7. Leo
7
Leo
Six weeks later...
T he final numbers on the Axiom Dynamics just landed on my screen.
We crushed it.
Fucking crushed it.
Another couple billion skimmed off the top of someone else’s dream. Or near enough. The final lock-up period expired on Axiom Dynamics this morning, and the sell-off was executed exactly as planned. We got in early, Series A, rode the hype wave (which we helped create), and dumped our shares the second the opening bell rang on the IPO. We made a killing before the inevitable market correction tanked it for the retail suckers.
Another win among many.
Life is good.
I lean back in my custom Italian leather chair and stare out at the Manhattan skyline sprawling below my office window. Fifty floors up, king of the goddamn world. Or at least this particular corner of it.
The city glitters, indifferent. A million stories down there, a million hustles, a million heartbreaks. And up here? Just the cold, clean hum of the market, the satisfying click of another successful exit, another win notched on the belt.
It’s what I do.
It’s what I’m good at.
Better than anyone.
The fucking best .
I took the chaos of my childhood, the instability, the fear of the lights going out again, and forged it into a weapon. Yes, ambition sharp enough to cut through bone.
My phone buzzes on the polished walnut desk.
It’s a notification from Michelle, my hyper efficient PA.
Meeting with Luca in 2 minutes.
Michelle. Our relationship is complicated. Sometimes after hours, the lines have blurred. It’s a no-strings thing we both seem to fall into when the pressure gets too high, though I often wonder if it’s fair to her, given I sign her checks.
I scroll down through the string of other notifications.
A text from Jen, my personal trainer. Asking for another punishing session tonight that will likely end with both of us blowing off steam in a far more personal way.
An alert from Victoria, Chief Legal Counsel, confirming the final wire transfers from the Axiom share dump have cleared. Her competence is as sharp as her wit. Our dynamic is complicated, sometimes crossing professional lines into something intense and transactional, a silent acknowledgment of the pressures we both operate under. She’s more than capable of holding her own, in any arena.
An email from my household manager, Thomas, about the menu for tonight’s informal networking dinner at the penthouse. Thomas has been with me for ten years, and is almost like a father to me at this point. The father I wish I’d had, anyway.
Just another day navigating the demands of an empire. The women in my life… it’s all compartmentalized. Jen is about raw energy and physical release. Victoria is an intellectual sparring partner, even when things turn physical. Michelle… she keeps my professional life from imploding, and sometimes, when the lines blur after hours, it’s just… easy. Convenient.
No strings, no messy emotions. That’s the unspoken rule. It’s a way to feel something, or maybe to feel nothing at all, to keep the real shit at bay. Keeps me in control, or so I tell myself.
Yeah, yeah, I know what HR consultants would say about dipping the pen in company ink. They wouldn’t approve of my methods, or the lines that get blurred in a high-pressure environment like this. Fuck the neatly bound handbooks. These are adults, making their own choices, same as me. Or at least, that’s the narrative that lets me sleep at night.
And if anyone, man or woman, regardless of role, decides they want to play games? Tries to leverage a situation, whether it’s a business disagreement they think they can exploit, a misconstrued word, a moment of personal indiscretion they now see as an opportunity, or frankly, any attempt to undermine the company or my control for personal gain?
That’s what the ‘fuck off with a smile’ fund is for. Fifty million liquid, earmarked specifically to make inconvenient people disappear quietly with an NDA stapled to their fat check.
Problems get solved, control maintained.
When you build something this big, you protect it with everything you’ve got.
Simple as that.
Still… fuck.
Vegas.
The thought pops into my head uninvited, like a rogue algorithm messing with my perfectly optimized system.
Six weeks ago. Marco’s wedding. Dom getting hitched to Christopher’s PA in some drugged-up fever dream. And that girl… Sabrina.
Shit. What the hell even happened there?
I remember the pool party. The cabana. Her friend Tatiana falling into Dom. Introducing myself. Buying them drinks. She was… different. Smart eyes. Quick wit disguised under that professional polish. Not my usual type, maybe, but definitely intriguing. Then the GHB. Another one of my brilliant ideas.
And after that?
Blank.
Fucking blank slate.
I remember waking up the next morning alone in that ridiculous Aria Sky Suite. Sunlight stabbing my eyes. Head pounding not from booze, but from that weird chemical fog. And I was… dressed? Sort of. My shirt was on. My jeans were halfway up my legs, tangled around my knees. No underwear. What the actual fuck? And Sabrina, standing there in the doorway with something like sheer terror written all ov er her face, as if I caught her committing some heinous act.
