Chapter 7
Seven
Alex
Monday evening, and the meeting DeLuca wants me to attend.
My first official appearance at one of the clandestine shadow-company sessions. Or whatever it is they’re calling themselves.
Perhaps ironically, it’s at an address in Westchester, a little too close to home—literally—to be comfortable.
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. Turn around, 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 facade, 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.”
“I’ve obviously gleaned some idea, but sure.”
“It’s a shame your family is Spanish. It would be so much easier if they were Italian.” He picks up his whisky glass from the table.
It takes me a flicker of a moment to make the connection, then I wonder how I didn’t see it before. “Mafia?”
DeLuca inclines his head like I’m a precocious student. “It might be wise, while you’re here, to play up your Catholic education, remember the better lines from The Godfather, and choose lasagna if it’s an option.”
Now I’m not sure if he’s joking. “Are all the… members…” Or whatever the word is. “…of Italian American heritage?”
“Not at all,” he says, deadpan. Then his face cracks into a smile. “Your expression. Priceless.”
So not the Mafia, then. And as far as I’m aware, I don’t currently have an expression. “What can you tell me?”
“At this point, anything you wish to know.” He gestures to encompass the room we’re in, or maybe the whole house. “We’re past the point of no return.”
It’s mildly concerning, if not a surprise, to hear him confirm it. But I had assumed as much after our dinner the week before. Still, I’m curious how far down the rabbit hole I’ve already fallen. “Once here, does anyone ever leave?”
DeLuca regards me for a moment, then accepts the question as nothing more than the straight inquiry it is. “No.”
Clear, if somewhat chilling. I keep my tone light. “Then the perks must be good.”
He barks a laugh. “The perks, dear Alexander, are to die for.”
“Whose house is this?” I ask, ignoring the unsubtle implication he’s just dropped.
“It’s no one’s. Which is to say, it belongs to the Company.”
There’s that deliberate emphasis on ‘company’ again. “And the purpose of tonight?”
“Our quarterly meeting. You won’t be the only new face, so you won’t be under any focus. In fact, all we need to do is attend. The board handles everything.”
“Who are they?”
He smiles thinly. “Representatives of the various groups, some of whom sit on the official boards of those organizations, and some don’t. You’ll know their names.”
His answers to my questions are light on detail. I try again. “Then this setup is, in essence, a vehicle for deal acceleration and increasing win chance.”
“Simplistic, if not wrong.” He takes a sip of his whisky. “What we do here is ensure—and I do emphasize ensure—that the engagements we throw our weight behind are continuously successful and profitable. And yes, to your point, faster. Because time is money, is it not?”
“Obviously.”
“Quite. The Company has controlling stakes and financial interests in everything within the wider Cadrion Group. In essence, we are Cadrion, and we like to win.”
Beneath the holding umbrella, there are billions of dollars at stake, control of it circulating through the fifty or so people that DeLuca tells me make up this shadow society.
Even if most of the profits sit with the board, the crumbs of that particular table are enticing indeed.
With that much money, it becomes political too.
Influence to conduct themselves—ourselves—almost as we wish.
Finance through Northbridge; Law via Armitage and Calder; Apex Advanced for technology and defense. And Sentinel Risk Advisory, a company which could cover all manner of things—intelligence, compliance, security. Coercion.
With that combination, there’s little Cadrion couldn’t do, with a willingness to be underhanded. If that’s not too weak a word.
Someone like Greenstone won’t stand a chance, which makes that thirty-million as good as in my pocket. As DeLuca says, the perks are to die for. Or kill for.
He’s watching me as I put it all together, mouth curving in smug satisfaction.
“Our own private corner of the world.” With our own rules.
“You get it,” he says, toasting me with his whisky glass.
“And the price of all this?”
“That’s the best bit. There isn’t one. Once you’re in, you’re in. Just… don’t fail.”
“What happens if you do?”
DeLuca’s gaze goes cold. “Don’t.”
Fair. With all the tools available through this arrangement, a man would be a fool not to ensure success.
I stir myself. “What time is this meeting?”
He checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes. We can wander in now.” He drains his whisky and stands, and I follow him deeper into the house.
Before a large double door with two security guards unsmiling before it, DeLuca turns left, up one side of the staircase that’s mirrored on the other, taking us two floors higher, then through into a viewing gallery overlooking a large room beneath.
It’s mostly in shadow, a few dim lights strategically placed, and some of the seats are already occupied.
As we pass, DeLuca nods to one or two, shakes hands with others, introduces me to a few.
It’s quick, quiet, and before long we take two chairs at the far end of the row.
The other seats fill up over the next few minutes, then as the hour approaches, we all stand. Very ceremonial and a little stuffy, like we’re Masons, not a ruthless corporation.
Seven men and one woman walk into the room below, taking seats around the large table. Two I recognize; the CFO of Apex Advanced, our sister tech company, and the CEO of Northbridge Capital. Neither takes the head seat, and I don’t know the man who does.
We all sit down and the meeting commences. Largely a run-through of performance of the previous quarter, given by representatives of the various organizations. DeLuca leans in occasionally, providing me with a name for the speaker in a quiet murmur.