Chapter 1
one
Four days earlier…
Anthony Pissarro
A man discovering his perfect life
isn’t so perfect anymore…
I turn right on William Street, heading uptown, the sticky snow slapping me in the face as if to say—wake up, man! Wake the fuck up and turn around before you destroy everything you’ve worked forty years to build.
The voice is right.
This isn’t me. I don’t make impulsive, life-altering decisions. I don’t make impulsive decisions—period.
I’m a logical man with a good head on my shoulders.
Most would say a great head…
As a former math prodigy who graduated high school at thirteen and earned two masters’ degrees—in finance and behavioral economics—by twenty, I had offers to work at the top investment firms in New York City before I was old enough to order a beer at my uncle’s dive bar. By twenty-five, I’d been scooped up by an up-and-coming private equity firm. By thirty-two, I was leading that firm to brave new heights, proving my predecessor wasn’t a fool for hiring someone half his age to steer Baxter and Halloway onward into an increasingly complex financial landscape.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been able to see the patterns other people miss, to cut through the noise and make the tough calls needed to keep my life—and my career—on course.
So…what the hell just happened back there?
I curse beneath my breath as I pick up speed out of the Financial District, heading into Chinatown. I drag a hand through my snow-dusted hair, wondering where I left my hat.
It’s probably back in my office along with all the rest of the personal belongings I asked my assistant to box up on my way out.
Out…
I’m out.
And there’s no going back…
One hour earlier …
“As you can see from the projections, our Q4 earnings will exceed expectations by seventeen percent.” I click to the next slide, my voice steady and calm despite the strange sense of being in the wrong place at the wrong time that’s haunted me for the past week.
The holidays are always hard.
I lost my grandmother on Christmas Day when I was seven. And though my uncle Chris and aunt Tina took me in and loved me like one of their own, Christmas was never the same. Erica left me in December, too, though her exit was far less expected than Gran’s. My brilliant, kind, hard-loving grandmother had been sick for as long as I’d known her. Even as a young child, a part of me had known that my time with her was limited.
But Erica…
My ex gave no sign that she was unhappy in our marriage, not until the evening I arrived home early on Christmas Eve with surprise tickets to Tahiti to find her in bed with the doorman.
She calmly asked me for a divorce. I just as calmly gave her that divorce—and the penthouse we once called home—and moved on with my signature logic, speed, and efficiency. Still, come the holiday season, my nerves get raw and my feet start to itch.
I begin to dream of exotic places and wild escapes…
Two years ago, I took that trip to Tahiti alone. Last year, I spent December working remotely from a ski chalet in Switzerland.
This year, I thought I was far enough removed from the divorce to stomach the city in all its manic merriment, but for the past three days I’ve felt two steps ahead of disaster.
What kind of disaster?
I’m not sure.
I’m not the kind of man who has breakdowns, but I’m not the kind of man who trails off in the middle of a presentation, either.
And yet…here we are.
“Anthony?” Gerald, a nearly seventy-five-year-old former banker, who can’t seem to quit the finance biz, no matter how many times he’s tried, peers at me over wire-rimmed glasses. “Everything all right, son?”
I blink and take a breath to assure him I’m fine—and so are the emerging market returns—but my mouth refuses to obey.
I shake my head slowly back and forth as I study the dozen faces around the mahogany conference table. The board members—all men and women I’ve known for over a decade, many of whom I consider friends—are waiting for me to continue. Some are smiling, some look worried. Some are taking notes. Others are already mentally spending their bonuses.
I’ll be getting a large bonus this year, too, but I’m already a billionaire. Even after Erica took her share in the divorce, I want for nothing. I will never have to worry about money again. Neither will my aunt or uncle or any of my cousins. If this job were just about a paycheck, I would have quit years ago.
But for me, this business has always been about the puzzle of it all, the thrill of studying the moving pieces and putting the competition in check before they realize the game is underway. I never thought I’d get tired of the hunt, the chase, the kill. I’m not a violent man in any sense of the word, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy crushing my competition.
Or, at least I did…
But lately, I haven’t enjoyed much of anything outside of long runs in the park before work, during which I binge history podcasts and do my best not to think about work.
And suddenly, with the clarity of a man waking from a long dream, I realize this isn’t just my usual holiday blues.
This is it, the moment I make a massive, possibly mad, but much-needed change.
With a soft exhalation, I close my laptop. “Actually, no, Gerald. Everything isn’t all right. I need to go.”
Miranda from Acquisitions tilts her head sharply to the right. “Go where? We still have the comparative analysis to review and only two hours before the holiday weekend.”
