Page 117 of The Renter
“So, sex marathon this weekend?”
He laughs. “How can I say no to that?”
100
Monday, October 17th
“Inever thought the guys we’re meeting this week would be Real-ity’s most active investors,” Gideon Stone says in his Israeli accent as we share an SUV on our way to our first stop on the road show.
Sitting next to him, I understand why he’s been so confident in our negotiations. He’s my height but has at least forty more pounds of muscle.
“That’s how it goes.” I shrug, reflecting on decades of deal-making. “When there’s money to be made, it comes from all over.”
“I built Real-ity for middle America, but that’s not who my actual platform users are.” His dark features exude a permanent intensity.
I chuckle at his moral quandary. In a couple of years—by the time he’s forty—he won’t have those thoughts. At least, that’s when I stopped having them.
“You have tens of thousands of regular retail investors on your platform,” I remind Gideon. “You’re giving the average Joean incredible way to diversify outside the stock market. Be proud of that.” I pause, reflecting on the Real-ity deal.
Originally, I wanted it to be an acquisition, but I’m starting to like the new deal much better. Israeli entrepreneurs get shit done, and he’s the best kind of CEO to invest in—growth over everything else. My investors and I could make even more money if he delivers on his promises.
“So, you have to open a scary door to get some more growth capital. It’s part of leveling up.”
Gideon looks out the window, stressed about our meeting.
“We wouldn’t need this road show if you’d accepted my initial offer.”
“And if the fucking banks had given us a reasonable interest rate.”
“Yeah, but you would have hit those original growth projections in your sleep, especially with the AI product you’re working on.”
“I’ll still meet these new projection scenarios in my sleep.”
“More investors, more opinions. Plus, the less sophisticated the capital …” I hesitate, recalling a few times in my career when real mafia intimidation has gone down. “I’m not the one who will be dead if you don’t hit the targets in the term sheet. Let’s say that.” Gideon cocks an eyebrow, and I add, “I have enough of a war chest to funnel money around in a pinch and get everyone paid at the rate and timelines they agreed to.”
Gideon huffs. “These guys all make more money from their investments than from their other businesses these days.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten where they came from. When you promise them a number, they expect it. They will hold you to it.” I pause. “At least we only need fifty million in fringe capital. I remember when my deals were all funded like this.” I smile, reminiscing about the Wild West early days of Harris Ventures. “This guy is Serbian, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me lead this conversation.”
“It’s my relationship.”
“I know how to suck dick for money. We’ll be in and out.” It’s brash, but this is what I do best.
We get out of the SUV and make our way to an office in the West Loop before heading to O’Hare Airport for our next stop.
A crew of large men escorts us into an office, where we meet a gigantic bodybuilder. Fundraising has its pros and cons. We’ve already gone through our established investor list and are now entertaining guys like this—the definition of fringe parties. Gideon’s ultra-high-net-worth list, the groups, and individuals that own the largest percentage of Real-ity’s real estate, is not sexy at all.
“Gideon,” the man greets in a thick Serbian accent.
“Luka,” Gideon says, shaking his hand firmly.
“You’ve been hitting the gym,” Luka says, squeezing Gideon’s biceps. “What are you squatting? One hundred eighty kilos?”
“More.”
