Page 11 of The Debt

The glint off the vitreous waters of Berkeley Lake that bordered the northernmost edge of Gregor Polov’s eight-acre estate created a massive specular image of the noonday sun as it shimmered across the glassine surface.

From his position on the shed-covered porch, he commanded a view of not only his own sprawling grounds but also those of the neighboring properties that abutted the shoreline, none of which could match the grandeur of his Georgian-style mansion.

At seventy-six, Gregor remained an imposing figure. His six-foot frame stood straight and powerful, defying the years of combat that should have broken him. Time had transformed him, not weakened him, and his determination to cement his family’s legacy burned as fierce as ever.

The morning sun caught his steel-gray hair, swept forward in an unruly crown. His ice-blue eyes, set deep in his weathered face, watched the dawn unfold with predatory focus. The years had carved their story into his features. Crow’s feet branched from his eyes, a broken nose marked past violence, and his full mouth seemed permanently set in a hard line.

His face, though striking, never softened with warmth. Instead, it carried the cold detachment of an ancient warrior who had witnessed too much brutality to maintain any trace of gentleness. He stood like a living statue as a testament to survival and unrelenting strength.

The great room behind him that spoke of old money was defined by its lavish appointments of hand-knotted Persian rugs with their rich color palette and floral motifs cast in deep reds and crimsons. A regiment of floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases stuffed with a library’s worth of rare books and first editions stood watch at all four corners while an assortment of Old World Club leather furniture huddled together in clusters of odd groups to jealously guard the privacy of their intimate confines.

Through the French doors, the Olympic-sized pool sparkled in the morning light, with its azure waters reflecting the cloudless Georgian sky.

“What do you mean we lost their alliance?” His voice boomed through the room as the tea in his Wedgwood cup rippled with the force of his words. “Boston Finance has been our associate for over a decade. Hank Simmons is still the CEO, so the status quo hasn’t changed. There’s no reason why he would suddenly pull out of our agreement. He is benefiting as much from laundering money for us as we are using his bank.”

Ivor ‘Skull’Smirnoff shifted uncomfortably in the leather chair. His face flushed a deep shade of red under his boss’ glacial stare.

“Didn’t you read the email Simmons sent this morning?”

A sudden chill in the room descended to clutch at Smirnoff. As Gregor turned to face him, the splendid linen of his suit jacket pulled taut as he racked his broad shoulders backward. Smoldering with volcanic rage, Polov flexed the sinew channels of his jaw.

“If I had,” he said, enunciating each word as if speaking to an idiot, “I wouldn’t be asking the fucking question, now would I?” As the sentence was expressed with increasing volume, Smirnoff winced in anticipation of Polov’s face erupting from an explosion of profanities.

The teacup made a dangerous clinking sound as he set it with exaggerated care on the marble-topped side table. His hands, when they emerged from this task, were trembling slightly as a sign of the effort to contain his growing rage.

“Give me the short version, Ivor,” Gregor demanded.

Ivor‘Skull’Smirnoff’s massive frame dominated the leather armchair. At six-foot-four and three hundred pounds, he had the attitude and carriage of a Guar Bull. His stark white hair, cropped close to his scalp, formed a sharp wedge that dominated his forehead and nearly touched his prominent brow. His protruding upper jaw gave him a predatory look. A brutal scar, a reminder of an old knife fight, sliced through his left eyebrow and disappeared into his white hairline.

There was nothing remotely handsome about his features; everything screamed predator, from the thousand-yard stare to the way he moved with coiled tension despite his size.

“Simmons forwarded a warning from his legal intermediates that the Department of Treasury intends to audit their books,” Skull reported in a gravelly voice inflected with a Russian patois. “It appears that they’re looking for illicit transactions. Simmons suggests you divest and park your money in offshore accounts. Apparently, it’ll provide a firewall to the prying eyes of the FBI and Treasury agents.”

“Why the fuck now all of a sudden? Did someone at the bank talk?” Gregor’s fingers drummed against the marble tabletop.

