I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale.
Deep breathing. Focus. Control.
"Thank you, Viktor." I put the photograph on the desk. "Say nothing to anyone."
"Of course."
He leaves the office. Nelson is watching me. Waiting.
“You can make yourself comfortable in the chair outside my office,” I tell him.
He tilts his head to the side. “Should I call the boss?”
“Why?”
There’s a hint of a smile and then it vanishes. “I’ll be right outside.”
I sit down and turn on the computer. My gaze moves around the space and I decide I’m redoing it. I need it made very clear my father is out. This is mine.
I start where I always start: the numbers.
I go through my usual routine, checking and approving invoices for the construction arm of the business. Nothing exciting. I know what’s inflated.
Then I get to Baranov Medical Supply.
I stop.
Back to the top of the column and read the number again.
Then open the subsidiary detail and I look at the margin.
Medical supply is a low-margin business. Everyone in this industry knows it. The business has barely been a blip on my radar. Very little money. I know it’s all about moving product up and down the eastern seaboard. It’s not about the profit, it’s about the routes.
So it makes zero sense that the profit has nearly tripled.
That gut feeling I trust with my life is crawling up my spine.
Something is off.
I pull the transaction detail.
The line items are clean on the surface. Product codes, shipping references, client account numbers. Everything formatted correctly. Nothing that would catch in a standard audit.
But I've been trained by my father. He taught me that buried revenue looks like regular revenue until you ask what the product is.
So I ask.
I start cross-referencing the product codes against the actual supply catalog.
Some of them match. Standard items that are cheap and a cover. But there are codes that aren't in our catalog. They reference a sub-account I've never seen. Client numbers thatdon't correspond to any of the hospitals or clinics in our client database.
I pull the sub-account.
It's been accessed from a separate login. Not mine. Not my father's. Not anyone on the authorized user list I've seen.
I pick up my phone and call Lena in IT.
I tell her what I need and because I’m in a shit mood and trust none of the people that are supposed to be loyal, I make it clear I want it now. Not in five minutes. Not by end of day—now.