Page 20 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“I don’t have the kind of money he’s asking for that block,” Petrov says.

“We do. Take our funds and go make him an offer,” I cut in.

Petrov laughs, almost mocking us. I’m starting to feel irritated by the mere sound of his voice. I grow restless in my seat as I work on practicing restraint. “Larionov will know it’s not my money. That bastard is old school. Cold war trained, remember? He’s got sleepers everywhere, including in my banks. He’ll smell something fishy as soon as I show him the cash, Maksim. It’s not going to work.”

That’s not very encouraging, and given what we’re already dealing with, I can feel my stress levels rising. The simple thought of having to walk through Larionov’s door and cozy up to a man who still looks at me and sees the bastard who broke his daughter’s heart, does not give me a fuzzy feeling.

“We need another way to Larionov, then,” I say, giving Petrov a bitter grin. “You’re proving yourself useless, uncle.”

“Watch your tongue. I still have sway with the other families.”

“He’s joking,” Artur chuckles.

Ruckus suddenly erupts somewhere beyond my office doors. I can hear my secretary, Sophie, arguing with someone. There are several male voices speaking loudly, heavy footsteps thudding throughout the open office area.

I give Ivan a worried look.

“This is a raid!” I hear Smith’s voice boom through the closed doors. “And we have a warrant! Nobody move. Cooperate and let us do our job.”

“It took him long enough,” Artur grumbles, sitting up.

I shake my head slowly. “If he thinks he’s taking us by surprise—”

“I got rid of everything he could have, or may have tried to use against us,” Artur reminds me.

“Good.”

The office doors swing open, and federal agents flood in wearing dark blue windbreakers, their eyes steely and cold, weapons drawn. Smith leads the pack with a confident smirk. As soon as his gaze finds me, however, and he sees that none of us appear to be shocked or worried, said smirk begins to melt into a grimace of raw displeasure.

“Mr. Sokolov,” he says, his tone flat. “I have a warrant.”

“So you’ve said. Knock yourself the fuck out,” I shrug, leaning back into my seat, while Ivan gives Artur a comforting nudge. “We have nothing to hide.”

“What’s this about?” Ivan asks.

The Feds start going through every cabinet and drawer in sight. I pull my chair away from the desk so they can access the computer, making sure my phone is in my jacket pocket. Artur is already on his phone with our attorney. It’s not our first rodeo.

“Bowman’s kidnapping,” Smith replies. “We know you’re behind it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re free to look around as much as you want,” I shoot back.

“Oh don’t worry, I will. In fact, I’ll keep raiding every single property that’s listed under your name and your associates’ names until I find him,” SSA Smith says. “If you think we’ll succumb to your demands, you’ve got another thing coming. Hell will freeze over before the Federal Bureau of Investigation bows down to the Russian mafia.”

Ivan chuckles dryly. “That’s right, you only bow to the Latin American cartels. Isn’t that who is favored within your Chicago field office as of late?”

“Don’t push it,” Smith shoots back. “Hand over your phones, too.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Artur cuts in, having just finished his phone call with our attorney. “I need to see that warrant first.”

“It’s perfectly legitimate,” Smith insists, but he has no choice. He hands over the signed warrant, and Artur takes a sweet minute to read the whole thing before allowing a grin to slit across his face. “Everything in here is ours to check.”

“Everything that’s not on our physical person, that is,” Artur says, pointing at one particular line. “You fellas need to get your DA’s up to speed on these things. This is how you fumble an entire investigation. Do you see our phones out in the open?”

Smith looks around and I can almost hear his blood pressure spiking as he exchanges nervous glances with his agents. They do this every other month. They pick one of our offices, raid it, check it from top to bottom, then seize a handful of our books for their forensic accountants. They’ve been trying—and miserably failing—to get to us for years. They could never build a RICO case against us, so they’re now attempting a more white-collar approach, but even that is turning out to be anything but fruitful. I can see why Smith is frustrated. It doesn’t stop me from enjoying the moment though, if only for a little bit.

“Sorry, buddy. Better luck next time,” I say with a casual shrug. “I think you need probable cause if you want to get your grubby hands on our personal cellphones.”

“This isn’t over,” Smith replies. “I still have access to everything else in here.”

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