Chapter 15
ROMAN
“Roman Barinov. Always a pleasure. You look well.”
The office belongs to a man who understands appearances and cares about them deeply.
Glass walls. Pale wood. Neutral art that looks expensive yet doesn’t catch the eye. It’s the kind of place designed to reassure investors and ease suspicion in equal measure. My contact used the bland euphemism financial services.
I know what that means—money laundering, overseas account management, perhaps a bit of technically-legal tax evasion. But I’m not here for any of that. I’m here for answers.
The man’s name is Levshin. He smiles just a bit too easily and sits too comfortably for someone responsible for managing the money of some of the heaviest hitters in Chicago. His suit is tailored a bit too well for someone who is, as I’m sure he tells his peers, adjacent to syndicate activity.
“Please. Sit.”
Andrei and I ease into the leather chairs across from his desk.
“Now, I’d love to know what brings you to my office. I believe our mutual contact said you were wanting some sort of information?”
His tone is tinged with a bit of old country accent. No doubt it was thicker at one point. Men like him are always so eager to become American yet can’t escape the old country’s ways.
“You know what I’m looking for. There have been whispers to some of my investors.”
He sits back. “Yes, your IPO. What sorts of whispers are you speaking of?”
Andrei leans forward. “You know who we are. And you know why we’re here. So let’s dispense with the bullshit where you pretend you don’t know what we’re talking about.”
The easy, comfortable smile on Levshin’s face vanishes. It’s clear he’d been hoping to throw a little smoke to get our attention off of him and send us out of here clueless.
Not a chance in hell.
“Whispers,” I say, redirecting his attention. “I want to know where they’re coming from, who’s trying to sabotage my plans.
Levshin glances away as if having one last internal debate about whether or not he’s going to try to swerve me. A heavy sigh slips out before he speaks.
“You have enemies who don’t want to see you succeed. You know this. They’re countless in this town.”
“I know I have enemies,” I reply. “But most of them are nobodies, content to seethe because they know they lack the power to do anything but. Whoever’s spreading this information has both the ability to access said information and to disseminate it without signaling who they are.”
Levshin nods slowly. “Right. Someone is feeding information to multiple channels,” he admits. “Not enough to convict—you’ve been too good about keeping your nose clean, publicly at least—for that. But still, they’re able to spread just enough to make people nervous.”
“To whom?” I ask.
“The usual. Banks. Journalists. Law enforcement.”
Law enforcement. My face remains neutral.
“Names,” I demand.
He shakes his head. “Don’t have those. But the effort implies coordination, yes? And patience. Someone with reach.”
Garin is the first name that pops into my head.
Levshin smirks. “Maybe the fact that you’ve been a bit distracted lately is factoring into it, Roman.”
I don’t react, my eyes staying locked onto his, my expression telling him to shut his mouth without speaking the actual words.
He continues anyway. “Heard you’re playing house, softening your image. Family man now, huh? The kid, the nanny—”
I lean forward, cutting him off mid-sentence. The effect is immediate.
“Finish that sentence, Levshin, and you’ll be writing your signature with your other hand.”
Silence. He withdraws his right hand, hiding it under the desk as if I might lunge over and break it right then and there.
Maybe I should.
Levshin swallows. “Apologies. I’m speaking out of turn.”
“You certainly are.”
Andrei doesn’t move or speak. He doesn’t need to.
Levshin clears his throat and stiffens his shoulders. He was testing me. But why?
“What I can tell you is that someone is poking at your perimeter. Financials, legals, media. All of it. It’s likely meant to compress you, put you into a spot where you make an error.
If they succeed, the IPO gets delayed. And delayed is a very nice way to put it.
Tailspin would be more appropriate. Investors will back out, the law will move in to check if the rumors have anything to them.
Eventually, your operations become wounded and they bleed out. ”
I stand. The meeting is over. Andrei rises with me.
“Until next time, Levshin,” I say over my shoulder as I leave.
He calls after me as I step through the door. “If you’re interested in names, Roman, perhaps you should look closer to home.”
Outside, Chicago is sharp with cold and noise, the sky above looking like it’s ready to drop fresh inches of snow over the city.
