“Standard package being…?” Whitley asks, lighting his cigar.
“Two months’ salary, non-disparagement agreement, and no industry work for eighteen months,” Timur recites.
“Jesus. That’s brutal.”
“That’s business,” I correct. “The board gets less.”
Whitley exhales smoke, appraising me with new respect. “You really don’t give a fuck, do you?”
I check my watch. Meeting done. “I give very specific fucks about very specific things. Parker Group’s executive comfort isn’t one of them.”
Timur’s phone vibrates. He checks it, then looks at me with a minuscule nod. The blockchain confirmations are starting to register. One-point-three billion dissolving into digital fragments, flowing through the financial system’s dark channels before reconstituting in places where it’s invisible to everyone but me.
“I don’t keep assets where governments can touch them,” I tell Whitley, standing to signal the end of our business. “Only six people know where the cold wallet keys are.”
“Six?” Whitley raises an eyebrow, trying to appear knowledgeable.
“Me,” I count off, “Arseny, Timur, my attorney, the man who programmed the security, and the man who killed him after.”
Whitley’s cigar freezes halfway to his mouth. He can’t tell if I’m joking.
I’m not.
Arseny stands, retrieving his jacket with fluid grace. “Always a pleasure watching you work, boss.”
Whitley rises too quickly, nearly knocking over his drink. “Listen, I’m heading to Severin’s place uptown. Having a littlecelebration tonight. You should come.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “The man throws legendary parties. Models, actresses, all very discreet. No strings, no photos.”
I study him for a brief moment. A year ago, I would have gone. Vodka, women, cocaine cut with whatever pharmaceutical heightened sensation without dulling performance. The holy trinity of post-deal celebration.
Now, all I feel is impatience. The thought of wasting hours with strangers whose names I’ll never remember makes my skin itch.
“I have a plane to catch,” I say, buttoning my suit jacket.
“Come on,” Whitley persists. “One drink. I guarantee you’ll find something to your taste.”
Arseny watches this exchange with amusement, already knowing my answer.
“I’m married,” I say finally.
Whitley laughs like I’ve told a particularly good joke. “Right, right. And I’m faithful to my wife during tax season.”
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Timur silently gathers his tablet and backs away from the blast radius.
“Whitley,” I say, voice quiet enough that he has to lean in to hear me. “I’m only going to say thisonce. My marriage is not your punchline.”
He blinks, realizing too late that he’s crossed a line. “Of course. My apologies.”
I’ve killed men for less. Men with cleaner suits, better instincts, and quieter mouths. If it weren’t for the surveillance and the optics, he’d already be bleeding into the rug.
I turn to leave, Arseny and Timur falling into step behind me.
“Congratulations again on the acquisition,” Whitley calls after us, desperation creeping into his voice. “And the marriage.”
The door closes behind us, and we step into the private elevator that will take us back to street level.
“Fucking amateur,” Arseny mutters, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking sign. “You’d think a man with that much money would know when to shut up.”
“He doesn’t have much money anymore,” Timur notes, still typing on his phone. “And he’s about to have considerably less.”
