Page 33 of Charmingly Obsessed
“It’s… uh… some Larrington,” she mutters, glancing at the glowing screen of my phone.
I’m surprised she took the initiative, actually picked it up. But then, again,organized people. They can’t stand missed calls. It probably offends their sense of order.
I sigh, a sound like a bag of cement hitting the floor. So much for a proper kiss for the wounded hero. That accidental brush lasted barely half a second. Probably my quota for the day.
“And Larrington,” I say, my voice heavy with resignation as I reluctantly take the phone, “never, ever brings good news.” I jab the answer button.
“I’ll… I’ll just wait in the kitchen,” she says quickly, already backing away, eager to escape. She slips out without a single backward glance.
14
Chapter 14 Mykola
Smart girl.
But I don’t need privacy to talk business. Not anymore. And she’ll owe me these stolen ten minutes later. With interest. Compounded hourly, my dear.
I don’t need privacy from her. Or from anyone else, for that matter. The days of orchestrating multi-million-dollar deals in shadowy backrooms are over. I’m not hunting fresh corporate prey, not anymore. Not spying on rival CEOs’ private jets or meticulously scrubbing the flight logs of my own. Not working with cutthroat hedge funds or sinking my teeth, piece by painstaking piece, into vulnerable companies.
Now, I’m interested in just one thing. One technology. And when I get it, when I finally wrestle it from that stubborn old bastard’s grasp, I’ll let go of everything else. Everything. Oil, retail, manufacturing, IT. Fuck the safest stocks and bonds. Fuck the hottest new IPOs.
This is my swan song. My final act. Goodbye, thrilling, soulless world of the bear-bull market.
One technology. Something that will actually change the world. Just a little. For the better. Something that might, just might, redeem a fraction of the damage I’ve done. To myself. To… others.
“How bad is it, Will?” I ask, trying to inject a note of boredom into my voice, stretching my legs out, feigning relaxation.
“Not worse than last time, Mykola, my friend,” Larrington drawls, amusement coloring his usually all-business tone. “Listen, buddy, few people appreciate sheer, bloody-minded persistence more than old man Royce does. But I seriously don’t know what the next play is here. He’s a goddamn sphinx.”
“Does he at least remember I’m still in line to buy? That I’m still interested?”
“Who the hell knows what Royce remembers or doesn’t,” the broker hesitates, the amusement fading. “But there’s no active movement from his end. Don’t sweat it. He’ll never sell the tech to the Japanese, that’s a given. And he sure as hell won’t sell to the Americans, even though he bleeds red, white, and blue. I’m tired of telling you, Mykola – the man’s got his quirks. He’s a fucking eccentric billionaire hermit. Sound familiar?”
Old Texan Royce. Stumbled onto a technological goldmine the size of the goddamn cosmos. And now he sits on it, stage-four cancer eating him alive, death creeping closer with every tick of the clock. And he’ll only sell his legacy, his life’s work, to whomever he damn well chooses. Not for the money. For… something else. Something I haven’t figured out yet.
“Clarissa put in a good word for you in Ohio last month, at Buffett’s little shindig,” Will continues. “And Vozhansky from Stanley mentioned your name to Royce’s people.”
“Stanley,” I repeat, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of Serafima Pylypivna’s ancient apartment. “Stanley FuckingStanley. That’s too corporate, Will. You know that. Royce will see right through it.”
“Of course, that’s not how it’s done, Mykola. But you’re stuck overseas, friend, and the cranky old bastard is Googling you. And what does he see, huh? He sees you’re the only person on the planet blacklisted by Arman. By another oligarch with a grudge. He sees you got shit-faced at a picnic in Palo Alto. He sees that ten years ago, you had a well-publicized fling with some B-list starlet. Do you get it? In his eyes, your reputation screams ‘unstable rich asshole.’ Sorry, but to him, all you Wall Street cowboys and market manipulators look the same. He can’t grasp your genius, your vision. But he sees that you’re erratic. A fucking liability.”
“I’m selling off assets,” I bite out, irritation flaring. “Dumping the basic portfolios. Everything toxic and volatile. It’s a deliberate move. A statement.”
“Then lead with that when you finally get in a room with him,” Larrington presses, his voice sharp now. “But where’s that meeting going to be? And what the hell are you going to talk about? You gonna play golf with him, let him see you’re sucking up? Listen, Mykola, he’s buried all his kids. He’s on speaking terms with all five of his ex-wives, which is a goddamn miracle in itself. He’s obsessed with art, and your little Sotheby’s curated list of Impressionists won’t cut it. Every asshole with a spare couple hundred million has one of those. You’re not married. Never have been. No kids. Jesus, do you even own a goddamn hamster? What are you going to connect with him about?”
“Oh, believe me, Will,” I say, a grim smile touching my lips. “I’ve yet to meet a son of a bitch I couldn’t find common ground with. Eventually.”
“I know, I know,” Will says, his voice tired now. “Your legendary charm. But you’ll have one shot to make a first impression with Royce. One. I’m looking out for you here,buddy. One day. And you do not wantthat dayto be something youregretfor the rest of your goddamn life.”
“Send me his schedule for the next two months,” I say, my voice flat. “Whatever you’ve got. You’re right. About everything. Thanks, Will. For everything.”
I hang up, barely containing the surge of frustration. No point taking it out on Larrington.
If I manage to pry that revolutionary technology from that moody old bastard’s dying grasp, it’ll be largely thanks to my broker’s relentless hustle.
Of course, he and his bank will then take it to IPO and rake in billions in fees. But Will could be running this high-stakes, high-reward play with any number of other sharks. He believed in me, though. Because somewhere beneath that custom-tailored, eight-thousand-dollar Italian suit and the suspiciously perfect year-round tan, there’s still a damn romantic dreamer alive in Will Larrington. Just like me.
I stare at the closed bedroom door, its paint chipped and faded. Diana is out there.
