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[Date: 17/04/2020 | Lockdown Week 4 | Ti: 12:08 AM | Location: Victor Parker – Penthouse, NYC]
The penthouse lights barely flickered now, most dimd or burnt out, casting Victor Parker in a ghostly halo as he sat on the scuffed hardwood of his private study. The glass coffee table had been shattered days ago—its jagged edges still unrepaired, one of them faintly stained with blood from a gash he’d gotten when he’d thrown his phone into it on Tuesday.
The room slled like old coffee, expensive cologne, mixed with sweat, giving off a stench of desperation. Victor’s suit, a once-pristine Brioni navy number, now sagged off his fra like a husk. The jacket had been tossed aside in anger, revealing his wrinkled shirt and vest. Dark coffee blotches down the sleeve, and a jagged tear on the right arm where, in a fit of frenzy, he had punched a hole through his office door.
His collar was open, his tie missing, and his shirt buttons were askew. A ssy mix of gauze and bandages was lazily wrapped around his left hand. The 70-inch TV in the corner played CNN on mute, the ticker moving with thodical cruelty across the bottom of the screen: "WeWork rescue deal officially terminated... SoftBank cites ’material adverse changes’ amid lockdown uncertainty..."
Victor didn’t flinch anymore; he just blinked as he was already numb, on the verge of accepting his fate. His pupils were blown wide, bloodshot and glassy as his gaze flicked over to the screen displaying the Bloomberg terminal. It had been blinking red for 72 hours straight, the charts showing nothing but Collapsing lines.
Margin call warnings were stacked in the bottom left corner like a digital autopsy report. His mouth moved, but no sound ca out, as in this situation, his silver tongue was of no use. With trembling fingers, he opened his encrypted satellite laptop, imdiately establishing an exclusive line connected to Enzo, their founder and a man from old money.
He tapped in a code, the device blinked blue, and after three rings, the call connected. "Victor," ca the smooth Italian-accented voice of Enzo. "You don’t look too good, my friend. I know things have been hard, but you should relax a little."
Victor ignored the jab. "I need a temporary swap line—twelve hours, max. Bridge loan collateralised with equity in three REITs. You know the nas."
Enzo’s laughter rang sharp and an through the speaker. "You think I’m going to wire you a dollar after what just happened with SoftBank?" He leaned back, puffing a cigar. "You’re radioactive, Parker. I told you when we t that I don’t entertain rabid dogs; I put them down. You, my friend, have been spiralling for so ti now, what you don’t think I’d notice because I’m all the way in Geneva."
Victor snapped, voice hoarse and brittle. "You got it wrong, I’ve got things under control, I’m close to salvaging the situation."
Enzo remained silent for a beat, puffing out a plu of smoke from his cigar as he gazed at Victor, his brown eyes examining the man across the screen. "You were always clever, Victor. But now you reek of fear. And fear makes even clever n stupid. Word of advice from an old friend: exit the field with so dignity."
The line went dead with a chanical click, leaving only the low hum of the Bloomberg terminal and Victor’s shallow breathing. He stared at the black screen for several seconds after Enzo hung up. The silence gnawed at him more than the insult. Dignity? That was a currency he’d run out of months ago.
He didn’t move—not imdiately. Only after the Bloomberg terminal chirped again did he blink back into motion. Another liquidation warning indicated that the stocks in his hands were losing value. He had been too busy trying to dig himself out of his hole that he didn’t have ti to read the winds of change in the market.
He stood slowly, knees stiff, every motion haunted. Across the desk, his phone buzzed with back-to-back Zoom call requests from the Atlantis Fund partners. Alexandra Wu, who was currently in Tokyo, was calling for the umpteenth ti, probably trying to get answers. Enzo, the sycopath he was, also listened to the call, probably acting as if he knew nothing, as he enjoyed the show.
The man had grown up in a mafia family, managing to survive the succession battle and build his own financial empire as his elder brother ascended to the position of Dom. Despite distancing himself from the family in Milan, he still retained so of the Valentini family’s tendency for cruelty. His brand of cruelty was attuned to finance as he enjoyed propping up talented individuals and watching them slowly unravel with their newfound wealth and power.
Victor let the incoming Zoom pings stack until the screen looked like a bullet-holed windshield. He finally killed the laptop cara, switched the mic to mute, and slid into the eting beneath a cold alias: V.P.-NYC.
Faces materialised in gridded fury. Alexandra Wu-Tokyo, bun tight as a banker’s knot. Lorenzo "Enzo" Giordano-Geneva, half-smile behind lazy smoke rings. Two junior partners from London he barely recognised. "Fifteen seconds," Alexandra said, voice flint-sharp. "Convince us not to file a derivative action and freeze your desk."
Victor’s pulse hamred. "The deal died—but the chassis is intact. Give forty-eight hours to reopen the credit window. I’ve lined up off-market collateral."
Enzo tilted his bourbon. "Na it."
Victor swallowed. "Proprietary—secured equity in an untouched vehicle. You’ll get the ISDA docs by dawn." He clicked off the call and left them shouting at his empty tile.
~~~
He crossed the study to the wall safe, keying in the date that was once the happiest mont of his life. 0-7-0-3-1-9-8-2. The date he married his late first wife, who, despite being from a wealthy family, accepted him for who he was. She had supported his career, making sure their family was ok even on her deathbed.
The door clanked open. Inside, among passports and offshore fobs, sat a slim titanium Ledger drive.
---
Sandra Maria Smith
Inheritance Trust
Est. 2001
Trustee: Victor A. Parker
---
His own signature, embossed almost two decades ago with his late wife stared back like an accusation. This was different from the regular trust he had set up for their children, which he had used to cover the shortfall of his losses. This was the inheritance Sandra had left for their daughter, and he knew that if he used it, there was no going back.
Victor slumped into the desk chair and jacked the drive into the satellite laptop. A login window blood—facial recognition plus thumb-scan. The thumb he offered was wrapped in gauze; the sensor refused him twice before buzzing green.
Balances floated onto the screen:USD 242,811,467.12 in blue-chip treasuries,USD 80,900,000 in liquid cash.It wasn’t enough, but it would do to staunch the arterial bleed—if he could pledge it undetected.
He opened a blank PDF credit facility template and began working imdiately. Borrower line: Atlantis Fund (Victor A. Parker, Managing Partner). Pledged asset line: P FAMILY TRUST — SUBORDINATED LIEN. For the signature block, he copied May’s digital autograph, which he had lifted from an old permission form she’d e-signed in high school.
The mouse cursor hovered, and his vision blurred with tears as the mory of May’s first step flashed through his mind. She wobbled toward him like a baby deer trying to muster the strength to stay upright. "Daddy, look!"
He routed the docunt through a dummy DocuSign chain—a shell directorate in the Caymans, an overnight notary in Dubai who owed him two favours—and back to the desk. Total ti, seven minutes. He squeezed his eyes until the image shattered, and he gritted his teeth before proceeding.
He watched with bloodshot eyes as the inheritance trust quickly drained the money being transferred to another trust he fully controlled. "Since you want Dignity, you should first show yours." He muttered to himself as a dark plan started forming in his mind, unwilling to go down alone.
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To Be Continued...
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