He poured a pitcher of ice water on a waiter for "spilling three drops," completely oblivious that the waiter owned the entire restaurant.

The private elevator rose past the second-floor mezzanine and opened directly into the executive offices of Rook Hospitality Group.

Here, sixty feet above the dining room, there was no clatter of porcelain, no scent of garlic and butter. The floors were thick, charcoal-colored wool, absorbing every sound. Wall-to-wall glass overlooked the Chicago skyline, where cold rain was beginning to streak the towering black monoliths along Michigan Avenue.

Sitting at a long mahogany conference table, buried behind two dual-monitor laptops and three open binders, was Marcus Vance.

Marcus was thirty-two, sharp-featured, and carried himself with the manicured precision of a former Wall Street forensic accountant. The moment the elevator chimed, Marcus stood up with a pen in hand.

“Julian, I’ve got the preliminary projections. Strand Urban Systems is bleeding sixty thousand dollars a day in operational penalties because their supply chain—”

Marcus stopped dead. His pen slipped from his fingers, bouncing onto the blotter.

“Why do you look like a drowned rat?” Marcus asked, blinking behind his titanium-framed glasses.

“Max Strand had an allergic reaction to three drops of tap water,” Julian said, walking toward the private washroom adjoining his corner office.

Marcus stared at him for three seconds before putting his hands on his hips. “You’re joking. You let that sociopath pour water on you?”

“He didn't ask permission,” Julian called out from inside the washroom. The sound of running water echoed against marble. “Did you pull the files I asked Winifred to request?”

Marcus walked over to the bathroom door, leaning against the jamb. His face was a mixture of outrage and sheer professional anticipation. “I pulled everything. And Julian... it’s worse than we thought. Max didn't just mismanage the company after his father had that stroke last year. He’s been systematically gutting the employee pension fund to cover margin calls on his private crypto holdings.”

Julian walked out with a dry white hand towel, drying his hair. His eyes had darkened to the color of wet slate. “How much?”

“Eighteen million dollars,” Marcus said, handing over a red-tabbed folder. “He created a shell logistics company in the Cayman Islands. Billed Strand Urban Systems for phantom shipping containers. The board doesn't know. The auditors missed it because he used his father’s legacy power of attorney to sign off on the third-party releases.”

Julian took the folder, flipping through the bank transfers with methodical, chilling speed.

“And the workers?” Julian asked.

“Four hundred and eighty-three people at the Kenosha and Gary plants,” Marcus said grimly. “Their health benefits lapse next Friday if Strand doesn't inject forty million in liquid capital. Max told the union reps yesterday that if the Rook Group didn't back him tonight, he’d declare Chapter 11, liquidate the assets, and walk away with his personal indemnity package. He doesn't give a damn about those families, Julian. He’s treating this meeting like a poker bluff.”

Julian closed the folder. The wet server’s shirt still clung to his chest, freezing cold against his skin.

“Marcus.”

“Yes?”

“Bring up my bespoke charcoal jacket from the wardrobe. The Brioni.”

Marcus paused. “And a fresh dress shirt?”

Julian looked down at the soaked, rumpled cotton server’s uniform, bearing the embroidered silver logo of The Marlow Room over the left breast pocket.