Page 41 of Masks and Mishaps

Gradually, his jaw unclenches. “You always do,” he replies with the same smile he’s been giving me since we met on the platform waiting for an Amtrak four years ago. I told him his trench coat made him look like a supervillain, and he offered me an internship on the spot. I declined because I told him I needed to get a competing offer first, so he doubled the stipend. Then, I turned it down again, so he tripled it. We’ve been close ever since—and Warner is a genuine legend among men.

Claudia Villatoro glides into the room a moment later, and I really mean sheglides.She’s an uncannily beautiful woman: tall with shiny dark hair. She’s not dressed for a bank—or even mourning. Her jumpsuit is crimson to match her lipstick, and the only things more colorful at Hannington-Hale are the regurgitated Jell-O shots the analysts leave in trashcans when they show up hungover.

“I’m going to be honest with you, boys,” Claudia says, glancing between Hannington and me after we’ve set her up with a coffee. “I’m wondering why I should keep my money in your archaic bank instead of liquidating everything and ending world hunger.”

Hannington chuckles until he realizes Claudia is dead serious, at which point he clears his throat. “Well, if it were so simple to end world hunger, someone would have done it by now.”

Claudia’s eyes slip into slivers of compressed disdain, and I’ve been friends with Valeria, Cora, and Essie long enough to know when a woman is about to unleash a verbal takedown that could end in bloodshed.

“Claudia, before we deal with world hunger, can you tell me more about your father’s assets?” I pivot. “I understand you’re the sole beneficiary.”

She bobs her head, making her gold earrings swish. “While my father couldn’t keep his dick in his pants—”

My eyebrow shoots up. “Wasn’t expecting a dick drop in this conversation.”

“—he kept tabs on his sperm.” She smirks. “It’s just me.”

“Definitely not expecting anyone to bring up splooge either,” I add.

“Splooge?” Hannington blurts out right when Claudia snickers.

“You’re funny.” She assesses me with scrutiny that would make a lesser man wilt. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine. What about you?”

“Twenty-five,” Claudia answers, still measuring me. “Harvard boy?”

“Princeton undergrad, Harvard for my MBA.” I tilt my head and pretend to read her. “I’m going to guess Brown for undergrad…and fuck grad school, right?”

“You Googled me,” is her response.

“Bernardo mentioned it once.”

“And you remembered,” she points out, settling against the couch cushions and dragging her fingernails over the cream upholstery. “Why?”

“I remember everything about everyone,” I answer, which is easier than admitting I’ve had trouble sitting still and studying for most of my life, so memorizing things fast got me through school.

Claudia is clearly more at ease than when she arrived. “Alright, boys. I have more money than I need, and I’m uninterested in multiplying it, but tell me why I should let you try.”

“Because your father never thought you could,” I reply, briefly glancing in Warner’s direction. Predictably, he’s gripping the arm of his couch so forcefully that he might poke a hole in it.

“It sounds like you’re insulting me, but I haven’t heard a good dig in a minute, so I’ll hear you out,” Claudia replies, crossing her arms. “But be efficient, Harvard. I’ll interrupt if I get bored.”

“My dad’s a dick too,” I inform her. “After I decided to drop out of Harvard Law, severing a four-generation tradition of Cavendish lawyers, he said I wouldn’t amount to anything. So, I did what any disgruntled rich kid with daddy issues does.”

“Blow,” Claudia ventures.

“Nope,” I reply before pausing. “Well, yes, a fair bit, actually. But I also went to career services and asked what job would make me the most money in the shortest amount of time. Now, I’m here with you, and my father texts me every week, begging to talk.” I put my coffee down and lean in. “Proving him wrong is pure serotonin. Your father never thought you’d do much with his money, which is why he gave it to you. He assumed you’d leave it alone and let his legacy live on.”

“Isn’t that what you’ll have me do?”

“Sitting back and watching isn’t my style. I prefer to be an active participant.”Ask Essie.“Let me manage your portfolio, Claudia. Your father is dead—lucky you. We can still prove him wrong.”

When I’m done speaking, Hannington clears his throat. “What Dalton is trying to say—”

Claudia’s hand rises. “He was clear—and he was correct.” She faces me. “IfI continue to work with Hannington-Hale, I’d like you to be here.”

“That’s a given.”

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