“Can’t believe it’s almost spring,” Andrei says, pulling his coat tighter as he glances up. “Weather like this is enough to make a man consider Miami.”
A voice cuts through the din of the busy downtown street. “Mr. Barinov.”
I turn to see a man approaching us, moving with purpose, without hesitation. My hand twitches, ready to draw the gun I always keep on me.
Then he flashes a badge. My hand relaxes.
“Detective Max Russo. Chicago PD. Intelligence Unit.”
Detective Russo is in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He has an athletic build, his jaw sharp beneath a short beard. There’s a seriousness to his eyes, a cop’s authority. But I detect a bit of uncertainty in the way he carries himself. He lacks confidence.
Andrei stiffens, the way he always does when an unknown element approaches.
I incline my head. “Detective.”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I know my rights. I could simply tell the good detective that any and all questions can be asked in the presence of my lawyer. Or lawyers. But that’s not the right approach. I don’t want to give the law any further reason to pry into my affairs.
“That depends, Detective. Are they questions or accusations?”
He smiles nervously. He knows who he’s talking to. “Just a chat. Nothing formal.”
Of course it isn’t. No recorder, no partner, no warrant. This is initiative. A man trying to make a name for himself.
“A chat. Chats are brief.”
“Yes, they are,” he replies.
“Then say what you came to say.”
He nods. “Appreciate you giving me a minute.” He shifts his weight like he’s trying to look relaxed but failing miserably. “I know you’re a busy man.”
Buttering me up now. “Go on.”
“Right. So, Barinov Holdings. Public filings show a lot of restructuring going on over the last eighteen months or so. What’s driving that?”
“Growth and planning.”
A quick smile. “Specifically, some of the assets moved under entities with clean UCC histories. Real estate, logistics, that kind of thing. This all tied to the IPO?”
I check myself; a reminder not to underestimate this young man simply because he’s got ambition. He clearly knows his turf.
“Companies prepare. That’s not a crime.”
“Not saying it is,” he says, lifting a hand as if to say easy. “Just trying to understand the structure here. Investors like transparency. So does the law.”
The implication is beyond clear.
“All of the relevant information on the IPO is in the prospectus. It’s available to anyone who wants to read it. Including yourself, Detective.”
His jaw twitches, but he recovers quickly. “Okay. But what about the money flow? You’ve got a lot of,” he pauses, searching for a word that won’t end the conversation instantly, “legacy capital. Any concerns about reputational exposure as you go public?”
Another stark implication. Hell, this goes beyond implication; he’s all but openly saying I have access to Bratva funds.
“If you have a specific allegation, Detective, make it. If you don’t, stop wasting my time.”
“Just asking questions, Mr. Barinov. You have a lot of history in this city. Some of it violent.”
“Chicago’s a violent city. Many people who live here have been touched by it in one way or another.”
“You’re right about that.” He glances aside in a practiced way. “Say, I worked a drive-by near your house years ago. No witnesses. Clean getaway.”
There it is. A probe. A test. He’s watching for recognition, some sort of tell.
I give him nothing. If there’s one thing Russians are good at, it’s remaining stone-faced.
“Unfortunately, our city has many such stories.”
He exhales sharply in frustration, slipping a bit. No doubt he was hoping I’d give him something with that one.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I decide I’ve heard enough.
“I have places to be, Detective Russo. If CPD wishes to conduct a formal interview, they are welcome to contact my legal counsel. Until then, we are done.”
I step past him. Andrei follows.
As we walk away, I hear Russo call out, “We’ll be speaking again very soon, Mr. Barinov!”
I don’t turn around or acknowledge his words in any way.
Minutes later, I’m seated in the back of my car, Andrei at the wheel. Silence stretches for several moments as I consider what just occurred.
“Find out everything about him.”
“Will do.”
“Something reeks,” I add.
“Yes,” Andrei says quietly. “It does.”
I stare out the window, watching as the city passes by, pieces clicking together in my head. Garin. The bankers. The press. And now the cops are sniffing around.
Someone’s trying to tighten a noose around my neck.