Lobanov Bratva Vengeance (Lobanov Bratva #3)

Chapter One

Roman’s POV

I didn’t have a lot to prepare for. It was another interview and, like countless ones I’ve had before, the rules were the same for me: paint an image so flawless and airtight that the media has nothing on us. I was totally in my element as I had my morning coffee.

The interview was slated for 9 am, and I knew I still had over an hour to get to my office in the heart of Manhattan.

As always, I had no reason to be bothered or rushed.

Emptying the coffee mug in a last gulp, I stood and buttoned my suit jacket.

The black suit was specially ordered from my bespoke designer for days like these.

If I was going to make a literal statement, I’d also make a fashion statement, which tends to last even longer.

The fabric of the suit looked like that of a regular suit, but on closer inspection, it has a glorious shimmer that doesn’t announce itself.

My silver bow tie contrasted neatly with my ensemble, made up of a black shirt, shoes, and a leather watch.

Picking up my leather briefcase from the couch on my way out of the living room, I took my phone out of my pocket. Pavel picked up on the first ring.

“The Mercedes. We leave now,” I informed.

“Yes, sir,” he promptly responded before I ended the call.

I had asked him to warm up both the Bugatti Chiron and the Mercedes since I was still debating which of them would work best for the day.

The Bugatti Chiron, with its sleek green elegance, was an unmissable beauty.

The black Mercedes-Benz 300SL, on the other hand, gave off an air of modern dominance that sometimes melded with every other thing.

My choice ultimately came down to one factor: I was in the mood to go with modern and almost commonplace instead of intentional, old-money elegance.

In less than two minutes, the elevator ride was over, and Pavel was shutting my door and turning to the driver’s seat.

I went over the reports from the previous night, occasionally glimpsing the busy streets from my tinted window.

As Pavel slid into my personal parking spot, I got out of the car, heading straight towards the five-story building, whose glass walls shone in the yellow morning sun.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Welcome, sir.”

Nodding in acknowledgement of my men’s greetings, I walked past the glass double doors they held open.

“Where’s Oleg?” I asked Leo, the receptionist, who sprang to his feet as I approached his desk.

A reaction which wasn’t surprising since he had eyes and could see that I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries at the moment.

While I wasn’t frowning (and I rarely did), my face definitely carried an air of the irritation I felt about the report that Oleg sent to me.

“Good morning, sir,” he quickly greeted. “He went to the security room just now, sir.”

“And since when does his job include affiliations with security?” I inquired, pivoting towards the right hallway.

But I stopped myself.

“Ask him to meet me in my office in one minute,” I instructed Leo before I added, “If he has any need for his limbs.”

“Yes, sir,” Leo answered, nodding fervently as he grabbed the receiver of the intercom.

Just as I dropped my briefcase on the desk and unbuttoned my suit jacket, knocks sounded at my door.

“Come in,” I called, sitting in the leather chair behind the desk.

I could have asked who it was, as usual, but I didn’t feel like hearing the idiot’s name again. It wasn’t like anyone could get to my office door without my knowledge.

“Good morning, sir,” Oleg greeted, closing the door behind him and standing in front of it.

Uncertainty was clear in his posture as he stood facing my desk. He definitely had no idea why he was summoned, but he clearly understood that it wasn’t good news.

Wordlessly, I turned my briefcase to face me and unzipped it, pulling out the stack of documents that I’d separated. I sent them to the other end of the table with a finger.

“What is this rubbish you sent to me?” I questioned, looking up at him.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it back and brought his eyes to sheets of paper. My steady, albeit annoyed gaze remained on him as his eyes widened a fraction, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Now, can you explain why there are entire phrases in all caps and spaces that do not correspond across paragraphs?”

“I-” he started, looking up from the documents. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll correct it and have it ready before EOB today. It’ll never happen again, sir.”

“I don’t suppose you have hearing issues,” I pointed out. “I asked for an explanation, not an apology.”

He swallowed, his eyes flicking to the marble tiles before moving back in my general direction.

“I didn’t have much to do after lunch break yesterday, so I…had some drinks. I was about to leave when I remembered that I wasn’t done with the reports. I knew I couldn’t send it to you late.”

“Oh, it’s really sad, isn’t it?” I asked, relaxing further into my chair. “You had to quickly work on a report that was a part of your job description, when you were on the clock and wanted to drink to a stupor, all because your boss would have your head if you didn’t. What a life, hmm?”

He shook his side from one side to the other.

“No, sir. I forgot, I thought I had finished it.”

“But you didn’t forget to drink your brains out,” I countered coolly.

Although he knew better than to correct me, I could see the argument in his expression.

“Well, you sent this clusterfuck instead of a report, so whatever you drank must have dried your brains. It ruined your senses to the point of you daring to send this nonsense to me.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m very sorry,” he apologized, picking the papers up.

I subtly let out a calming breath as I sat more upright.

