Chapter 5

5

Max

“ I did not see that coming,” Ivan declares as soon as Artur comes into the office sharing news of Lyric’s parentage.

“We never asked her last name,” Artur sighs, taking a seat in one of the guest chairs while I walk over to the minibar and pour him a double shot of whiskey. “We saw her, we wanted her, that was that.”

“Animals,” I mutter as I bring him the drink. “She reduced us to animals. Mindless beasts.”

Ivan gives me a cold grin. “And we loved every second of it.”

“What the fuck do we do now?” Artur asks.

I sit behind my desk with a drink of my own, watching the amber liquid as I swirl the Bohemian crystal tumbler. It is an unexpected situation, and we do need to figure out a way through it. We are about to begin negotiations and tense conversations with the other Bratva families. We have leverage with Bowman in our possession—the kind of leverage our own father only dreamed of. If we get the others behind us, it’ll push Smith into a corner.

“What’s the current hierarchy in the Chicago field office?” I ask Artur.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he replies with a furrowed brow.

“Let’s take it one step at a time. It’ll make sense, I promise.”

Ivan grunts and downs the rest of his drink, then helps himself to another while Artur goes through all the known information that we’ve gathered so far from our meetings and interactions, including our covert research and city-based spies.

“Smith is the supposed ringleader,” Artur says. “The minute he took over the Chicago field office, his roaches and underlings got bolder and louder. Bowman is the cash cow, and Phelps is the PR guy, so to speak.”

“We took their cash cow away and we made our demands clear,” I reply.

“But they haven’t responded,” Artur points out.

Ivan scoffs, adding ice to his whiskey. “It wasn’t an easy demand. They have to close off all of their investigations into our Northshore and Grimm offices and pull the staties away from our Langdon and Massey properties. That’s a lot of manpower that won’t be paid overtime for investigating us. Not that they had much to investigate in the first place.”

“Northshore and Grimm still need a proper scrub,” I remind Ivan. “Let’s send some forensic accountants over there to make sure the IRS will never have reason to connect the new companies to the old ones. We’re trying to build something clean here.”

“Those fuckers won’t let us,” Artur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Which, again, is why we have Bowman. They leave us alone, they get Bowman back. It’s that simple. Our men are ready to release him as soon as Smith confirms that they’ve put an end to their investigations.”

Artur nods slowly. “Still no word from him though.”

“Not yet.”

“In the meantime, Phelps is out there screaming against the Bratva on every possible screen,” Ivan says. “He’s got a televised debate Sunday night. You know it’s going to be one of his main talking points.”

“He’s dropping in the polls. He can’t afford not to talk about us,” Artur says. “I swear, Max, when you first suggested that we go legit with the family business, I thought it was doable.”

“It is,” I insist. “We just have a few more hurdles to cross.”

“These aren’t hurdles, they’re fucking behemoths, and they’ve got money and guns aplenty,” he shoots back. “We need the rest of the families’ support.”

Ivan nods in agreement. “Let’s talk to Petrov, first. He seemed the most enthusiastic about a chain of casinos instead of, well, instead of what he’s been doing for the past thirty years.”

“What about Lyric?” Artur asks, looking first at Ivan, then at me. “What are we going to do about her? We agreed to see her again. Tonight.”

“It’ll have to wait until we get a firmer grip on Phelps,” I say, though it pains me to the fucking bone. I was looking forward to tonight. I was downright excited to bury myself deep inside of her, to breathe her in and feel myself become a new man, nestled between her creamy thighs. But the fact that she’s a Phelps has made it all the more difficult. And more dangerous. We’ve got too much to lose at this point. “We need to play it safe, at least until we get what we need from Smith. Until we release Bowman.”

“I wonder what Smith was playing at,” Ivan cuts in. “He already had the ransom demand when he spoke to Lyric. He never mentioned it to her.”

“Of course,” I say, a smirk on my lips. “It would’ve been self-incrimination. Any defense attorney worth their salt would be able to describe a decades-long relationship between the local feds and the Bratva based solely on our list of demands. We drafted it precisely for that purpose.”

An hour later, Imani Petrov walks into our office.

The air is thick between my brother, Artur, and me. It’s been this way since we agreed to keep our distance from Lyric. We’ve gone back and forth on it so many times, it’s starting to feel ridiculous. But that is the situation before us. There are greater issues to resolve first, because the last thing any of us wants is to bring the Bratva’s war with the feds to Lyric’s door.

Petrov has brought tension of his own, judging by the tightness of his rugged, scarred jaw. He straightens his tie as he takes a seat across from my desk, while Artur and Ivan stand near the guest sofa by the window, their shadows growing long across the hardwood floor. Once Petrov is settled, they sit down.

“My birdies have been singing all sorts of scandalous songs lately,” Petrov says, his accent thick. “What have you boys been up to? Kidnapping? Extortion? I thought we were trying to go legit here.”

