The Debt (Sordid Debt Duet #1)

Chapter Four

Jarek

An underground bunker, Saunders Castle at Park Plaza, 130 Columbus Ave, Boston, Massachusetts…

“Is this cloak-and-dagger bullshit really necessary?” Hank Simmons shifted uncomfortably in a chair placed under a harsh spotlight. Sweat beads trickled down his temples despite the cool temperature of the room. At fifty-five, his salt-and-pepper hair still retained more pepper than salt, and his tall, lanky frame seemed to fold in under the intense scrutiny of the darkness beyond the light.

Jarek could smell the fear emanating from him—a sharp, acrid scent that betrayed the usual confidence of a banker. It was almost amusing to see Simmons so rattled. The man had built his reputation in banking through twenty years of ruthless dedication, climbing the corporate ladder until the recession hit. Then, like many others, he had turned to less savory methods to maintain his lifestyle and influence.

“Blindfolding me and driving in circles for hours.” Simmons squinted into the darkness where Jarek sat, his brown eyes struggling to penetrate the shadows. “It doesn’t promote mutual trust in a future alliance with my bank... er... what do I call you? I’ve only been told The Dark One wants to meet me.”

“And since you’re here, I assume that you know who that is?”

“The leader of the Somerville Irish Gang?”

“Indeed. Since you accepted the invitation, then I’m guessing you know the purpose of this meeting?”

“I assume you would like us to manage your capital through our financial instruments. You know, wire transfers, stock portfolios, investments, real estate acquisitions, and other financial plans we offer.”

“That’s correct. However, I’m starting to reconsider.” Jarek sat back in his chair, secure in the knowledge that his identity remained hidden. The persona of The Dark One wasn’t just a nickname—it was his shield, his protection to ensure that the likes of Gregor Polov would never discover who he was until the time came. Since his days with the Southies in Dublin, Jarek had maintained a strict regime of anonymity through disguise and by never allowing his face to be recognized. Torn from the playbook of Gregor Polov, whose false appearance on that fateful day concealed his true identity, Jarek utilized the same tactics of impersonation during his remaining years in Ireland. Shape-shifting would become an integral part of his tradecraft. From the simplicity of a low-drawn newsboy cap and aviator sunglasses to the more elaborate use of fat suits, wigs, and facial prosthetics, he would appear unremarkable and disappear into the maze of public life.

While he made headlines in the States as the mysterious Irish mob boss, no one was able to connect him to the young man whose family had been killed by Gregor Polov. He had refused to have Lisbet’s and Emma’s names identified as two of the victims who had succumbed to the violence of the open gang wars that had raged on the streets of Atlanta at the time.

Only two people knew his true identity—Declan Byrne and Connor O’Brien, whose intimate knowledge died with him. But Declan was different. Their bond, forged in blood and sacrifice, went deeper. Declan believed he owed Jarek his life, but it was more than that. As his underboss, he possessed an unimpeachable loyalty that was invaluable. He knew with absolute certainty that Declan would rather die than betray him, not because of any blood oath that was taken but because of the unshakeable bond of trust and friendship that had been shared over the years. Making the ultimate sacrifice to protect Jarek wasn’t a given as much as it was a mutual understanding of the lengths Declan was prepared to make if that day ever came.

“What would cause you to reconsider?” Hank’s voice forced his attention back to the moment. “I’m sure you did your homework about Boston Finance; otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

Jarek allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. Homework was an understatement. He had spent months studying Boston Finance’s operations and its rise to prominence under Simmons’ leadership. The institution had become a powerhouse in New England’s financial sector, particularly in commercial real estate development. With over fifty billion dollars in assets under management and a sterling reputation among legitimate businesses, it was the perfect facade for masking illicit gains.

“Tell me, Mr. Simmons, how many property development companies currently trust Boston Finance with their portfolios?” The subtle compliment, disguised as a question, was enough to animate the banker’s face with pride.

“We handle financing for seven of the ten largest developers in New England,” Simmons replied, some of his usual confidence returning. “Our commercial loan department processed over three billion dollars in transactions last year alone.”

“And the Structured Finance Division? The one that handles... special international clients?”

Simmons’ confidence wavered. The confidential nature of the question elicited a cryptic answer. “The SFD is a very discreet operation.”

Indeed, it was. Through that division, Boston Finance had been laundering approximately two hundred million dollars annually for the Polovskaya Bratva, disguising it through a complex web of real estate investments and offshore accounts. The subsequent accolades, including being named “Most Innovative Financial Institution” by Banking Monthly three years running, provided perfect cover for these operations.

