Epilogue
Three Months Later
T he muted chatter of wealth and influence filled the East Lincoln Hotel’s Grand Ballroom, where the city’s financial elite had gathered around white-clothed tables for Matthew Capital Ventures’ first formal presentation.
Fresh orchids adorned each centerpiece, their subtle fragrance hanging in the air as waiters glided between clusters of prospective investors, balancing silver trays of champagne flutes and carefully refilling water glasses.
Reuben stood at the podium in the front of the room, adjusting his platinum cufflinks—a gift from Nikon that now felt like a lucky charm, rather than a mark of ownership. The same fingers that once dealt cards at Matvei poker tables now manipulated spreadsheets and investor portfolios.
Three months of eighteen-hour days, transforming Alexei’s dormant holding company into a venture capital fund, had led to this moment.
“Our competitive advantage lies in our structure,” Reuben explained, indicating the complex diagram on screen. “Unlike traditional venture funds that collect management fees regardless of performance, Matthew Capital Ventures operates on a modified carried interest model. We only profit when you profit, with tiered returns that incentivize exceptional performance.”
He clicked to the next slide, displaying a timeline. “In our first ninety days, Matthew Capital Ventures has secured a hundred million in soft commitments, built relationships with twenty-seven founder teams, and established proprietary sourcing channels across four industries. While it’s too early for returns, our model has attracted attention from family offices seeking alternatives to conventional investment vehicles.”
Reuben gestured toward detailed prospectuses on each table. “You’ll find our complete investment thesis, management biographies, and partnership terms in the materials provided. So I very much welcome your questions during lunch about how Matthew Capital Ventures offers a distinct approach to early-stage investing.”
He stepped away from the podium, signaling the transition to the networking portion of the event. The investors rose from their seats, gravitating toward the buffet tables or forming small conversation groups. This was the real work, where handshakes and personal assurances would convert interest into capital.
Three wealthy prospects: a hedge fund manager, a tech entrepreneur, and an old-money heiress cornered Reuben by the champagne fountain. They peppered him with questions about risk assessment strategies. He answered each one with exact figures and confident projections, never once glancing at notes.
“The collateralized approach minimizes exposure while maximizing potential upside,” Reuben explained, gesturing again toward the presentation screen still displaying his final slide. The movement drew attention to his cufflinks.
A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. “Reuben! Outstanding presentation.”
Nolan Ward stood there, champagne in hand, his weathered face flushed with excitement. As one of Matthew Capital Ventures’ first and wealthiest clients, Ward had become both Reuben’s most vocal champion and a crucial connection to old-money circles that would have otherwise remained closed to him.
But behind Ward stood a man Reuben had hoped never to see again, particularly not here, where his new world intersected with wealthy clients who knew nothing of his other life.
“I’ve brought someone you simply must meet,” Ward continued, oblivious to the way Reuben’s posture had stiffened. “He’s a brilliant businessman. I met him at one of those private card games last month.”
The other investors circling them excused themselves, sensing the interruption. Still, Reuben barely noticed them leave, his attention locked on the newcomer’s shrewd eyes.
The crisp scent of the man’s expensive cologne—expensive sandalwood with chemical undertones—hit Reuben’s nostrils, stirring memories of dimmed lights and staged poker games where every tell had been manufactured.
“Dmitrii Miroslav,” Ward said, waving the man forward. “Meet Reuben Hoyt, the young financial genius I’ve been telling you about.”
Dmitrii stepped forward, hand extended. His smile appeared like a mask slipped into place. It was all surface polish, with nothing behind it but the cold assessment in his unwavering stare. “Mr. Hoyt. What a pleasant surprise.”
“You two know each other?” Ward looked between them, eyebrows raised.
“We’ve crossed paths,” Reuben said, accepting Dmitrii’s handshake with an intentional grip that was neither yielding nor aggressive. “At the card tables, primarily.”
“Ah!” Ward nodded, rocking back on his heels. “Then you already know what a sharp mind our Reuben has. He’s turned around my investment portfolio in just two months.”
A waiter approached with fresh glasses of champagne. Ward checked his watch and grimaced.
“I promised my wife I’d call her before noon. Excuse me gentlemen, please, get reacquainted.” He patted them both on the shoulder and hurried toward a quieter corner of the ballroom.
“Well, look at you,” Dmitrii said, voice dropping once Ward was out of earshot. “I was worried when I heard about all that trouble with the Matvei clan. But you’re clearly doing just fine.”