“We are,” I reply. “We just need to get the dirty Feds off our backs. Bowman was our surest and fastest bet.”

“The multibillionaire who controls half of the private security market in the United States?” Petrov laughs. “Well played, boys. I see the Sokolov genius is at its peak.”

“I really hope you didn’t come all the way here just to insult us,” Ivan grumbles.

“No, I’m merely pointing out the obvious.”

I lean forward, keeping my focus on Petrov. “It’ll work. Smith will come through, and Bowman will get to go home in one piece by the end of the week. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to go ahead with our original plan. It’s why we called you here, Imani.”

“Go on,” he says, leaning farther back into his chair, as if to keep some sort of distance between us. I’m aware that I make a lot of people uncomfortable. It’s in my nature to be intimidating, and I have never tried to suppress it.

“Those birdies of yours, can you train them to look into the south side?” I ask. “There are several properties there that have stirred our interest.”

“If you’re talking about the White Plains neighborhood, you’ll need to get cozy with Larionov again,” Petrov chuckles dryly. “That’s his turf. But I should warn you, ever since you broke up with his precious Polina, he’s made it a point of not dealing with you or anyone aligned with you, Maksim.”

I wonder what old man Larionov would do if he learned about the kind of relationship that Polina had with me. With us. She was the only woman who was seemingly interested in building something intimate in the long term with Ivan, Artur, and me.

We shared her in every possible way, and she preferred it. Then, she turned around and almost stabbed us in the back, but we kept things civil to avoid a war with the Larionov’s. It’s been bitter and quiet between us ever since.

To hear that we may have to deal with Polina’s father again makes me feel uneasy on top of everything else. Especially now that we have Lyric rising like the sun on our horizon. Dammit, the timing on all of this couldn’t be worse.

“Larionov owns White Plains,” I mutter.

Ivan curses under his breath. “That’s going to be a huge fucking problem.”

“We need White Plains,” Artur replies, looking at Petrov. “Why can’t you deal with him? He won’t say no to an offer from you.”

“I don’t have the kind of money he’s asking for that block,” Petrov says.

“We do. Take our funds and go make him an offer,” I cut in.

Petrov laughs, almost mocking us. I’m starting to feel irritated by the mere sound of his voice. I grow restless in my seat as I work on practicing restraint. “Larionov will know it’s not my money. That bastard is old school. Cold war trained, remember? He’s got sleepers everywhere, including in my banks. He’ll smell something fishy as soon as I show him the cash, Maksim. It’s not going to work.”

That’s not very encouraging, and given what we’re already dealing with, I can feel my stress levels rising. The simple thought of having to walk through Larionov’s door and cozy up to a man who still looks at me and sees the bastard who broke his daughter’s heart, does not give me a fuzzy feeling.

“We need another way to Larionov, then,” I say, giving Petrov a bitter grin. “You’re proving yourself useless, uncle.”

“Watch your tongue. I still have sway with the other families.”

“He’s joking,” Artur chuckles.

Ruckus suddenly erupts somewhere beyond my office doors. I can hear my secretary, Sophie, arguing with someone. There are several male voices speaking loudly, heavy footsteps thudding throughout the open office area.

I give Ivan a worried look.

“This is a raid!” I hear Smith’s voice boom through the closed doors. “And we have a warrant! Nobody move. Cooperate and let us do our job.”

“It took him long enough,” Artur grumbles, sitting up.

I shake my head slowly. “If he thinks he’s taking us by surprise—”

“I got rid of everything he could have, or may have tried to use against us,” Artur reminds me.

“Good.”

The office doors swing open, and federal agents flood in wearing dark blue windbreakers, their eyes steely and cold, weapons drawn. Smith leads the pack with a confident smirk. As soon as his gaze finds me, however, and he sees that none of us appear to be shocked or worried, said smirk begins to melt into a grimace of raw displeasure.

“Mr. Sokolov,” he says, his tone flat. “I have a warrant.”

“So you’ve said. Knock yourself the fuck out,” I shrug, leaning back into my seat, while Ivan gives Artur a comforting nudge. “We have nothing to hide.”

“What’s this about?” Ivan asks.

The Feds start going through every cabinet and drawer in sight. I pull my chair away from the desk so they can access the computer, making sure my phone is in my jacket pocket. Artur is already on his phone with our attorney. It’s not our first rodeo.

“Bowman’s kidnapping,” Smith replies. “We know you’re behind it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re free to look around as much as you want,” I shoot back.

“Oh don’t worry, I will. In fact, I’ll keep raiding every single property that’s listed under your name and your associates’ names until I find him,” SSA Smith says. “If you think we’ll succumb to your demands, you’ve got another thing coming. Hell will freeze over before the Federal Bureau of Investigation bows down to the Russian mafia.”

Ivan chuckles dryly. “That’s right, you only bow to the Latin American cartels. Isn’t that who is favored within your Chicago field office as of late?”