“You can go over the analysis without me. It’s all there in the email. You don’t need me.” I laugh, surprised by the hope in the sound . “You really don’t. The company’s going to be fine. There are half a dozen people who can fill my shoes, with ease.”
“Of course there aren’t, don’t be ridiculous.” Gerald says, concern in his tone. “I think we should take a break and?—”
“I don’t need a break. I need to leave.” I glance around the table at the now uniformly stunned-looking faces of the board. “I’ll send you a list of candidates I think will do an outstanding job in this position by the end of the year.” I stand, straightening my tie, as if a crooked tie matters at this juncture.
But it’s habit.
So much of my life is habit, routines based on choices I made decades ago, and suddenly it seems insane that I haven’t stopped to question them long before now. Maybe even more insane than quitting my job in the middle of the end-of-year board meeting.
“I’m stepping down, effective immediately,” I continue. “My shares will be placed in a blind trust until the board approves a successor.”
“But the Milton acquisition—" someone starts.
“Will be in excellent hands with Sarah.” I nod to my second on the project, who sits up straighter in her chair. “She’s been ready to take point on this for months. I’ve just been too controlling to let go.”
“This is very sudden, Anthony,” Gerald says, a frown knitting his brow.
“For me, too.” I slip my laptop into my briefcase, my movements calm, deliberate, even as a soft voice in my head wonders if I might be having a stroke. “But it’s right. I can feel it. It’s time I moved on. Past time.” I offer the board what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’ll have my official resignation submitted by tomorrow. For now… Merry Christmas, everyone.”
And then, I walked out and kept walking.
The memory fades as I glance up, a little stunned to find myself standing in front of an unmarked door in the East Village. The entryway is massive, engraved with scenes of men and women in carnal embrace, and painted a deep ebony that gleams in the lights from the bars farther down the street. Beside it, a simple brass plate like the kind used to mark historic buildings reads: “The Garden of Earthly Delights – Members Only.”
It’s Twyla's place.
My best friend from Columbia Business School shocked everyone by turning down Wall Street to open what she called a “private social club for discriminating adults” AKA a sex club. A very private, very discreet, wildly successful sex club she’s turned into the hottest membership in the city. The rumors of the things that go on inside are shocking, even to a relatively jaded man like me.
I grew up in a bad part of Brooklyn, playing in the yard behind my uncle’s bar until way too late most nights. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know what a prostitute was or feel sorry for the women who roamed the streets in our neighborhood. Once, I accidentally interrupted a coupling in a back alley on my way to pick up a keg with my oldest cousin, Nick.
I was thirteen and will never forget the way the woman tried to pull away and cover herself when she saw two teenagers trundling down the alley with a keg in a little red wagon or the way the man slammed her against the side of the brick building and brutally finished his business.
The interaction cemented my hunch that I never wanted to pay for sex. Intimate access to someone else’s body isn’t something that should be up for sale. Sex should be consensual, pleasurable, and most of all, private .
That’s why, though Twyla’s invited me to come check out the club dozens of times over the years, I’ve always found an excuse to stay away.
Sure, The Garden is a place where sex is safe and consensual—no one’s inside who doesn’t desperately want to be there, who didn’t undergo extensive vetting and spend years on a waitlist for the privilege—but the lack of privacy was a dealbreaker for me.
I’m not that kind of man. I’m too controlled to take a walk on the wild side, especially in public.
Or so I’ve always told myself.
But tonight…
Maybe tonight is for new beginnings, for exploring the world beyond boardrooms and balance sheets.
What’s the worst that can happen? I take a look around, don’t like what I see, and leave. It’s not like I care if anyone I know sees me at the club. My family still lives in the same neighborhood where I grew up, albeit in much better accommodations, and couldn’t care less what’s happening on the posh side of Manhattan. I have a few business associates who might be shocked, but they aren’t my associates any longer, and my friends aren’t the kind to judge.
Hell, Weaver used to be a member of The Garden back before he fell madly, wildly in love with Sully his girlfriend. He doesn’t realize I knew about his membership, but Twyla likes to talk, and I make it my business to know everything about my senior staff.
Weaver is incredible at his job, and already on my shortlist as a candidate to replace me in the new year.
Making a mental note to shoot him an email, giving him a heads-up that he’s in line for a promotion if he decides to go after it, I mount the steps leading to the imposing entrance to the otherwise unassuming brownstone.
I’ve just blown up my entire life. The smart thing would be to go home, pour a scotch, and start compiling my list of replacement candidates for the board.
Or at least make an appointment with a therapist.
But I’m tired of being smart.
It’s time to find out what happens when a logical man steps outside his comfort zone, when he stops trying to stay five steps ahead of the game and welcomes a little chaos into his life.
Lifting a surprisingly steady hand, I press the buzzer.