Football Dynasty Chapter 117: The Russian Face of Wealth

In Los Angeles, the weather was just right—not too hot, not too cold.

From the terrace of the penthouse suite at the Plaza Hotel, the lush green landscape stretched out beneath them. It was a perfect morning.

Sitting at a table draped in a crisp white cloth, Alexander Abramov, Chairman of Evrazholding, casually scratched his ear, a faint grin playing on his lips.

The Russians definitely knew how to enjoy life.

With their rugged beards, gleaming G-Wagons, luxurious yachts, and a casual approach to vodka—as if it were water—their lifestyle was as bold as it was enviable. Just watching them, one couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe... and maybe even a touch of jealousy.

Many Russian businessn aspire to symbols of success and power, which can manifest in expensive tastes, lavish hos, luxury cars, and high-end fashion. Status and wealth are often flaunted as proof of success and influence.

The table before him was laid out with a glass of whiskey, freshly baked croissants, smoked salmon, and a vibrant salad of fresh fruits and vegetables. As he leisurely enjoyed his brunch, the suite’s doorbell rang.

Rising from his seat, he strolled across the spacious, elegantly furnished living room. When he opened the door, he found his colleague trainee assistant, Marina—along with a man unfamiliar to him.

He couldn’t help but scrutinize the stranger from head to toe.

Richard simply smiled and nodded in greeting, prompting Abramov to return the gesture with a slight nod.

Marina raised her hand, gesturing toward Richard’s confident, well-dressed figure.

"This is Richard Maddox, the CEO of Maddox Capital—the one interested in investing in us, as I ntioned."

"Thank you," Richard said, stepping inside with quiet ease. As they crossed into the living room, his eyes imdiately locked onto two n seated near the windows.

He recognized them instantly—he had done his howork.

His attention lingered on the man skimming the pages of The Wall Street Journal.

’Roman Abramovich...’ Richard murmured internally.

The ultimate beneficiary of Evrazholding. The future owner of Chelsea FC.

A man of few words, but imnse weight.

"You’re almost late," Abramovich said without lifting his gaze, his voice deep and steady.

"But not late, Mr. Abramovich," Richard replied smoothly, offering his hand. "It’s an honor. I’m Richard Maddox."

The room paused.

Abramov, Frolov, and Abramovich all stopped what they were doing. For a beat, no one moved. Then, slowly, all three n looked up at Richard.

He stood his ground, still smiling.

First test passed. At least he wasn’t a chick.

Courage was currency here.

In Russia, personal relationships weren’t just important—they were everything. Deals weren’t sealed with ink alone, but with trust, loyalty, and shared grit. Respect wasn’t given freely. It had to be earned.

"Please, have a seat," Abramovich said, gesturing toward the plush leather sofa.

Richard nodded and settled in.

"What would you like to drink?" Abramovich asked.

"Orange juice, please," Richard replied with a polite smile.

Aleksandr Frolov, the lean, dark-haired CEO sitting beside Abramovich, added, "I’ll take the sa."

"Shall we make it orange juice for everyone?" Abramov said, casting a glance at Marina.

"I’ve got it," she replied, moving toward the terrace to prepare the drinks from a nearby trolley.

A brief silence followed—thick, but not unfriendly.

Breaking it, Abramovich gestured to the n beside him. "This is Chairman Alexander Abramov. And this is our CEO, Aleksandr Frolov."

"Nice to et you," Richard greeted them

"The pleasure is mine. I’ve been looking forward to eting you," Abramov replied with a smile.

Then, with a hint of curiosity in his voice, he added, "You see, Roman, Aleksandr, and I are in Los Angeles on business, eting potential investors in the city. Naturally, many are very interested in Evrazholding. But the mont they hear my friend’s na here—" he gave Roman Abramovich a friendly tap on the arm—"they start to hesitate. Suddenly, they’re not so sure. They say they need to ’think it over.’"

He raised an eyebrow at Richard, leaning in just slightly.

"So tell ... why is that?"

Richard’s mouth twitched. Of course, they didn’t dare—or perhaps, they were just waiting for soone to lead by example.

