands behind his back. This just went from bad to worse in the span of minutes.

“Don’t move!” the goon on top of my brother shouts.

“You people are incredible,” I gasp, barely able to believe my own eyes.

I can almost feel my brother’s pain coursing through my body. This is one of those moments where I wish the old Bratva rules could be applied. The Feds would’ve never dared to walk in and do something like this. They would’ve had a smidge of common sense, at least, knowing that we could easily find out where they lived, where their kids went to school…

But it’s not within our moral code to function according to the traditional values of our organization anymore, which is both a blessing and a curse. In this situation, it feels more like the latter than the former.

“Alright, I got him.”

“Ivan don’t say a word. Don’t fight them. I’ll get you out quickly, I promise.”

“Good luck with that,” one of the agents says with an irritating smirk. “You’ll have to wait until he’s transferred to jail and arraigned. Quickly doesn’t apply here.”

It’s at this point that Ivan completely freezes, looking up at me with a mixture of dismay and concern. We’ve had our occasional brushes with the law over the years, but nothing that needed more than a night’s worth in county jail. My brother can’t spend an hour in such a space without losing a bit of himself in the process.

Ivan is a hard man, riddled with the kind of darkness that he’s had to become particularly adept at controlling. Confinement brings out the worst in him, his composure and self-control greatly tested.

If I don’t get him out quickly, I fear he’ll unleash his anger and distress on whoever’s unlucky enough to share a cell with him. My hand is already reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone as I watch Ivan get dragged out of the loading bay in a most unceremonious fashion. To make matters worse, a handful of reporters have gathered outside, snapping photos, asking stupid questions, filming Ivan as he’s escorted to one of the FBI’s black vans.

This will hit the news within the hour.

Smith and Bowman have kicked things up a notch.