11. The Hearing #2
He began a slow pace down the side of the table. “Romanov Insurance isn’t struggling. It’s profitable, stable, and resilient. It survived recessions, sanctions, and the pandemic. The only thing it’s currently enduring is Vladimir’s unfortunate condition.”
He paused beside Vladimir’s empty leather chair, letting the silence pool.
“Zhenya suggests that because Vladimir is indisposed, the logical replacement is… himself.” Mikhail smiled faintly, resting his hands behind his back.
“I disagree. Not because my brother lacks intelligence or leadership—he has plenty of both. But because Romanov Pharmaceuticals already demands his undivided attention.”
A few directors exchanged quick glances.
“Pharmaceuticals employs over sixty thousand people,” Mikhail continued, turning to face the room.
“It negotiates internationally, answers to federal regulators, and develops products affecting millions of lives. So I have a very simple question: when exactly does my brother intend to manage a second multi-billion-ruble entity? In the morning? The afternoon? Or perhaps between shareholder meetings and hospital check-ins?”
A brief wave of amused smiles passed through the seats.
“I run Romanov Oil and Gas. I understand what executive bandwidth requires,” Mikhail said, his tone sharpening slightly. “You cannot divide yourself between empires simply because you are capable. And capability has never been Zhenya’s issue—pride has.”
The air in the room grew distinctly colder.
“My brother claims this petition is about protecting Romanov Insurance. I believe it’s about proving he can win it,” Mikhail said, turning back to the board.
“If stability is truly our priority, then appoint an interim executive from within the division. There are three senior vice presidents, two executive directors, and a chief operating officer—people who have spent decades inside those halls. They know every department, every client, every policy.”
He extended a hand toward my end of the table. “Why bypass all of them to hand the reins to someone whose expertise lies in an entirely different sector?”
He made his way back toward his seat, pausing one last time with a hand resting on Vladimir’s chair.
“One final thought. Zhenya spoke of accountability, and I agree. So let us ask whether this petition sets a dangerous precedent. Today it’s Insurance. Tomorrow another Romanov division faces an unexpected vacancy. What then? At what point does ‘temporary oversight’ simply become consolidation?”
Silence hung heavy over the walnut table.
Mikhail offered a polite nod to the room. “I have nothing further.”
He sat down calmly, as if he hadn’t just systematically dismantled my entire pitch. For the first time all morning, the board wasn’t looking at me—they were looking at each other, exactly as Mikhail intended.
The chairman adjusted his glasses, looking across the table at me.
“Mr. Romanov.”
I met his gaze.
“Would you like to offer a rebuttal?”
I stood up calmly, without so much as a glance in Mikhail’s direction.
“I would.”
The room quieted down completely.
“My brother is correct,” I began.
Across the table, I caught the faintest twitch of a smile forming on Mikhail’s face.
“Romanov Insurance does possess experienced executives,” I continued. “Unfortunately… none of them are actually running the company.”
The smile vanished.
I opened the leather folder in front of me and slid several bound reports across the table.
“I commissioned an independent operational review six weeks ago,” I said as the documents were passed down the line of directors. “The findings are… disappointing.”
The screen behind me lit up, casting a sharp blue glow across the table.
Forty-three major claims awaiting executive authorization. Twenty-one acquisition proposals delayed past their contractual deadlines. Seven government contracts left unsigned, and three internal fraud investigations suspended indefinitely.
I let the figures sink in. “These delays have already cost Romanov Insurance roughly two hundred and eighteen million rubles.”
Director Sokolov frowned, glancing up from the report. “Why weren’t these approvals delegated to lower management?”
“They should have been.”
I clicked to the next slide. Photos of the Chief Operating Officer, two Executive Vice Presidents, and the Head of Finance appeared, connected by a network of red lines.
Companies. Shared directorships. Financial transfers.
Another director leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. “What are we looking at here, Zhenya?”
“The executive committee,” I said evenly. “And the exact reason Romanov Insurance has ground to a halt.”
The air in the room grew distinctly heavy.
“My brother suggested appointing one of these men as interim CEO. I respectfully disagree.”
I clicked again, bringing up bank statements, corporate registries, and consulting agreements.
“Every single one of these executives maintains undisclosed financial ties to contractors currently hired by Romanov Oil and Gas.”
This time, every head turned toward Mikhail.
He didn’t move a muscle. “Those are allegations,” he blurted out.
I nodded. “They were. But I would dislike to present mere allegations to this board.”
I pulled a second stack of paper from my briefcase and set it on the table. “So I obtained their audited financial disclosures.”
The chairman reached for the file first. His expression shifted almost immediately. Arseni followed, then Director Darya. The only sound in the room was the steady flipping of pages.
No one spoke.
I finally turned my eyes to Mikhail. “The consulting fees, the offshore accounts, the shell corporations… they all route back to the same central network.”
The screen updated one last time, revealing the company at the hub of the web: Romanov Oil and Gas.
“And every member of that executive committee,” I paused, letting the silence stretch, “was placed in their role following a personal recommendation from one man.”
I held Mikhail’s gaze. “You.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Mikhail finally broke it. “That’s entirely circumstantial.”