Roman Abramovich ca from humble beginnings.

Orphaned by the age of three, he was raised by relatives in Russia’s vast, remote Komi Republic. He worked stints in the army and as a chanic before moving to Moscow and into the world of business.

He began trading commodities, and in particular oil, then. When the Soviet Union collapsed, Abramovich struck it big.

In the economic turmoil following the collapse of it, he struck up a relationship with Boris Berezovsky, a flamboyant oligarch with strong ties to Boris Yeltsin, the first president of post-USSR Russia.

This was exactly why every investor they t hesitated.

First, Russia was in the midst of a crisis, with corruption running deep and entangling many oligarchs who had amassed their wealth through questionable ans—especially the infamous scher Berezovsky, whose reputation alone naturally raised red flags for investors.

Abramovich, with Berezovsky’s help bought a controlling interest in the newly created oil company Sibneft from the governnt for $100 million.

The Sibneft deal sprang from the Russian governnt’s "loans for shares" sche, in which the Kremlin lent stakes in state assets in return for loans from the private sector.

Yeltsin’s governnt needed money urgently to pay governnt debts and fund an upcoming election campaign.

The idea was that if the governnt defaulted on its loan paynts (which it eventually did), the lenders kept the shares.

The sche was reportedly mired in corruption, with allegations of rigged auctions and shares being transferred for what analysts considered to be just a fraction of their true value.

The result was a rapid transfer of state assets into the hands of a fortunate few—and the three n in front of him were undoubtedly among them.

It’s only natural that most investors would hesitate to take the next step. After all, Russian businessn carry a reputation—many seen as schers who once dared to betray their own country, colluding with insiders to siphon off national assets during tis of chaos.

Did Richard care about any of this?

He didn’t.

Because at the end of the day, there would be only one man to lead Russia toward stability and renewed greatness: Yeltsin’s chosen successor, Vladimir Putin.

’Let’s see who dares to cross him in the future,’ Richard chuckled to himself.

At least for the next 20 years, everything would be safe.

Richard t the piercing gazes of all three n with a calm, composed deanor.

"Why... does an investor really need a special reason to invest in a promising company?" he replied smoothly.

Roman Abramovich narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering behind them.

"Is that truly all there is to it?" he asked, his voice low and probing.

As soone who had successfully navigated the treacherous world of Russian politics and risen to the top, Abramovich’s instincts were razor sharp. He didn’t surround himself with just anyone—many of the people he entrusted with key roles were forr intelligence operatives.

Take, for instance, the man Richard had t at the Evrazholding booth during the WWW Conference the previous week—Otari Arshba. A forr KGB officer and later a mber of the FSB, he wasn’t just a corporate figure; he was a watchful gatekeeper.

Richard simply shrugged and returned the gaze evenly. "What else could there be?"

"..."

"I’d like to ask what it is you’re suspicious of," he added, his tone steady.

For a mont, Abramovich hesitated, then he finally spoke with a stern expression. "After learning that you’ve been buying up shares, I looked into the Maddox Capital."

"And?"

"Despite being a relatively new venture capital firm, your track record is impressive. Real estate, Rover Group, and now, I’ve heard you’ve made several investnts in internet companies. Well, to be honest, I was particularly struck by how you managed to acquire Rover Group from the hands of BMW. It’s quite remarkable. Marina!" he then called.

Richard shot a thumbs-up toward Abramovich. He had only invested a few weeks ago, and yet he already had access to that kind of information? Holy moly. You really don’t want to play dirty with guys like them!

Marina then arrived—the woman Richard had t at the WWF conference, the one who had introduced him to Evrazholding and soon brought him into the fold—appearing with the docunts.

Richard was surprised. ’Wait, isn’t she just an ordinary Apple salesperson in disguise? Did he really allow her to attend and listen to this kind of conversation?’

None of them could read what Richard was thinking as Abramovich continued, his tone sharp: "It seems odd that a new venture capital firm, typically focused on short-term gains, would suddenly invest in a company with such a high valuation. Doesn’t that strike you as contradictory?"

His words were confrontational, as if challenging Richard to explain himself.