Reuben surveyed the room, noting the positions of waiters, exits, and potential listeners before responding. The ballroom’s gentle classical music and ambient chatter of wealth suddenly seemed like a thin veneer over something darker.
Two worlds colliding—the polished investor he’d become and the poker player who’d navigated criminal enterprises. His gaze swept over the elderly hedge fund manager who’d just pledged eight million, the tech mogul whose handshake had sealed a partnership. None of them knew who truly stood before them.
“What are you doing here, Dmitrii?” His voice remained pitched for business, even as his mind clicked into the vigilant state he’d developed from living in Nikon’s world.
“Taking in the show.” Dmitrii gestured toward the mingling investors with his champagne flute. “Got to hand it to you. This is a pretty impressive setup in just a few months.”
Dmitrii took a quick sip from his champagne flute, making a soft, appreciative hum. “Excellent vintage. Your investors spare no expense.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “You know, I’ve been trying to arrange another meeting since our little card game encounters. But every time my men get within a mile of you, the Matvei brothers shoot first and ask questions never. Though I’ve got to say, during those nights at my tables, getting under your skin was a lot harder than I expected. Back then, I thought you were just another of Nikon’s pretty boys, but there’s evidently more to the story.”
Reuben’s expression remained neutral, though his fingers pressed more firmly against the stem of his glass. “If you’re looking to invest, we’re pretty picky about our partners.”
“Oh, I’m not here about money. Not directly anyway.” Dmitrii stepped closer, his words meant for Reuben’s ears alone. “I thought you might want an update on your brother-in-law. He’s been quite the helper, though his info seems to be hit-or-miss these days.”
Reuben’s pulse quickened, but his face betrayed nothing. The pieces clicked into place. Dmitrii knew about Andrey’s role as an unwitting double agent.
“Brother-in-law? That’s news to me,” Reuben said carefully.
Dmitrii’s lips curved into something between a smile and a sneer. “Really? That’s weird. Andrey seems convinced otherwise.”
A server approached with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, forcing them both to pause. Reuben used the moment to scan the room for eavesdroppers. Several investors glanced their way, curious about the newcomer engaging their host so intensely.
When the server moved on, Dmitrii continued as if there had been no interruption. “You know what’s funny? How Andrey just showed up at my door, all desperate and disgraced. Almost like someone set him up to fall.”
“I heard he screwed over his family.” Reuben shrugged as he sipped his champagne. “The Matvei boys aren’t exactly the forgiving type.”
“And yet they sent their star player right into my poker rooms.” Dmitrii’s voice remained pleasant, his face arranged in a benign smile for any onlookers. Only his eyes revealed the predator beneath. “Did you have fun at those games? Running back to Nikon with all the juicy details?”
“I’m not anybody’s errand boy.” The glass stem nearly bent under Reuben’s grip. He forced his fingers to relax.
“No?” Dmitrii glanced pointedly at Reuben’s cufflinks. “But Matvei boys love to mark what’s theirs, don’t they?”
Reuben’s lips twitched upward. “Funny you’d admit I played you so easily. First me, now apparently Andrey. Maybe you’re just not as sharp as you think.”
A brief flash of anger crossed Dmitrii’s face before his mask of civility returned. “I wasn’t fooled. I knew what you were about the minute you walked in. Just like I’m starting to see what’s happening with Andrey.”
“And what’s that?”
“Too many coincidences.” Dmitrii’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we? First, Andrey tells me where to find Matvei shipments, but when my guys show up? Nothing. Weird how his intel suddenly sucks, when he used to know everything about the Matvei business.”
Another waiter appeared, offering to refill their glasses. Reuben declined with a small shake of his head, unwilling to dull his senses even slightly. However, Dmitrii accepted, his fingers lingering on the waiter’s wrist just long enough to make the young man uncomfortable.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with Andrey,” Reuben said once they were alone again. “From what I hear, he’s been through a lot. Family exile takes a toll on a desperate man.”
“And what about loyal men? What stories do they tell?” Dmitrii’s gaze swept across the ballroom. “These rich folks, for instance. Do they have any idea where their money’s really going? Do they know whose name they’re getting into bed with?”
Dmitrii tilted his head, a serpentine smile playing across his features. “Matthew Capital Ventures.” He paused meaningfully. “Matthew... Matvei.” He gave a small shake of his head. “I have to say, using the anglicized version of Matvei is a little on the nose, don’t you think? Especially if you’re trying to keep their involvement a secret.”