I vaguely recall her name whispered in the fog just before I blacked out completely again. Or maybe I dreamed that, too. The details are gone, swallowed by the GHB void.
So, the question remains.
Did we? Or didn’t we?
And why the fuck does it matter so much?
It’s pissing me off. It really is. Usually, I don’t give a shit. A fuck is a fuck. Conquest complete, move on.
But this… this blank space… it feels like a loss of control. Like someone else holds the cards, and I hate that.
Is it just my ego demanding confirmation that I bagged her? Or is it something else?
That flash of intelligence in her eyes, the way she didn’t seem impressed by my bullshit… did that make the not knowing feel like I missed something? Like she walked away holding a card I didn’t even know was in play?
Fuck, maybe it’s just the anomaly itself.
I always know the score, and this uncertainty is a vulnerability I can’t stand.
GHB.
Fucking Luca.
He’s the one who got me into that shit. Started small, years ago. Just a little something extra for the parties. Now… well, now it’s just part of the routine. Helps maintain the ‘fun Leo’ brand. Helps me forget the shit I don’t want to remember. Like my old man passed out on the floor, smelling of cheap whiskey. Like the eviction notices. Like the gnawing fear that maybe, deep down, I’m just like him .
Fuck that.
I’m nothing like him. I built this empire from scratch. I control my world. I control my appetites.
Mostly.
And Sabrina? Doesn’t matter if we fucked or not. Probably did. Usually do when GHB’s involved, though normally I don’t take enough to wipe out my entire memory of the experience. I’ll have to have a little talk with that dealer sometime.
Still, it’s irrelevant. All of it. It was just one night. A Vegas haze. There are plenty of other options keeping my bed warm back here in New York. Options are never a problem for someone like me.
Yeah right, keep telling yourself that, dude. Irrelevant.
I smile sadly, knowing the blank spot that is Sabrina will probably bother me now and again for years to come.
The door to my office suite hisses open and Luca Briggs strolls in, all Italian tailoring and predatory grace. He flashes a grin, teeth white against his designer stubble.
“What a day,” Luca says, dropping into one of the chairs opposite my desk without waiting for an invitation. “We’ve been waiting for fucking Axiom to IPO for what, three years now? Two point three billion on a fifty million seed. Not fucking bad.”
“Timing was perfect,” I reply, leaning forward. “Got out right at the peak before the post-IPO reality check hit. Stock’s already down thirty percent since we dumped it. Let the pension funds hold the bag, along with the mom and pop suckers.”
Luca chuckles, running a hand through his meticulously styled dark hair. “Always the strategist. Get in, hype the shit out of it, get out before the bubble pops. Ruthless. I love it. And all legal, too. Gotta love this country.” He pauses, his eyes gleaming. “Calls for a celebration, wouldn’t you say?”
I know that look. “Later, maybe. Got that call with the London fund at three.”
“Plenty of time.” Luca reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small, sleek silver vial. Unscrews the top. Taps a small mound of white powder onto the back of his hand.
Cocaine. Of course.
“Come on, Leo,” he urges, holding it out. “Victory lap. You earned it.”
Do I need it? No. Do I want it? The low-grade restlessness humming under my skin answers for me. That lingering Vegas irritation. The pressure of maintaining the image, the empire. The constant need to be on . Yeah, maybe just a bump. Take the edge off. Sharpen the focus for London.
Just like Dad needed a drink to face the day.
The thought flickers, unwelcome. I shove it down.
“Fine,” I say, leaning across the desk. I snort the line quickly, expertly.
The sharp sting hits my nostrils first. It’s like inhaling winter air that’s been crystallized into pure sensation, and makes my eyes water slightly before I can stop them. Then comes the numbing sensation spreading across the delicate membranes inside my nose, followed seconds later by that familiar chemical burn sliding down the back of my throat.
Almost instantly, a wave of cold clarity washes over me, followed by the artificial confidence surging through my veins.
The world snaps into sharper focus. The lingering fog dissipates.
“That’s my boy,” Luca grins, taking his own hit. He leans back, sniffing hard. “So. Axiom’ s cashed out. What’s next on the hit list? That AI drone startup in Palo Alto looks promising.”
