Arina turned to the window, beyond which the night city stretched out: a scattering of lights reaching to the horizon, the towers of the business center, shimmering advertising screens on the roofs of shopping malls.
— Then we’ll give him an investor. Create a company with no visible connection to the holding. A legal address in the capital, nominee directors, an opaque ownership structure through a chain of offshore companies. We’ll call it ‘Renaissance-Invest’.
— What is the ultimate goal? — Nesterov took out a notepad, preparing to write. — Not to buy his company?
— That’s too fast and too simple, too merciful for a man who left me to die after surgery. No. We’ll hang a golden rope around his neck, one he’ll gladly put on himself, mistaking it for a life preserver. And slowly, very slowly, tighten it.
Arseny received the invitation to a private reception for investors of the “Golitsyn Development” holding by courier two weeks later. A luxurious envelope with gold embossing, expensive handmade paper. A hint of a possible partnership with the owner of a promising textile business. He didn’t question why a giant of Golitsyn’s stature would suddenly take an interest in his sinking business with overdue loans and fleeing clients. He didn’t check who was behind “Renaissance-Invest,” didn’t make inquiries through lawyer acquaintances. He only saw the zeros on a potential check and was already mentally calculating how many problems he could solve in one fell swoop.
The “Vertical” restaurant on the 25th floor of the tower shone that evening with hundreds of lights, reflected in crystal champagne glasses and the diamonds on the necks of guests who had come from all over the region for the event. Arseny stood at the bar, adjusting his cufflinks and scanning the room for the right people, representatives of that very investment fund, when Yaroslav Golitsyn took to a small stage by the window and tapped the microphone, drawing the crowd’s attention.
— Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the new director of ‘Renaissance-Invest,’ my adopted granddaughter, Arina Golitsyna.
She descended the staircase in an emerald-colored dress that accentuated her figure, with a necklace sparkling with dozens of diamonds — a gift from Golitsyn to celebrate the completion of her training. Her voice, when she spoke about the company’s vision of seeking honest partners with clean reputations and transparent reporting, sounded confident and firm, and her gaze belonged to someone accustomed to commanding and making decisions on which fates depend.
The glass slipped from Yana’s fingers and shattered on the parquet floor, drawing the gazes of those around and causing a waiter to rush over with a napkin. Arseny stood motionless, having forgotten to breathe, forgotten everything in the world. The woman they had left to die in a general ward with sick neighbors was now the heiress to the region’s largest holding, the hostess of the evening, the center of everyone’s attention.
— This is impossible, — Yana muttered, grabbing his sleeve. — We need to leave. Immediately.
— Wait, — Arseny shook her hand off with an annoyed gesture. — She used to love me once. Maybe she still does, somewhere deep down. This is my chance, you understand? Our chance.
He pushed through the crowd of guests, shoving people with glasses aside, and called out her name. Arina turned, her face expressing a polite emptiness, the kind usually directed at strangers on the street.
— I’m sorry, do we know each other?
— Arina, it’s me, Arseny. Your… ex-husband?
— Ah yes, Rossinsky. Textiles. I’ve read your file, my analysts prepared it. Falling revenue, overdue payables, a cash flow gap of several million. Interesting. Come to the office on Monday, we’ll discuss the possibilities. But I’ll warn you right now: business only, no personal topics.
On Monday, Arseny sat at the far end of a long conference table, surrounded by lawyers and financial analysts in expensive suits who, in a minute, tore his fake financial report to shreds. The numbers didn’t match the bank statements, the counterparties didn’t exist in the registries. The revenue had been fabricated overnight with his accountant, who was now nervously wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
Despite all this, Arina paused, letting the silence hang over the table.
— We are prepared to invest one hundred million.
Arseny’s head snapped up, not believing his own ears, thinking he had misheard. One hundred million!
— A convertible loan secured by all company shares and the borrower’s personal property. If the sales targets are not met in three months, everything transfers to ‘Renaissance-Invest’. You are a professional, Arseny Viktorovich, a man with experience and connections. Or are you not confident in your own abilities?
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