The threat stretched across the narrow gap separating them.
Reuben kept his breathing steady, though his heartbeat sped up. One word from Dmitrii to the right person in here could unravel everything he had been trying to build the past few months.
“You’re mistaking discretion for deception. My investors know who they’re dealing with.” Reuben maintained the cool composure he’d perfected at the poker tables.
“For now.” Dmitrii’s smile widened, eyes glittering with malice. “But you know how fragile reputations can be.” His fingers traced the rim of his champagne glass, delicate but deliberate. “One whisper about what the Matvei family really does.” He sent a meaningful glance toward a senator’s wife chatting by the dessert table. “And these fine people would be running for the exits.”
“Cut to the chase, Dmitrii.” Reuben’s tone cooled by a fraction of a degree. “What do you want?”
“Same thing I wanted when we first met. You’re wasted with the Matvei crew.” Dmitrii casually leaned into Reuben’s personal space. “Come work for me. Be my money guy instead of Nikon’s pet. I’m offering a real partnership, not a leash.”
A genuine laugh escaped Reuben’s lips. “You can’t be serious. Word has already got around about how you’ve got Andrey serving drinks at your poker games like some flunky. Is that your idea of a partnership?”
Dmitrii’s eyes flashed with cruel satisfaction. “Oh, you’ve heard about that? Yes, the mighty Andrey Matvei mixes quite a decent cocktail now. Should see him when he drops a glass. He even crawls under the table to clean it up.” He smoothed his tie with casual arrogance. “The man who once ran the streets now fights for tips from my poker players.”
Dmitrii flicked invisible dust from his sleeve cuffs, a gesture of dismissal. “And if you’re wondering, yes, he sleeps in the storage room behind the kitchen. That’s what happens when someone proves disloyal. Andrey turned on his own family. So why on earth would I trust him with anything important?” His voice hardened. “You, however. You’ve shown serious loyalty. To the wrong people, but still. I’d appreciate someone like that.”
“And if I say no?”
Dmitrii swirled the remaining champagne in his glass, studying it with the same intensity he’d just directed at Reuben. “Then I’ll have to protect what’s mine. Starting with all these fancy deals you’ve been setting up.” He gestured toward the mingling investors. “Venture capital is a fragile business. One bad deal, one rumor about shady connections, and all that confidence goes up in smoke.”
“You’re making threats now? Interesting approach.”
“I’m giving you options.” Dmitrii finished his champagne in a single swallow. “Plus a little heads-up out of sheer courtesy. Poor Andrey’s running out of usefulness. When that happens...” He made a dismissive flicking motion with his fingers.
The corner of Reuben’s mouth twitched downward for a fraction of a second. Not concern for Andrey himself—the man had pressed a gun to his head after all—but for what Andrey still meant to the Matvei family.
Exile or not, Andrey’s death would leave a wound in Nikon that might never heal. The empty chair at family meetings. The careful way no one mentioned his name.
Reuben stepped back, creating distance without appearing to retreat. “You’ve made your point. And I’ve made mine. I’m not trading what I have for whatever you’re selling.” Reuben maintained his pleasant smile for any observers, but his eyes turned to flint as he raised his champagne glass in a mockery of a toast.
“Your loss.” Dmitrii sighed theatrically before inclining his head in a mock bow, turning to leave. “Tell Nikon I said hello.”
Reuben watched him weave through the crowd, stopping to shake hands with investors who did not know they were greeting a viper. Only when Dmitrii disappeared through the ballroom doors did Reuben allow his shoulders to loosen slightly.
He returned to mingling, addressing investor questions and collecting commitments without revealing his anxiety.
And two hours later, when the event concluded, he thanked each investor personally as they departed. His handshake remained firm, his smile unwavering. And it was a performance that didn’t end until the last Louboutin heel clicked across the marble floor toward the exit.
With the ballroom now empty, he did a quick check for anyone who might be watching. Satisfied he was alone, he reached for his phone, changed his mind about calling, and typed a message to Nikon instead:
D has caught on.
He hit send and slipped the phone back into his pocket, gazing around the now-empty ballroom, at this venture he’d built with his own skills and intelligence.
This was his creation in the House of Matvei, something that was his. Dmitrii might threaten it, but through everything he’d experienced these past months, Reuben had finally internalized a vital lesson: always stay three moves ahead of your opponent.
And this time, he wasn’t just reacting; he was prepared.
THE END