“What if I told you I could double what one of your special clients currently provides?” Jarek leaned forward slightly. “But with one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You end your arrangement with Gregor Polov and the Bratva. Immediately.”

The banker’s face noticeably paled under the harsh light. “That would be... complicated. And dangerous.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Let Polov know through your legal intermediaries that the Department of Treasury has sent word that it intends to audit your books. It’s looking for illicit transactions. Advise Polov that he’s getting a heads-up and needs to divest and park his wealth into offshore accounts that will provide a firewall to the prying eyes of the FBI and Treasury agents. If anything, he will be indebted to you for shielding his assets.”

“I’m offering you a simple choice, Mr. Simmons.” Jarek’s voice remained calm, almost gentle. “The Irish have risen to the top of the ladder in Boston and are quietly making headway in New York and Washington, D.C. The Bratva group you’re in bed with is facing increasing scrutiny from Federal authorities. What do you think will happen when the shit hits the fan? Your bank will take the hit. Its share price will plummet, your shareholders will sue for malfeasance, your reputation will be destroyed, and if you’re convicted of bank fraud, whether you were personally involved or not, you will pay billions in fines and end up doing time behind bars.

“Look what happened to HSBC. It had to exit the U.S. mass market retail banking. Its Swiss private banking arm was discovered to have colluded in money laundering schemes. And that was just for starters. It had to sell off its Canadian banking operations to the Royal Bank of Canada. Its CEO had to step down. Basically, its global branches were dismembered.” He flashed a Cheshire grin. “I suggest you think very carefully about what I’ve said and make the wise decision.”

This was the first move in a carefully orchestrated game. Jarek knew that cutting off Polov’s biggest money laundering channel would force him to seek alternatives, which would make him vulnerable. More importantly, it would send a message. The Dark One wasn’t just another gang leader fighting for territory—he was systematically dismantling Polov’s operation, piece by piece.

“Your bank’s reputation for handling complex international transactions and its sophisticated software systems make it a very attractive investment for me,” Jarek continued. “Let me be clear. These are my terms for doing business. I will double the profit margin that you’re getting from Polov’s business. That alone would greatly enhance your capital reserves and increase the value of your stock, with the added effect of making your stockholders very happy. It’s a very lucrative opportunity I’m offering. A one-time offer only.”

Simmons wiped his brow with his sleeve. His mind was clearly racing through the implications. “The Polovskaya Bratva... they’re not known for accepting rejection gracefully.”

“Neither am I. The difference is I’m here, in Boston. They’re not. Think about that, Mr. Simmons. Think about who can better ensure your continued... well-being.”

Jarek studied the banker through the darkness, noting how Simmons’ fingers drummed nervously on the armrest of his chair. It was time to play the Ace card.

“The Bratva’s power lies in fear and intimidation, Mr. Simmons. Tell me, in the past five years, how many of Polov’s enemies in Boston have met with unfortunate accidents?” Jarek’s voice carried a hint of amusement at Simmons’ expression. “I’ll tell you. None. Because his reach doesn’t extend this far—not anymore. The FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division task force has him cornered in Atlanta and Florida.”

Simmons shifted in his chair. “But his reputation—”

“Is built on past glory,” Jarek cut in. “My organization, on the other hand, controls every dock from South Boston to Gloucester. We have connections in the police department, city hall, and, more importantly, in every neighborhood where your employees and their families live. We don’t need to threaten—we protect what’s ours.”

“The Irish way,” Simmons muttered.

“Precisely. When you’re under our umbrella, Mr. Simmons, you become family. And family looks after its own.” Jarek leaned forward, his voice taking on a harder edge. “But cross family, and well... let’s just say the Russians aren’t the only ones who know how to hold a grudge.”

“You mentioned doubling Polov’s volume?”

“Eventually. With potential for more as our operations expand to other States. We’ll also provide a security detail for you and your family during the transition period. Any retaliation from the Bratva will be dealt with swiftly and definitively.”

“And my board members?”

“Will never know about the change in management. The same systems, the same procedures, just different names on the accounts. We’re not looking to disrupt your legitimate operations—they’re vital to maintaining the facade.”

Simmons was quiet for a moment, considering. “When would this transition need to take place?”

