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

The third-floor hallway was quiet, lined with black-and-white architectural photographs of Chicago’s industrial past: steel mills in Gary, shipping docks along the river, brick warehouses that had survived the Great Fire.

Max walked with heavy, aggressive strides, his wingtips clicking loudly against the hardwood runner. Keller followed two steps behind, clutching a thick black leather briefcase containing the Strand Urban Systems restructuring proposals.

“Now remember,” Max coached his counsel without looking back, “J. Rook is notoriously reclusive. Nobody in the private equity circuit has a clear picture of him. He doesn't do galas, he doesn't do Bloomberg interviews. All we know is that he bought up half the distressed manufacturing debt in the Midwest after the crash and turned it into a ten-billion-dollar empire.”

“Which means he’s brilliant, Max,” Keller warned, his voice tight. “Don't try your usual strong-arm tactics. If Rook smells any instability in the Gary plant, he’ll cut us off.”

“Rook is a capitalist, Don,” Max sneered, straightening his silk tie. “He doesn't care about the workers. He cares about the thirty percent return I’m offering him on the restructuring. As long as the numbers look pretty, he’ll write the check.”

They reached the end of the corridor. A pair of ten-foot-tall double doors made of solid, polished walnut stood before them. Beside the door, sitting at a minimalist glass desk, was Marcus Vance.

“Mr. Strand. Mr. Keller,” Marcus said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. His expression was completely professional, but his eyes held an unnerving sharpness. “Mr. Rook has been expecting you.”

“Good,” Max said, stepping forward to grasp the bronze door handle himself. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a private jet waiting at O'Hare for Miami at midnight.”

Marcus didn't move to stop him. He simply reached out and pushed the door open, gesturing inside. “Please. Take your seats.”

Max strode into the boardroom like he owned the square footage. The room was breathtaking—a thirty-foot cathedral ceiling with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the rain-slicked city. In the center sat a single slab of blackened oak serving as a conference table, illuminated by recessed spotlights.

At the far end of the table, a high-backed leather executive chair was turned toward the window, looking out over the glittering grid of Chicago’s streetlights.

“Mr. Rook!” Max boomed, spreading his arms wide as he approached the table. “Max Strand. It’s an honor. My father always spoke highly of your logistics acquisitions in ninety-eight, and I have to say, your taste in restaurants downstairs is almost as impressive as your portfolio.”

The chair did not move.

Keller stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space, his anxiety spiking with every second of silence.

“Mr. Rook?” Max tried again, his tone slightly more cautious. “I have the term sheets ready. Forty million against forty percent non-voting equity. We can have the signatures dry before ten o’clock.”

A low, calm voice spoke from the shadows of the high-backed chair.

“You left an hour ago without finishing your water, Mr. Strand.”

Max froze. His brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”