May 5, 1993 – Neva Bank, Leningrad
The first real customer arrived at 9 AM.
Not the old women with their pensions, not the small traders with their rubles, but a man in a suit with a briefcase and an expression of desperate hope. His name was Viktor Pavlovich, and he ran a small furniture factory on the outskirts of the city.
Irina, the branch manager, led him to her desk. Alexei watched from the back office, the door cracked just enough to observe.
"I need to move my payroll," Pavlovich said, his voice low, urgent. "The rubles lose value by the day. My workers want dollars, or at least something that holds worth. The state banks are a nightmare—queues for hours, forms in triplicate, and they still pay in rubles that are worthless by the time they reach my workers' hands."
Irina nodded sympathetically. "We can help. We offer dollar accounts, subject to current regulations. We can process payroll in dollars, or convert to rubles at a fair rate at the moment of payment."
"How fair?"
"Better than the street. We're not speculators—we're a bank. Our rates are competitive, our fees transparent, our service reliable."
"Because we're small. Because we care about our reputation. Because if we cheat you, word will spread and we'll have no business." Irina slid a folder across the desk. "Our financials are open for inspection. Our license is on the wall. Our capital is real."
Pavlovich opened the folder, scanning the numbers. His expression shifted—surprise, then interest, then something like hope.
"These are solid. Better than solid." He looked up. "Who owns this bank?"
Irina smiled. "Local investors. People who understand Leningrad, who have businesses here, who are building for the long term. The same people who own Neva Transport, if you've heard of them."
Pavlovich's eyebrows rose. "The trucking company? The ones who move goods when no one else can?"
"The same."
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Open an account. Fifty thousand dollars to start. And we'll talk about payroll."
The Afternoon Rush
Word spread quickly.
By noon, three more business owners had arrived. A baker whose flour costs doubled weekly. A small electronics importer whose suppliers demanded dollars. A construction company owner trying to pay his workers in something they could actually spend.
Each one told the same story: the state banks were failing them. Queues, paperwork, delays, and always the ruble, losing value before it even reached their pockets. Neva Bank offered something different—speed, reliability, and currency that held its worth.
Lebedev handled most of the meetings, his banker's training finally finding its purpose. Irina managed the tellers, processing deposits, opening accounts, building relationships. By closing time, they had added fourteen new business accounts and nearly two hundred thousand dollars in deposits.
Alexei watched from the back, saying little, learning much. This was what he had imagined—not a bank for oligarchs and speculators, but a bank for the people who actually built things. Factories, bakeries, construction companies. The real economy.
May 10, 1993 – Neva Bank, Evening Review
The numbers were impressive.
Twenty-three business accounts. Total deposits: just over four hundred thousand dollars. Six loans extended, totaling one hundred twenty thousand dollars. All to local businesses, all secured against real assets, all at rates that were high but fair.
Lebedev reviewed the figures with satisfaction. "We're growing faster than I expected. The word-of-mouth is spreading. These business owners talk to each other—at the markets, at their associations, over vodka. They're desperate for a bank that actually works."
"And the risks?"
"Managed. We're checking every customer, every loan. Irina is good—she knows the local businesses, knows who's reliable and who isn't. We've turned away three applicants already. Bad credit, shady operations, too much risk."
Alexei nodded. "Good. Keep it that way. Slow growth, careful growth."
"There's something else." Lebedev pulled out a separate sheet. "A factory director named Borisov called. From Chelyabinsk. He wants to open an account—a large one. Something about copper?"
Alexei smiled. Borisov. The first buyer of stolen copper, now a legitimate customer of his legitimate bank. The circle was closing.
"Open the account. Personal attention. He's an old friend."
May 15, 1993 – Neva Bank, Alexei's Office
The factory directors came in ones and twos over the following weeks.
Men whose names Alexei recognized from his grandfather's address book. Men who had bought copper, fuel, equipment from his early operations. Men who now needed a place to keep their money safe from the inflation that was eating the country alive.
They came because they trusted the Volkov name. Because they remembered the general, or had heard of the captain, or had done business with the boy who always paid on time. They came because Neva Bank was small, quiet, and safe—everything the state banks were not.
By the end of May, deposits had reached one point two million dollars. Loans totaled four hundred thousand. The bank was profitable—not hugely, but enough to cover costs and build reserves.
Alexei sat in his small office, reviewing the numbers. One point two million. From nothing, in six weeks. The power of trust, of relationships, of a name that still meant something.
He thought of his grandfather's address book, still on his desk at home. Two thousand names, each one a potential connection, a potential customer, a potential ally. He had barely scratched the surface.
Ivan appeared in the doorway. "Busy day?"
"Good day. Productive."
"The men are asking about the bank. Whether they should move their savings here."
"What do you tell them?"
"That it's your bank, so it's safe. But they should decide for themselves."
Alexei nodded. "Offer them the same terms as anyone. Fair rates, good service. They're part of the family."
Ivan almost smiled. "They'll appreciate that."
He left. Alexei turned back to the window, watching the evening light fade over the city. Factory directors, business owners, ordinary workers—all of them trusting him with their money. All of them depending on him to keep it safe.
The weight of it was immense. But so was the opportunity.
He pulled out his mother's photograph, worn from years of carrying. Her face smiled at him from another world.
Be better than this world.
He was trying.