“Begin the process immediately. You have a week to come up with a viable reason to sever ties with Polov. In the meantime, my people will meet with you and provide new routing information for our accounts.”

“What do I tell him? He’s not going to roll over and accept being cut off abruptly. It’s dangerous, I tell you.”

“You’re the financial expert, Mr. Simmons. Tell him exactly what I suggested you do. Surely, you have the wherewithal to concoct a phony letter from the Treasury Department citing its intent to conduct a lengthy audit? Share a copy of it with him. It’s plausible, given the current climate.”

“That could work, if only to pacify him for the time being.”

“The time being is all I need to get a foot in the door.”

Simmons frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“You don’t need to. Just do what I told you. I have quite a lot of laundry to wash.”

“It’s just… one week is short. I’m going to need more time.”

A cold chuckle emanated from the darkness. “Mr. Simmons, I selected one week very deliberately. You see, I know that Polov’s next major transfer is scheduled for ten days from now.” Jarek watched as the banker’s composure slipped further as his face betrayed the shock at this intimate knowledge. “A substantial sum... approximately seventeen million, if I’m not mistaken?”

Simmons swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “How did you—”

“The same way I know that you’ve been skimming an extra quarter percent from each of Polov’s transactions. A dangerous game, considering his reputation for accuracy in his books.” Jarek allowed the implied threat to hang in the air for a moment. “One week gives you enough time to reject his transfer while maintaining plausible deniability. Any longer, and he might start asking questions you don’t want to answer.”

“You don’t understand.” Simmons ran a sweaty palm through his hair. “There are protocols, procedures—”

“Which your compliance officer, Sarah Rodriguez, can expedite when properly motivated.” Jarek’s intimate knowledge of the bank’s internal operations clearly rattled Simmons further. “I believe her son just started at Boston College? Pre-med, very expensive. It would be a shame if he had to drop out due to... financial difficulties.”

“Are you trying to blackmail—”

“I’m offering solutions, Mr. Simmons. A generous signing bonus for Ms. Rodriguez’s cooperation might help ease the transition. Consider it part of your operational costs.” Jarek shifted on his chair. “The timeline stays at one week. However, I’m willing to provide additional security resources to ensure a smooth transition. My men can be very... persuasive when dealing with reluctant middle management.”

Simmons dabbed at his forehead again with a sweat-soaked handkerchief. “And if I refuse?”

“Then this conversation never happened, and I’ll find another financial institution more amenable to my terms. Though, I should mention… banking licenses are a surprisingly fragile commodity. Sometimes, anonymous tips about irregular transactions can lead to very thorough audits.” Jarek’s voice remained conversational. “But I don’t think it will come to that. I believe you to be a practical man, Mr. Simmons. You understand the value of being on the winning side.”

Jarek gestured at Declan, who had been standing quietly by his side.

“We’re done.”

“But how—”

“As the saying goes… don’t contact us, we’ll contact you. The moment I have confirmation of you severing your alliance with Polov, my people will provide all the routing information and details you require. Our first transaction of twenty-five million is scheduled for eight days from tomorrow. Don’t make me regret my decision, Mr. Simmons.”

Jarek watched dispassionately as two of his soldiers placed the hood over Simmons’ head and escorted the shaken man to the door. He had no sympathy for the banker. Simmons’ decision to risk everything and do business with organized crime syndicates had been made with one goal in mind—increase the bank’s profit margin. It would be a windfall, paying handsome dividends to himself and the bank’s shareholders.

“Amazing that a man as clever as Simmons was so short-sighted to risk involvement with Polov.” Jarek shook his head. “Barring the fact that it completely lacks any consideration for the legal, moral, and ethical consequences that’ll loom up to haunt his conscience one day, it further kicks the door open for even more criminal behavior by the bank.”

“You’re right, Boss. It’s never enough to have enough. More is always better.”

“The question is, how much more, my friend? What is the limit? I’ll tell you. There isn’t one. It’s a high-stakes poker game. Casino capitalism. Simmons will go all in and bet the house.”

Blinded by insatiable greed and untethered from all reasonable thought, the endgame would have a predictable outcome.

“Eventually, he would have to pay the piper, right?” Declan snickered.

“Don’t be deceived, my dear man. What you sow, you shall reap.” Jarek said with a smirk that pulled taut the corners of his mouth in an asymmetrical expression of satisfaction. “Let’s go celebrate, Declan. There’s a forty-year-old Macallan in my wine cellar that’s been waiting for just an occasion like this.”