December 23, 1994 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Conference Room
The conference room was full for the first time.
Twenty-three men sat around the table or stood against the walls—the original veterans, the newer recruits, the key managers who had built the empire piece by piece. Ivan stood by the door, as always. Kolya sat near the front, his grease-stained hands folded on the table. Vasiliev was in the corner, his sniper's stillness unchanged by years of legitimate work. The twins sat together, identical in their quiet intensity. Sasha had his notebook ready. Yuri, the medic, had come despite his shaking hands.
Alexei stood at the head of the table, a stack of documents before him.
"You all know why you're here."
Murmurs of acknowledgment. The last surplus deal was done. The scavenging era was over. The future was waiting.
"Over the past four years, you've risked everything for this company. You've driven through blizzards, faced down armed bandits, crossed frozen rivers, loaded stolen goods under the guns of men who would have killed you without hesitation. You did it because I asked. Because my father's name meant something. Because you had nowhere else to go."
He paused, looking at each face.
"That changes now."
Murmurs of acknowledgment. The last surplus deal was done. The scavenging era was over. The future was waiting.
"Over the past four years, you've risked everything for this company. You've driven through blizzards, faced down armed bandits, crossed frozen rivers, loaded stolen goods under the guns of men who would have killed you without hesitation. You did it because I asked. Because my father's name meant something. Because you had nowhere else to go."
He paused, looking at each face.
"That changes now."
He picked up the first document. "These are share certificates. Not in the holding company—that stays with me. But in the affiliates. Neva Transport. Neva Security. The Murmansk Shipping Company. The Siberian Railway. Novorossiysk Port. Neva Tankers. Each of you will have ownership in the companies you helped build."
He began walking around the table, placing a certificate before each man.
"Ivan Morozov: three percent of Neva Security."
"Pyotr Vasiliev: two percent of Neva Security."
"Nikolai Semyonov: two percent of Neva Transport."
"Sasha Kovalenko: one point five percent of Neva Trading."
"Oleg Chichinadze: one point five percent of Neva Security."
"Yuri Zaitsev: one percent of Neva Transport."
"Mikhail Popov: one percent of Neva Security."
"Alexei Popov: one percent of Neva Security."
"Volodin: one percent of Neva Trading."
The list continued, twenty-three names in total, percentages ranging from three percent down to half a percent. Each certificate was for a specific affiliate, not the central holding company. When he finished, the room was silent.
Ivan spoke first. "This is... this is real?"
"Real as anything. The shares are registered properly, documented, legal. You can sell them, hold them, pass them to your children. When those companies profit, you profit. When they grow, you grow."
Kolya stared at his certificate like it might disappear. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll stay. Say you'll keep building. That's all I ask."
Vasiliev was the first to speak. "What about the others? The men who worked for us, drove the trucks, guarded the warehouses. They're not in this room."
"They'll get bonuses. Cash, not equity. They're employees—good employees, loyal employees—but they weren't there at the beginning. They didn't cross the Volga on ice. They didn't face down Bahyt's men. This is for the core."
Sasha nodded slowly, understanding the logic. "And Sokolov?"
The name hung in the air. Viktor Sokolov, the angry veteran who had come to Kazakhstan reluctantly, who had taken the money but never the loyalty. He had been absent from meetings, distant from the team, his resentment festering.
"He's not here," Alexei said. "He made his choice."
Ivan's expression was grim. "He's been meeting with people. Businessmen, criminals, I don't know. He's angry. He feels cheated."
"Cheated of what?"
"Of everything. The credit, the recognition, the rewards. He thinks he deserved more."
Alexei considered this. Sokolov was a problem—not immediate, but growing. A man with knowledge of their operations, access to their networks, and a burning resentment.
"We watch him. If he becomes a threat, we deal with it. But not today. Today we celebrate."
The party was in the warehouse on Obvodny Canal—the same place where it had all begun four years ago. Now it was transformed: lights strung from the rafters, tables loaded with food and drink, a band playing old army songs. Hundreds of people filled the space—drivers, mechanics, security men, clerks, all the people who had built the empire alongside them.
Alexei stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. Ivan was beside him, as always.
"Four years," Ivan said quietly. "From nothing to this."
"From a warehouse full of broken men to a warehouse full of celebration."
Ivan almost smiled. "Your father would be proud."
"Would he?"
Ivan considered the question seriously. "He would be proud of what you've built. The loyalty, the purpose, the future you've given these men. He might not understand the bank, the offshore accounts, the layers of ownership. But he'd understand loyalty. He'd understand building something that lasts."
Alexei thought about that. His father had died for a country that collapsed. His mother had died for lack of medicine the system couldn't provide. His grandfather had watched everything he built dissolve.
This was different. This was built to last.
At midnight, Ivan called for silence. The crowd stilled, hundreds of faces turning toward the stage where Alexei stood.
"I'm not good at speeches," he began. Laughter rippled through the crowd—they knew. "But tonight, I want to say one thing. Four years ago, I stood in this warehouse with eight men. Broken men, we thought. Men who had been discarded by the country they served. Men with no future."
He paused, looking out at them.
"Those men built this company. They drove the first trucks, faced down the first bandits, made the first deals. And then they taught others. And those others taught more. And now we're here—four hundred people, all with jobs, all with futures, all part of something that will last."
A cheer went up. Alexei waited for it to subside.
are building something that will survive whatever comes. Not just for ourselves, but for our children, for our families, for everyone who depends on us."
He raised his glass.
"To the team. To loyalty. To the future."
"TO THE FUTURE!"
The cheer shook the rafters. Glasses emptied. The band struck up again. And Alexei, for a moment, allowed himself to feel something like satisfaction.
The shares were distributed—in the affiliates, not the holding company. Control remained with him. Loyalty was rewarded, but power was preserved.
That was how oligarchs operated. And Alexei Volkov, at nineteen, was learning to be one.