“Not necessarily. I looked into it, and it seems that the DOT does intermediate audits at random, specifically to prevent banks from embarking on illicit dealings.” Skull ran a calloused hand over his head—a gesture that reminded Gregor why the man had earned his nickname.

It wasn’t just his perpetually shaved head that had earned him the moniker. No, it was his signature method of sending messages to those who crossed the organization. He would leave his victims’ flayed skulls on display, cleaned to a pristine white—a calling card that had become legendary in certain circles.

Gregor knew Skull’s capabilities intimately. The man was a living weapon as he was equally comfortable snapping necks with his bare hands or taking out targets from a thousand yards with a custom Barrett M82. His skill with knives was particularly notorious—he could hit a moving target at thirty paces or execute such precise cuts that his victims remained alive and aware long enough to answer questions. A former Spetsnaz GRU operator, he killed with the emotional investment of a sociopath dispatching a pest, which made him both invaluable and terrifying. Gregor had seen him transition from casual conversation to lethal violence without so much as a change in expression and back again just as smoothly.

“I want to talk to Simmons. Get our plane ready and—” Gregor’s voice cut off when his cell phone buzzed. His fingers tightened around the device as he read the text message delivered from an unknown number. With his knuckles whitening, a vein bulged dangerously in his temple. “Fuck! That little Irish prick just declared war.”

“What Irish prick?” Skull’s massive hulk bolted upright. His predator’s instincts awakened at the rage in his boss’ voice.

“See for yourself…” Gregor hurled the phone at Skull with such force, it might have shattered had the big man not caught it deftly. “And he had the audacity to sign it‘The Dark One,’as if I should quake in my fucking boots!”

“So, the Somerville Irish Gang is flexing their muscles,” Skull rumbled, then read aloud, “Utilizing institutions in my territory for your gains ends now, Polov. I am the underground finance king in Boston. If you want to maintain a relationship with a financial institution over here, we can discuss the monetary terms of such a continued invasion in my domain, based on the investment value. With best regards, ‘The Dark One.’”

“Blyat’!” Gregor abruptly stopped in his tracks as the message hit home. “That son of a bitch. Simmons didn’t pull out because of any Treasury audit. He’s had to deal with them more than once over the years, and he always managed to obfuscate and delay.” Gregor had completely lost his usually maintained composure as he stormed across the den with a dangerous glint in his ice-blue eyes.

The Somerville Irish Gang had become a phenomenon in the criminal underworld, particularly in the realm of white-collar crime. Unlike other organizations that dabbled in everything from drugs to human trafficking, they had carved out a niche in financial crimes. Their sophisticated approach to money laundering, market manipulation, and high-stakes fraud had transformed them into a powerhouse.

Skull scratched his head, choosing his words carefully. “You know they became known as a formidable mafia group from the day they arrived in the U.S., and over the past five years, they became even more prominent. They have been the alpha dog on the East Coast for a couple of years now. Rumors have it that their word is law insofar as white-collar crime is concerned. So, this reiterates that it’s their territory, and if any financial institution is going to launder money on a large scale for any crime group, it will be for them.” He raised his hands defensively as Gregor’s glare threatened to burn holes through him. “I’m just relaying facts, Boss.”

“I don’t need to be reminded, and I’m sick and tired of hearing of the success of those Somerville bastards,” Gregor snarled and hurled his empty glass into the fireplace. Twenty million dollars needed laundering, and Boston Finance had been the perfect investment bank. Now, this upstart, this young provocateur who’d been in America barely a decade, had thrown down the gauntlet.

“We’ve been one of the most lucrative criminal syndicates among the many cultures for the past twenty-five years.” Gregor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Who the fuck does the little prick think he is? Coming here from Ireland ten years ago, and now he wants to fuck me over?” He slammed his fist against his chest to punctuate each word. “I, Gregor Polov and the Polovskaya Bratva? Suggesting I need to pay him to have business dealings in Boston? That’s not going to happen, Skull.

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