"No," Richard responded suddenly, emphasizing his point. "You almost forgot, Rover was on the brink of bankruptcy, ready to be swallowed."

Abramovich paused, considering Richard’s words before nodding. "Fair enough," he said, then continued, "To be frank, I’m concerned that Maddox Capital might have ulterior motives in targeting our company."

Just like how he swallowed Rover Group.

Richard allowed a mont of silence to pass before responding calmly, "I think you’re greatly mistaken about sothing."

Abramov, Frolov, and Abramovich all stared at him, scrutinizing his every word. But Richard remained composed, unaffected by their gaze.

"I have no plans to interfere with the company’s managent or challenge your control," he added, speaking with genuine sincerity.

Unless he wanted to be blocked and shut out by the UK governnt, he saw it the sa way as his other investnts—buy low, sell high, making billions before funneling the money into his Manchester City.

After all, his expertise was in football, and he believed that City would generate more money than any of his other businesses, as long as he played his cards right, of course.

As for Evrazholding, while he had no desire to get entangled in Russia’s political web, the temptation to invest under Roman Abramovich’s na was simply too enticing for Richard to pass up.

"I an exactly what I said. I have no intention of involving myself in Evrazholding’s managent," Richard repeated.

"..."

"Believe it or not, it’s the truth," he said, taking a sip of his orange juice.

Abramovich, his confusion growing, asked pointedly, "Really? Wait, if you’re not going to interfere with managent, why are you investing?"

At the end of the day, most investors they had t so far were focused on buying shares with the aim of controlling the company. They had never encountered soone like Richard, who was simply giving money without any strings attached.

"Isn’t investing under your na enough?" Richard pointed out. "Roman Abramovich, owner of Gazprom Neft, the third-largest oil producer in Russia; Alexander Abramov, a forr mber of Russia’s space and defense program; Aleksandr Vladimirovich Frolov, a forr scientist at the Kurchatov Institute of Atomic Energy in Moscow."

There was a pause.

"Unless, of course, you plan to dismantle Evrazholding," Richard added calmly. "But other than that, I don’t see why you’d risk cheating out of a re million."

"..."

"Hahaha!"

The Russians burst into hearty laughter. And just like that—unknowingly—Richard had passed the second test.

It was a asure of how tough and adaptable he was under pressure. How he handled adversity. How much trust and integrity he carried, especially when the heat was on.

After he passed the two tests, the atmosphere finally relaxed, and the conversation began to flow with ease.

Abramov turned to Richard. "Tell , Richard... have you ever dealt with the Chinese?"

Richard smiled. "Not yet. But I understand people, rember?"

The Russians laughed, grinning like wolves. Abramovich raised his glass again.

"To Evraz," he said.

"To Evraz!" they echoed.

The three of them clinked glasses and drank. No contracts. No lawyers. Just trust, instinct... and the unspoken understanding that real deals are never made in boardrooms. They’re made in luxury penthouses, over vodka, in the silence between powerful n who understand risk.

DING~

The doorbell rang again.

Marina, ever the dutiful assistant, stepped forward with a polite smile. "Allow to get that," she said, and the others nodded, thinking little of it.

Monts later, two people entered the room.

One of them was Otari Arshba, the forr KGB officer Richard had t during the WWW conference.

In his hand, he carried a folder—inside it, a proxy agreent granting Richard the right to delegate his voting power as a shareholder.

A muscle twitched at the corner of Richard’s mouth. So, they still didn’t fully trust him. But that was fine. He hadn’t expected them to.

"Ah, Richard," Abramovich said, turning toward the newcors. "I haven’t had the chance to formally introduce my personal assistant. Going forward, if anything cos up, you’ll speak to her before coming to . This is Cassandra Granovskaia."

He paused, then nodded toward the woman standing beside her—the woman who had been accompanying them all this ti—soone whose face Richard definitely familiar.

"And beside her is her younger sister, Marina Granovskaia. I believe you two have already t before."

Richard was montarily stunned before his eyes widened. So, the woman he had been interacting with all this ti was...

Granovskaia...

’The most powerful woman in football?!’ he almost blurted out.