Chapter 9 #3
The communications room on the second floor proves more accessible.
During the afternoon shift change, I slip inside and discover sophisticated equipment that goes far beyond residential needs.
Multiple computer terminals display information I don’t immediately understand, but the setup suggests serious data processing capabilities.
Maps cover one wall, marked with symbols and notations that probably correspond to Belsky business interests throughout Chicago.
On the fourth day of Tigran’s convenient unavailability, I finally work up the courage to investigate the east wing.
As expected, the renovation story falls apart under even casual examination.
There are no construction vehicles outside, no sounds of power tools or workers, and no dust or debris that would indicate active building projects.
What there is, however, is additional security that’s more elaborate than what protects the rest of the house.
It takes me three attempts to finally access it.
The first time, I don’t have the keycard needed.
The second time, I swipe Irina’s keycard earlier one morning when she brings breakfast, but it doesn’t allow me entry.
For my third attempt, I manage to “accidentally” collide with one of the guards often hovering while carrying a stack of books.
When he bends over to help me pick them up, I pluck his keycard from his belt and slip it in my pocket.
That’s the keycard that gives me entry when I sneak back to the east wing later in the afternoon, needing to do it before the guard realizes I’m the one who took his badge, which he’s sure to do upon discovering it missing.
The light turns green, where it remained red when I tried swiping Irina’s, and the main doors open a second later.
They’re thick and heavy, appearing to be blast doors disguised to fit in with the décor of the home.
The hallway beyond is dimly lit but clearly maintained. There’s no dust, construction equipment, or signs of renovation work. It’s just a long corridor lined with doors that lead to rooms I’m not supposed to see.
The first door opens onto an office space filled with computer equipment that looks more sophisticated than anything I’ve ever encountered, even in the guardhouse at Papa’s home.
Multiple monitors display streams of data, financial information, and what appears to be surveillance footage from locations throughout the city.
The second door reveals a conference room dominated by a large table surrounded by chairs. The faint lingering odor of coffee suggests a recent meeting, and there is no dust to indicate this room is only used infrequently.
Maps of Chicago cover the walls, marked with colored pins connected by string that I assume indicate territorial boundaries or operational relationships. Red pins cluster in areas I recognize from my childhood in the neighborhoods where honest businesses struggled and eventually failed.
The third door requires an electronic keycard I don’t possess.
I try Estanof’s, but the light remains red.
Slightly discouraged, I move on to the fourth, which is surprisingly unlocked.
Inside, filing cabinets line the walls, and each drawer is labeled with codes that mean nothing to me.
I pull open the nearest one and find folders containing what appear to be personnel files.
There are names, photographs, addresses, and detailed backgrounds on dozens of people I don’t recognize, along with several that I do, including Irina and Estanof.
I’m photographing one of the files with my phone when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
My pulse suddenly skyrockets, and I quickly close the drawer and move toward the door. The footsteps grow closer, accompanied by voices speaking rapid Russian. I have maybe thirty seconds before whoever’s coming reaches this room.
The filing cabinet I was examining contains a folder labeled “Council Members—Current” that I grab impulsively before slipping out of the room and down the hallway toward what appears to be a second exit.
I hope it is, or I’m going to be caught, since they’re coming from the direction I used to enter the wing.
The voices grow louder now, close enough that I can distinguish at least two different speakers talking in Russian, which reminds me I plan to start learning the language.
I make it through the doors at the end of the long hallway, emerging back into the main house at a different point than when I entered just as the voices round the corner behind me.
My hands shake while I engage the lock by swiping Estanof’s card and hurry toward the library, the stolen folder pressed against my chest. Halfway down the hall, I toss Estanof’s card under a fancy console table.
In the safety of the library, I examine my prize.
The folder contains profiles of twelve men, each with photographs, personal information, business interests, and what appears to be leverage information, including financial problems, family vulnerabilities, or legal troubles that could be exploited for control or blackmail.
I don’t know who they are, but I’m sure these aren’t just business associates or political contacts. I suspect these are the men who make decisions about how the Belsky organization operates, and Tigran keeps intelligence on every one of them.
After glancing through them, it seems everyone in Tigran’s inner circle is either compromised or kept under surveillance. Even the people he trusts most are subject to intelligence gathering that would allow him to destroy them if necessary.
I stare at the folder in my hands and understand something fundamental about the world I’ve married into.
This isn’t just a business built on violence and intimidation.
It’s a system of mutual blackmail and carefully managed vulnerabilities, where everyone has something to lose and no one can be completely trusted.
The question that keeps me awake that night, long after Tigran returns and falls asleep beside me, is whether he keeps a similar file on me.
Whether my background, my family, my weaknesses and vulnerabilities are documented somewhere in those filing cabinets, ready to be used against me if I become a problem that needs to be managed.
I study his sleeping face in the dim shadows filtering through our bedroom windows.
Even in sleep, he looks controlled and calculating, like someone who never completely relaxes his guard.
His arm is draped across my waist in a gesture that could be protective or restrictive, depending on your perspective.
Three weeks ago, I thought I understood what marrying into the Belsky family would mean.
I expected violence, corruption, and moral compromises that would challenge my principles.
What I didn’t expect was the sophisticated intelligence operation that monitors and controls everyone in the organization through carefully documented vulnerabilities.
Tigran doesn’t just rule through fear and respect.
He rules through information that allows him to destroy anyone who threatens his authority.
The loyalty he inspires isn’t just based on financial benefits or protection from enemies but on knowing that crossing him means exposing secrets that could ruin lives and destroy families.