“Looking at it,” I say, the coke already making my mind race faster. “Due diligence reports are on your desk. Potential ten-bagger if they nail the next funding round. Need to decide if we lead the Series B. The London call is actually related... gauging their sovereign wealth fund’s appetite for co-investing.”
Yeah, ‘potential ten-bagger’ if their tech isn’t ninety percent vaporware and the market doesn’t take a nosedive six months before exit. Luca knows the game. It’s all a fucking crapshoot. You do the diligence, you run the numbers, you listen to the pitch, but at the end of the day? It’s a gut check. A bet. For every Axiom unicorn that makes headlines, there are fifty fucking donkeys we bury quietly in the portfolio graveyard. My gut’s usually right, better than any spreadsheet, but it’s still just a high-stakes gamble dressed up in fancy suits.
“Always business.” Luca waves a dismissive hand, though I know he’s just as focused on the money as I am. That’s why we work. Kindred spirits clawing our way to the top. “What about real fun? Chamonix next month? That new line off the Aiguille du Midi looks insane. Vertical drop, tight couloir. Makes the last run look like a bunny slope.”
Wingsuiting. Flying. The only time the noise in my head truly shuts off. Just the roar of the wind, the adrenaline rush, the absolute focus required not to become a red smear on a mountainside. It’s the ultimate control. The ultimate escape.
The ultimate danger.
“Already booked,” I confirm.
“Good man,” Luca says. “We’re at the top of our game. Girls. Adrenalin. Money. This is what living looks like.” He taps out another line, smaller this time. Offers it.
I hesitate for only a fraction of a second. The first hit just dialed things up. This one will lock it in. Keep the edge sharp. Keep the doubts buried. Keep the restlessness at bay.
I take the second hit. The energy surges, clean and powerful.
I feel invincible. Ready to conquer London, Chamonix, the whole goddamn world.
“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet office. “Let’s talk strategy for the London call. I want them eating out of our hands.”
Luca grins, the coke glittering faintly around his nostrils. “Music to my ears.”
We dive back into work, the conversation rapid-fire, fueled by adrenaline and chemicals. Numbers fly, strategies form, contingencies are planned.
Two point three billion liquid from Axiom. After taxes, fees, and giving the Limited Partners (the pension funds, endowments, and other big-money investors who actually fund this circus) their initial fifty million back plus their preferred return, call it two billion clean profit back to the fund. Now comes the split. Standard LP agreement means eighty percent of that profit gets reinvested into hunting the next unicorn. That’s one point six billion added to the war chest. The remaining twenty percent, four hundred million, is the ‘carried interest’ or ‘carry,’ which is the fucking reward for the General Partners, us, for making the LPs richer. Luca gets his share of that carry based on our partnership deal, call it eighty mil for him. My take is bigger, around three-twenty mil, because on top of my share of the carry, I get the return on the significant personal capital I invested in the fund right alongside the LPs. Luca put less skin into Axiom, so he gets less of the direct profit distribution, though his carry percentage is the same.
So I personally made three-hundred and twenty million on Axion. Not bad. But the real game is deploying the remaining one point six billion. How many bets? Eighty deals at twenty million average? Spread the risk? Or do we go bigger, maybe forty deals at forty million? Concentrate the firepower, hunt for the real game-changers, the ones that return the whole fund? It’s decisions like these that make or break us.
But this is where I thrive. The speed, the pressure, the kill.
Later, after Luca leaves, after the London call is done, after Michelle has ‘stopped by’ for a quick, efficient session on my desk, after I’ve fielded texts from Jen and Victoria confirming tonight’s separate arrangements… I find myself standing at the window again, staring out at the city lights pricking the twilight sky.
The coke high is fading, leaving behind that familiar hollowness, that restless dissatisfaction that no amount of money or sex or adrenaline seems to fill completely.
And the thought pops up again, unwelcome, persistent.
Sabrina.
Green eyes. Quick smile. The feel of her hand in mine. A blank space where a memory should be.
Fuck.
I shake my head, grabbing my phone. Time for the next distraction. Jen’s waiting at my penthouse gym. Time to sweat out the restlessness, the questions, the goddamn Vegas ghosts.
Control. That’s all that matters.
Keep moving, keep winning, keep fucking.
Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Don’t feel.
It’s the only strategy I know.
The noise only stops, truly stops, when I’m hurtling towards the earth in a wingsuit, inches from oblivion.