Chapter 241: A New Identity
Riiing riiing riiing—
Just as Frank was busy handling matters with Sammi, his phone rang.
"Hello?" Frank glanced at the caller ID—Old Milkovich. A little surprised, he answered casually.
"That Russian woman's documents you wanted? All done. Come by when you've got time," said Old Milkovich on the other end.
"Oh, right! Got it." As soon as Frank heard that, he remembered—this was about Svetlana's new identity.
Having been away for half a year, Frank had too much on his plate. He'd been so swamped that he'd nearly forgotten about it.
Frank drove over to Sheila's house to pick up Svetlana, and together they headed to Milkovich's place.
"All here."
Old Milkovich tossed him a file folder.
Frank opened it—inside was everything needed for the new identity.
"Don't worry, it's solid. The identity is from a woman in Florida—also Russian. No husband, no family, clinically depressed, and had almost no social connections. She won't be missed. No one's checking."
"Lucky for you, she even resembles your girl a bit. I went ahead and added plastic surgery documentation and medical records to explain any differences in appearance."
"There's also psychiatric documentation showing she's been in long-term treatment and only recently recovered," Milkovich added.
"What happened to this... Anfisa?" Frank asked as he skimmed the details.
"She disappeared years ago. Either killed herself or ended up a victim of some sicko," Milkovich said nonchalantly.
Milkovich's method was simple—find a missing person with a suitable background and have Svetlana take over their identity.
From now on, Svetlana would officially be Anfisa. She could live in America out in the open, fully legitimate.
In the land of the free, thousands vanish every year. With some effort, there's always someone suitable to impersonate.
And Milkovich was a seasoned pro—thorough, meticulous, and discreet. Frank's money was well spent.
"From now on, you're Anfisa," Frank said to her.
"I understand," she nodded, eyes glinting with joy.
She had been tormented for so long by the identity issue—and now, just like that, it was solved.
Frank stayed for a short while at Milkovich's place, politely declined the offer to drink, then left with Anfisa.
"How's the accounting study going?" Frank asked.
"Almost done. Finished reading all the books—nothing too hard. Karen said I should be able to pass the certification test," Anfisa said, lighting a cigarette.
Accounting, when it comes down to it, is just math.
And math is strange that way. Anyone who's been to school knows the drill: some people just can't do it, no matter how hard they try. They lack that so-called "mathematical thinking."
But some people? They're naturals. Ace every exam, grasp concepts instantly, think outside the box—hell, sometimes they even understand things the teacher doesn't.
Anfisa was one of those rare math talents. She hadn't even studied that hard—just read a few books Karen gave her and watched some online tutorials—and already had the hang of it.
She might not be ready to run the books for a major corporation, but when it came to money laundering? She'd be flawless.
"Have you gone through the bar's accounts that Lip gave you?" Frank asked. Seeing Anfisa smoking made him want one too, so he reached into his pocket.
Anfisa noticed and casually passed her own cigarette to his lips.
"Yeah, looked through everything. The accounts were a complete mess. I've organized and categorized them all—we're ready to start anytime." She lit herself another cigarette as she spoke.
"Great. I'll take you to the bar so you can get familiar with the place, meet Kevin, and then you can officially start tomorrow," Frank said.
"You're the boss. I'll follow your lead," Anfisa replied.
"Hey, Frank! You finally showed up at the bar!" Kevin greeted him enthusiastically as they arrived.
Frank owned half the bar, but he rarely came by. Kevin had been getting nervous, worried Frank might back out and ask for his fifty grand back.
"Hey Frank, heard you bought the bar!"
"Where'd you get all that cash, man?"
"C'mon, Frank, we've been friends for years. You own the place now, and I still gotta pay for drinks?"
"Frank, you gotta treat us to a round!"
The bar's regulars were all long-time patrons, guys who used to pass out drunk next to Frank in piles of puke. They started shouting out to him one after another.
"Of course I'll treat you! Next round's on me—drinks for everyone!" Frank shouted.
A round of cheers erupted.
"To Frank!"
The patrons raised their glasses in his honor.
After dealing with the enthusiastic crowd, Frank brought Anfisa to Kevin and explained the situation—she would now represent him at the bar and handle its accounts.
"Isn't she…" Kevin gave Anfisa a strange look.
Kevin knew who she was. She'd worked for years at "Sasha's House," a Russian brothel, and was pretty well-known in the South District—killer body, legendary skills.
In fact, during Kevin's bachelor party last year, Anfisa had been one of the girls hired. Frank had met her there.
So seeing Frank bring her in like this, Kevin was a bit thrown off.
But Kevin had a healthy habit—if something didn't make sense, he didn't dwell on it.
After all, Frank owned half the bar. Whatever he wanted to do was his business.
"Anfisa's studied accounting. From now on, she'll manage the bar's finances. It's in the contract—we cool with that?" Frank asked.
"No problem. Not at all," Kevin replied happily.
Managing the books had always been a nightmare for Kevin and Veronica. They'd constantly mess things up and often had to ask Lip for help.
Now that someone else was taking over, Kevin felt like throwing a party.
Once the arrangements were settled, Frank left Anfisa at the bar to get used to the place and headed out on his own.
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