The house is on the Rye waterfront, the kind of exclusive territory that even the wealthy of the area envy, with a wall around the outside and a gate complete with a security hut. I’m stopped by a man in uniform, his hand resting on the holster of his handgun as he leans in at my window.
“Private residence. Turnaround, please.”
“Alexander Reyes,” I say in a bored tone. “I’m expected.”
His demeanor changes swiftly, the hand falling away, his spine straightening. “Yes sir, Mr. Reyes.”
I don’t see what he does, but the gate swings open. I get up to third gear on the drive, eventually arriving in a courtyard with a fountain and a few million dollars’ worth of cars already parked. And there aren’t that many of them.
They’re parked before a house with a broad stone façade, darkened by age and weather. A steeply pitched slate roof, gables that cut sharply into the sky, a hint of something that’s trying to be a crenellated parapet. One might say gothic, depending on how theatrical the owner is.
A uniformed footman opens my car door as soon as I turn the engine off, his white gloves a parody I’m not prepared for. I take a moment to school my features before getting out, then follow him up a flight of stairs to the main door, where another similarly attired man opens it before I even need to knock. His job seems purely portal management, as he passes me to yet another uniformed man, who leads me down a long hallway, then off into a dimly lit side room. I’m almost relieved to see DeLuca waiting there, sitting in a wingback armchair before an open fire, a glass of whisky on the table beside him, and no more white gloves in sight.
“Nice house,” I say dryly.
“Ah, Alexander.” DeLuca rises to shake my hand. An unusual courtesy from him. He gives a half-turn,gesturing. “You know Julian, I presume?”
Only then do I realize we’re not alone. Another figure stands by a grand picture window, hands clasped behind his back, half-hidden in the gloom. I vaguely recognize Julian Serrano, one of the Managing Partners of Armitage and Calder. I think I’ve met him once.
We attend to the time-honored ritual of a handshake and a carefully neutral appraisal. “Know of, I think is more accurate. Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.” He’s middle-aged, overweight, with an intelligent gaze that suggests he sees more than merely what’s at the surface. The hard face of a man who doesn’t care if you’re guilty or innocent; he’d get the result he’s paid to get. “Reyes, huh?” he says. “That’s a Spanish name.”
“Sí,”I reply.“Mi familia es de allí.”
“My Spanish is rusty.”
“My family is from there,” I repeat, in English.
Serrano nods. “My grandparents lived in Madrid, but I’m American.”
“So am I,” I say firmly.
“Julian is at my level,” DeLuca explains. “There are some others from Northbridge here tonight—I’ll introduce you; you’ll know them—but Julian is a… ally.”
It seems DeLuca can’t say ‘friend.’
I admit to a level of both curiosity and skepticism, wondering if this is more than an old boys’ network clique. Not to say that wouldn’t also have advantages.
“Marco and Vincent tell me you have an interesting new prospect in Greenstone,” Serrano says, “with a billion up for grabs.”
“It’s early days.”
“Vincent said you mentioned regulatory scrutiny, or tying them up with some litigation.” Serrano regards me with amusement. “Doing our job for us?”
“Just sharing ideas.”
“Well, they’re good ones. It would be interesting if we hit them with some derivative suits. Perhaps alleging waste or breach of fiduciary duty.”
“It would,” I agree cautiously.
And just like that, Serrano has offered ways to increase the pressure that could already shorten the deal cycle. The merits of this shadow alignment becoming something tangible.
“We’ll let you know when Alexander has a firmer grasp of it, Julian,” DeLuca says.
Serrano gives us both a nod and heads for the door, leaving us in peace.
“You’re impressing all round, Alexander.” DeLuca waves me to the wingback opposite his, retaking his own chair. “Now that you’re here, I assume you want to know what it’s all about.”