“Three hours. That’s all you have to send that report to me,” I informed. “And I don’t mean the conclusion alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave,” I ordered. “And the next time I hear of you gallivanting beyond your department, you’ll be sorry.”

He disappeared from my office within a second.

A look at my wristwatch told me that it was just a few minutes to the interview. So I opened the site where the murder case was first mentioned on my laptop. I sat back as I went through the short article for the umpteenth time.

When the intercom at the corner of my desk buzzed, I knew what it was about before I took the call.

“Sir, a reporter from the New York Times is here for the interview,” Leo informed.

“It’ll be in my office. I’m ready.”

Ending the call, I swiveled my chair away from the desk it was facing to the glass walls behind it. The skyline of the urban Manhattan area glittered, making the city look like a sleeping beauty that could charm, despite just awakening.

I turned my chair back around at the sound of three soft knocks.

“Come in, please.”

The door opened, and a smiling young lady walked in.

Her navy jacket took her casual jeans and shirt up a notch.

I couldn’t let my guard down. The New York Times wouldn’t have sent a lady this young if she weren’t dogged enough for the job.

Or maybe they thought sending a young and beautiful blonde this time would distract me, letting my tongue slip.

I inwardly chuckled at the idea, thankful she turned around to close the door and couldn’t catch the amused expression on my face.

“Good morning, Mr. Lobanov,” she greeted, a smile plastered to her face.

I stood as she approached my desk.

“I’m Ivy Gerald. Senior Reporter at New York Times,” she informed, lifting the ID she had around her neck before I extended my hand to her. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Ivy.”

Her handshake was firm, and I got the message immediately. This would be nothing short of an investigation, not just a mere interview. I didn’t miss the fact that she didn’t ask me to address her by her first name.

Good thing my detective skills are intact.

“Your office looks great…luxurious,” she uttered as I released her hand.

Jabbing fingers at my net worth, already.

My victorious smile was genuine.

Not falling for that.

“ Thanks. I hear that all the time,” I offered, instead of the furious defense of my income that she clearly expected.

“Please, sit,” I told her, gesturing to one of the chairs facing my desk.

“Thank you,” she uttered as she took a seat, and I did the same. Bringing a hardback journal to the table, she said, “You already know why I’m here for this interview. So, let’s dive right in.”

“I’m ready,” I affirmed, nodding. “However, I’m obliged to offer you a drink. Or water. Or both, whichever you prefer.”

“Oh, there’ll be no need for that. But, thank you.”

“Alright, then. I’m ready, fire away.”

“This interview will be recorded, just for documentation purposes.”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” she breathed, bringing out a pen and a small recorder from her jeans pocket. “We’ll start now.”

I nodded.

“Have you heard about the murder of one Mr. Owen Hamilton?” she inquired, looking straight at me.

“I have heard about the murder. I didn’t take note of the name,” I answered, which wasn’t exactly a lie. Owen was known as Mikey, and I couldn’t care less about the motherfucker’s last name. “Unfortunate news.”

“Did you also hear that his body was found just down the street where your charity events are usually held?”

“Yes, but may I point out,” I started, taking a more casual tone, “there is an alley at the very end of the street, and that’s where the body was found.

We all know alleys are popular for treacherous acts like this.

If you’ve been on the street, you’ll agree with me that part of the street is practically segregated.

Also, we use the event center for many of our charity events, not most. It doesn’t belong to the Lobanov family; we rent it just as any other organization does. ”

“Okay,” she replied calmly in a way that told me she wasn’t done. “But the fact that Mr. Owen was confirmed to have died on the day you had a charity event seems to put you, I mean, the Lobanov name, in a suspicious position. I’m sure you see that.”

“Honestly? I don’t,” I said, shrugging. Her look of surprise was exactly what I expected.

“Imagine me as a gangster who, for any reason, killed the victim you speak of during or after the last charity event. Why would I go through the trouble of evacuating his body from the hall, only to dispose of it at the end of the same street? Wouldn’t I know to take the body far away so as to dissociate myself from the crime? It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

She tilted her head, clearly considering what I said, as she asked, “Gangster, huh? Why would you know so much about that?”

“Come on, who didn’t watch one or two action movies growing up? I know women who enjoyed them more than fantasy movies. Now, imagine living in a house full of boys,” I said, and she chuckled.

“I was one of those girls,” she revealed, smiling.

Of course, I had it under control. By turning her suspicions into a humorous anecdote, I had dissolved them. It was expected for a dangerous man with a philanthropist cover to get touchy at the slightest mention of their hidden life. I did the opposite.

Besides, I’m not a gangster; I’m a mafia boss.

“Wow,” I uttered, chuckling. “I still remember my favorite actors and movies, even though I barely have time for cinema anymore. Speaking of things that take all my time, I don’t suppose news of our new Lobanov charity initiative for people living with scoliosis has gotten out yet.”

“You’re starting a new charity?” she asked, an inquisitive frown forming on her face.

“Oh, yes,” I answered as my phone buzzed, signaling an incoming text.

