Page 7 of The Debt

Polov stood speechless. This titan of a man, who had ruled through fear and intimidation for decades, suddenly looked old and impotent. He had been effectively dismantled by his granddaughter. For the first time, she saw him clearly—not as the mighty Pakhan, not as her beloved grandfather, but for what he truly was—a man whose power was built on lies.

“You can’t hide from this forever,” she said softly. “Sooner or later, I will find out the truth.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet click that seemed to echo with finality. Alone in her office, Tatiana pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching planes take off into the morning sky, each one carrying its own cargo of secrets and lies.

Like those aircraft, her grandfather’s secrets couldn’t stay airborne forever. Eventually, they would all have to land in a whirlpool of discovery.

Chapter Four

Jarek

An underground bunker, Saunders Castle at Park Plaza, 130 Columbus Ave, Boston, Massachusetts…

“Is this cloak-and-dagger bullshit really necessary?” Hank Simmons shifted uncomfortably in a chair placed under a harsh spotlight. Sweat beads trickled down his temples despite the cool temperature of the room. At fifty-five, his salt-and-pepper hair still retained more pepper than salt, and his tall, lanky frame seemed to fold in under the intense scrutiny of the darkness beyond the light.

Jarek could smell the fear emanating from him—a sharp, acrid scent that betrayed the usual confidence of a banker. It was almost amusing to see Simmons so rattled. The man had built his reputation in banking through twenty years of ruthless dedication, climbing the corporate ladder until the recession hit. Then, like many others, he had turned to less savory methods to maintain his lifestyle and influence.

“Blindfolding me and driving in circles for hours.” Simmons squinted into the darkness where Jarek sat, his brown eyes struggling to penetrate the shadows. “It doesn’t promote mutual trust in a future alliance with my bank... er... what do I call you? I’ve only been told The Dark One wants to meet me.”

“And since you’re here, I assume that you know who that is?”

“The leader of the Somerville Irish Gang?”

“Indeed. Since you accepted the invitation, then I’m guessing you know the purpose of this meeting?”

“I assume you would like us to manage your capital through our financial instruments. You know, wire transfers, stock portfolios, investments, real estate acquisitions, and other financial plans we offer.”

“That’s correct. However, I’m starting to reconsider.” Jarek sat back in his chair, secure in the knowledge that his identity remained hidden. The persona of The Dark One wasn’t just a nickname—it was his shield, his protection to ensure that the likes of Gregor Polov would never discover who he was until the time came. Since his days with the Southies in Dublin, Jarek had maintained a strict regime of anonymity through disguise and by never allowing his face to be recognized. Torn from the playbook of Gregor Polov, whose false appearance on that fateful day concealed his true identity, Jarek utilized the same tactics of impersonation during his remaining years in Ireland. Shape-shifting would become an integral part of his tradecraft. From the simplicity of a low-drawn newsboy cap and aviator sunglasses to the more elaborate use of fat suits, wigs, and facial prosthetics, he would appear unremarkable and disappear into the maze of public life.

While he made headlines in the States as the mysterious Irish mob boss, no one was able to connect him to the young man whose family had been killed by Gregor Polov. He had refused to have Lisbet’s and Emma’s names identified as two of the victims who had succumbed to the violence of the open gang wars that had raged on the streets of Atlanta at the time.

Only two people knew his true identity—Declan Byrne and Connor O’Brien, whose intimate knowledge died with him. But Declan was different. Their bond, forged in blood and sacrifice, went deeper. Declan believed he owed Jarek his life, but it was more than that. As his underboss, he possessed an unimpeachable loyalty that was invaluable. He knew with absolute certainty that Declan would rather die than betray him, not because of any blood oath that was taken but because of the unshakeable bond of trust and friendship that had been shared over the years. Making the ultimate sacrifice to protect Jarek wasn’t a given as much as it was a mutual understanding of the lengths Declan was prepared to make if that day ever came.

“What would cause you to reconsider?” Hank’s voice forced his attention back to the moment. “I’m sure you did your homework about Boston Finance; otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

Jarek allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. Homework was an understatement. He had spent months studying Boston Finance’s operations and its rise to prominence under Simmons’ leadership. The institution had become a powerhouse in New England’s financial sector, particularly in commercial real estate development. With over fifty billion dollars in assets under management and a sterling reputation among legitimate businesses, it was the perfect façade for masking illicit gains.

“Tell me, Mr. Simmons, how many property development companies currently trust Boston Finance with their portfolios?” The subtle compliment, disguised as a question, was enough to animate the banker’s face with pride.

“We handle financing for seven of the ten largest developers in New England,” Simmons replied, some of his usual confidence returning. “Our commercial loan department processed over three billion dollars in transactions last year alone.”

“And the Structured Finance Division? The one that handles... special international clients?”

Simmons’ confidence wavered. The confidential nature of the question elicited a cryptic answer. “The SFD is a very discreet operation.”

Indeed, it was. Through that division, Boston Finance had been laundering approximately two hundred million dollars annually for the Polovskaya Bratva, disguising it through a complex web of real estate investments and offshore accounts. The subsequent accolades, including being named “Most Innovative Financial Institution” by Banking Monthly three years running, provided perfect cover for these operations.

“What if I told you I could double what one of your special clients currently provides?” Jarek leaned forward slightly. “But with one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You end your arrangement with Gregor Polov and the Bratva. Immediately.”

The banker’s face noticeably paled under the harsh light. “That would be... complicated. And dangerous.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Let Polov know through your legal intermediaries that the Department of Treasury has sent word that it intends to audit your books. It’s looking for illicit transactions. Advise Polov that he’s getting a heads-up and needs to divest and park his wealth into offshore accounts that will provide a firewall to the prying eyes of the FBI and Treasury agents. If anything, he will be indebted to you for shielding his assets.”

“I’m offering you a simple choice, Mr. Simmons.” Jarek’s voice remained calm, almost gentle. “The Irish have risen to the top of the ladder in Boston and are quietly making headway in New York and Washington, D.C. The Bratva group you’re in bed with is facing increasing scrutiny from Federal authorities. What do you think will happen when the shit hits the fan? Your bank will take the hit. Its share price will plummet, your shareholders will sue for malfeasance, your reputation will be destroyed, and if you’re convicted of bank fraud, whether you were personally involved or not, you will pay billions in fines and end up doing time behind bars.

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