My Brother Asked Me for Ten Thousand for the Festive Dinner, but After My Calm Answer the Guests Suddenly Stopped Laughing

At the moment when Dmitri put his wineglass on the table and asked me for ten thousand for the dinner, I realized for the first time that something terribly dark was hiding behind his wealth.

It was nine o’clock on Saturday evening. Snow was slowly descending beyond the glass walls of his house, while the smells of expensive perfumes, fried fish, and cold metal mingled in the room. I was still holding a small velvet box in which we had placed an old family watch for my brother. The watch had a small scratch on its back, and in my pocket, together with my keys, I could feel the silver ambulance keychain left from my first call. The red enamel was chipped at the corner. The daughter of the patient whose life I had saved at the age of twenty had given me that keychain.

Dmitri first looked at Irina, then at her plate.

“Brother, I need to talk to you about something here,” he said as if he were starting a business meeting. “Your wife has eaten quite a lot. Caviar, fish, meat… All of that costs a lot.”

The fork froze in Irina’s hand.

“Dima, you’re joking, right?” I asked.

“Why should I be joking? Transfer ten thousand to me. After all, you should be grateful that I invited you into such a circle.”

The blond woman standing nearby could no longer hold back her laughter. The man beside her covered his face with his phone, although it was clearly visible on the screen that he was filming us.

Irina’s cheeks flushed.

“We brought you a gift,” she said quietly.

“A gift?” Dmitri glanced at the velvet box. “That is one month of my driver’s salary.”

The laughter of his friends passed through the room like a wave. I felt my hands go dry. I had spent the whole day in the ambulance service, and in the morning I had stopped an old woman’s heart in the hospital and started it again. Now I was standing here, with my own brother, while my wife was looking at people who considered humiliating us entertainment.

“I will not pay you,” I said.

Dmitri raised an eyebrow.

“What did you say?”

“I said I will not pay you. We came by invitation; we were guests. If we had to pay for the dishes in advance, you should have said so.”

This time nobody laughed. My mother, Evgenia Petrovna, quickly approached us. The heavy necklace around her neck softly clinked as she moved.

“Sergei, come to your senses,” she whispered. “There are partners here. Don’t ruin Dima’s evening.”

“Mother, he insulted my wife.”

“You yourself are putting everyone in an awkward position. Dima earned this house with his own hands, and you begrudge even the expenses of one evening.”

Irina gripped my arm.

“Let’s go, Seryozha.”

We turned toward the door, but Dmitri stepped in front of us.

“There is one thing you need to know first,” he said, lowering his voice. “Before you leave here, put your phone on the table.”

“Why?”

“Because guests in my house do not secretly record anything.”

I looked into his eyes. There was no mockery in them anymore. There was fear.

“I did not record anything.”

“Then you will have no problem showing me your phone.”

Just then the sound of heavy footsteps came from the second floor. Everyone fell silent. A tall man in a black jacket appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a leather folder. Dmitri’s face changed in a single moment.

The man looked around the room and walked straight toward me.

“Mr. Sergei,” he said, “please sign this document…”

The man stopped in front of me and opened the folder. My name was written on the very first page, and beside it was my old work address.

“I have not signed anything,” I said.

Dmitri hissed through his teeth:

“It is just a formality. Sign it and leave.”

“What formality?”

The man immediately closed the folder.

“We cannot discuss this here.”

Irina gripped my hand even more tightly. Her fingers were cold.

“Who is this, Dima?”

“He is a lawyer. And you, Sergei, are asking far too many questions.”

I put my hand into my pocket. I touched the chipped edge of the silver keychain with my finger, and suddenly remembered Dmitri’s last call. Three weeks earlier he had asked me for a copy of my identity document, as if he needed it to register for a medical conference abroad.

I refused him then.

But he had already obtained the copy from Mother.

“I will not sign anything until I show it to my lawyer,” I said.

Dmitri rubbed his face with his hand.

“It is too late, brother.”

There was such certainty in those words that I became truly frightened for the first time. The man opened the folder again, took out one sheet, and held it out toward me.

“Then look at this…”

I took the sheet in my hand. My signature stood at the bottom. At first glance, it was truly mine, but the final line of the letter “S” was too long. I never signed that way.

“This is forged,” I said.

Dmitri smiled bitterly.

“It is already too late to refuse. For six months, a charitable medical foundation has been operated in your name. Money came in, expenses were recorded, and you approved the accounts.”

“I knew nothing about the foundation and I did not open any account.”

“But your signature is on the documents.”

Someone in the room quietly exhaled. The lawyer placed a second sheet on the table.

“Almost two hundred and fifty million was transferred from the foundation’s account to several private companies. The ultimate owner of these companies is your brother.”

Irina turned pale.

“Dmitri, what does this mean?”

“It means Sergei was the director, and I was only an adviser.”

“You are lying to me,” I said.

“On the contrary. You signed it yourself.”

Just then the woman standing beside the door opened her bag and took out a small device.

“No,” she said. “He did not sign it.”

Everyone looked toward her.

The woman was middle-aged, with short hair and a gray coat. She placed a card on the table.

“I am from the Financial Investigation Department. We have been watching your brother for three weeks.”

Dmitri grabbed the chair.

“How did you get in here?”

“The same way as the other guests. By invitation.”

She pressed the device. Dmitri’s voice sounded in the room, clear and confident:

“We transferred everything into Sergei’s name. If something happens, he will be responsible. He is a doctor; people will believe that he simply made a mistake.”

Irina covered her mouth with her hand. My mother leaned against the wall.

I could no longer breathe.

“When was this recording made?” I asked.

“Yesterday,” the investigator answered. “But this is still not the worst.”

She looked at a notification that had arrived on her phone, and her face changed.

“We have just received information. There is a person in Dmitri’s apartment who is supposed to destroy the main evidence of the entire case…”