“Don’t push it,” Smith shoots back. “Hand over your phones, too.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Artur cuts in, having just finished his phone call with our attorney. “I need to see that warrant first.”

“It’s perfectly legitimate,” Smith insists, but he has no choice. He hands over the signed warrant, and Artur takes a sweet minute to read the whole thing before allowing a grin to slit across his face. “Everything in here is ours to check.”

“Everything that’s not on our physical person, that is,” Artur says, pointing at one particular line. “You fellas need to get your DA’s up to speed on these things. This is how you fumble an entire investigation. Do you see our phones out in the open?”

Smith looks around and I can almost hear his blood pressure spiking as he exchanges nervous glances with his agents. They do this every other month. They pick one of our offices, raid it, check it from top to bottom, then seize a handful of our books for their forensic accountants. They’ve been trying—and miserably failing—to get to us for years. They could never build a RICO case against us, so they’re now attempting a more white-collar approach, but even that is turning out to be anything but fruitful. I can see why Smith is frustrated. It doesn’t stop me from enjoying the moment though, if only for a little bit.

“Sorry, buddy. Better luck next time,” I say with a casual shrug. “I think you need probable cause if you want to get your grubby hands on our personal cellphones.”

“This isn’t over,” Smith replies. “I still have access to everything else in here.”

“Like I said, knock yourselves the fuck out,” I repeat. “We’ve been down this road before, Smith. We all know where it leads.”

“It’s Director Smith, as of next week,” he shoots back. “And then, things will be rolled out a bit differently. I suggest you release Bowman before I bring in the hounds of hell.”

Ivan snorts. “Let me guess, you’re going to split the bill with the fine gentlemen from the DEA and the ATF. You’re going to raid another one of our offices and try to get the Department of Defense involved. We know the drill, future Director Smith. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

Petrov watches him like a hawk. The old wolf would love to blow a hole right through Smith’s skull, but he knows we cannot, and will not, go against the Feds like that.

Smith tries a different approach, putting on a subtle smile. “How involved is Lyric Phelps in all of this?”

I freeze. My brain shuts down. Darkness creeps in. I can feel its icy clutches tightening around my throat. Artur and Ivan both give me a hard, loaded look. I take a deep breath and decide to test the waters. Smith didn’t bring her up without having a reason or knowledge about something.

“Who’s Lyric Phelps?” I ask.

“You know who she is. Witnesses put you outside the library where she works down on Kingston Avenue just a couple of days ago. She was also supposed to meet with Bowman at a hotel you were staying at.”

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What were you doing on Kingston Avenue?”

“We have plenty of meetings every single day. Business takes us all over the city,” I snap. “Listen, Smith. You’re reaching here. It’s the mark of a desperate man, and it’s going to blow up in your face.”

“Or maybe, you three got sloppy. Did you use Miss Phelps as some kind of honey pot?” Smith asks, carefully analyzing each of our reactions.

“Who is Lyric Phelps?” I ask again.

“Matthew Phelps’s daughter. Certainly, you’re familiar with him, seeing as he’s mounting quite the PR campaign against you and your Bratva cohorts.”

Petrov exhales sharply. “Oh, right, that stooge who wants to run for a state senate seat. He has a daughter?”

“Apparently,” Artur replies with a shrug. “But we know nothing about her, nor have we ever met her. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Smith. And last time I checked, it’s not a smart strategy to drag your buddy’s daughter into your mess. You don’t want the future state senator to get egg on his face because of your unfounded allegations.”

And there it is. It’s sinking in. I can see it in Smith’s eyes. He made a play and missed, which means he’s got nothing but circumstantial bullshit. He’s got a tail on us twenty-four-seven, and one of his guys must’ve spotted us near the library.

The agents start boxing up files, folders, and notebooks. One of them even takes a deep dive into the shredder. He’ll be extremely disappointed when they find nothing except a few pages out of a car-themed magazine and a couple of printer test papers.

“Don’t think for a second that I won’t be paying more attention to Lyric Phelps. I will find dirt, eventually. And I can say one thing with absolute certainty—let Bowman go, or it’s going to get really bad for you.”

“We don’t have him,” I say.

“Let. Him. Go. This is not how you’re going to get what you want, Max. Trust me. The people you’re after are way higher up the food chain. Bowman can’t help you,” Smith says.

His words hit me on a deeper level. He knows what we’re doing and why we’re doing it. He’s familiar with our cause, which means he’s also familiar with the higher ups who pull his own strings.

We’ve never received a clear confirmation that Bowman is at the very top of a disgustingly corrupt pyramid, but we know he’s at one of the superior levels. Taking him was supposed to be enough to get them to back off and leave us be.

Yet as the days pass, I’m starting to bitterly agree with Smith. Especially now that Lyric’s name has been dropped. Maybe this was a misfire on our part. And judging by the sour looks on Ivan and Artur’s faces, something tells me they agree.

Whether we like it or not, we may have no choice but to release Bowman and try another approach once everything cools off.