I unlocked my phone as her pen landed on her journal again.

It was a text from Stepan, my right-hand man.

“Another ‘foundation’ payment from Russia is missing. Numbers don’t add up.”

“It’s still in the works, but yes, we’re starting soon,” I informed, slipping my phone onto the desk as she lifted her head from her journal.

“Lots of people live with scoliosis. The number might surprise you. And it falls under the category of lifelong health issues that aren’t considered debilitating, hence, are not paid attention to.

We’ll bring that attention. It’s time to start seeing these people. ”

“You’re right,” she agreed, nodding. “That’s thoughtful and impactful. I mean, it will be impactful when it starts.”

“It’s what we’re here for,” I dismissed with a chuckle.

“So, is there a set time frame yet?”

My phone buzzed with another text.

“The next quarter, hopefully,” I answered, and she went to scribbling again.

Opening the text, I saw it read, “On my way.”

“This interview has been great. I enjoy real conversations like these,” I began tactfully. “But I just got a reminder about a meeting with an international sponsor. He’ll be here any moment; the big guy won’t wait in the reception.”

“Oh, that’s okay. We’ve covered the basics,” she replied. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Lobanov.”

She rose to her feet, and I did the same.

“Absolute pleasure, Miss Ivy,” I uttered, extending my hand.

“Ivy, please,” she corrected, smiling, as we shook hands.

Mission successful.

“Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“And you, too.”

As the door closed and I sat behind my desk, I picked up my phone and read Stepan’s first text again.

Another missing fund?

What the hell is going on in Russia, and who is behind it?

Already, I had a relatively long list of suspects.

It wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last time someone got deranged enough to think they could mess with the finances of the Lobanov Bratva’s cover foundation.

But this Russian nonsense had happened a few times in close succession. It grew from irritation to a problem.

The buzzing of the intercom broke the silence.

“Let him in.”

Barely a minute later, quick knocks sounded on my door.

“Come in, Stepan,” I called.

“Good morning, boss,” he greeted, shutting the door.

Showing up in his usual dark jeans and black shirt, Stepan carried a dossier with him as he approached my desk.

“Morning,” I responded. “Another foundation payment went untraceable?”

“Not exactly untraceable, boss,” he answered, placing the dossier on my desk as he sat. “We’ve been investigating and pulling records since the last time it happened. When we found out about this latest one, the answer wasn’t so hard to find.”

I went through the account statements on the first few pages, noting the highlighted figures that happened to correlate.

“These amounts were deposited into this account in bits, but they add up to the amount that disappeared from our credits,” I mused.

“Yes, boss,” he confirmed.

I went through more pages silently until I saw the name.

“Arkady Markova.”

“It has been him all this while. The useless man has siphoned millions,” he explained. “To the same account he uses for his illegal dealings.”

“Now, that is an issue,” I muttered, annoyance crawling up my skin.

My phone vibrated.

Viktor was calling.

“Hello, brother,” I greeted, sighing in a bid to switch gears.

“Roman,” he uttered in a no-bullshit tone that told me it was pointless.

He already knew; nothing evades the Pakhan, after all.

“Arkady has made a dangerous move. The account he sent all the money to is very bad for us; if any light comes to it, the public cover of the charities will go down with him. And that could be anytime now, considering how stupid his decision to steal from us is. It’s a huge risk that we can’t take.

The facade is your jurisdiction; you have to stop him, or it all burns to the ground. ”

“I’ll contain this. I’m on it as we speak,” I assured.

“Good. Stop at nothing short of that,” he uttered, his words a compliment and a warning.

“A sit-down with Arkady as soon as possible,” I told Stepan, dropping my phone. “Find out exactly where he is at the moment.”

“Already on it, boss.”

I shot to my feet, walking towards the glass walls.

“The motherfucker,” I muttered, pacing slowly.

As the face of the Lobanov Bratva’s ‘clean business,’ Arkady’s actions directly affected me.

I clenched my teeth as I tried to contain the anger that was slowly morphing into fury inside of me.

That tiny old bug Arkady had been stealing from me with no idea of how his greed was creating webs of complication.

But I knew I needed to keep a level head, even though I could already visualize how I’d slowly gut the bastard when I saw him.

So I blew out a breath and went back to my seat as Stepan typed on his phone.

He placed a file over the open dossier in front of me.

“His daughter, Elizaveta,” he disclosed.

I opened the file, skimming the papers. Her face was one I had seen before—in fact, I was sure I’d met her more than once. There were blog posts, glossy photos, and newspaper headlines calling her ‘Russia’s Princess of Philanthropy.’

Of course, she’s a part of his act.

“She’s quite the star in Russia,” Stepan said, placing his phone on the desk. “She runs his public events.”

Just as I closed the file, his phone pinged, and he picked it up again.

“He’s no longer in Russia,” Stepan divulged. “Only his daughter is still visible. She’s hosting a ribbon-cutting in St. Petersburg tonight.”

“If the king runs, we take the princess.”