Chapter 8 - The Price of Disrespect
By 3:00 p.m., the rain had stopped over Manhattan, replaced by a bitter, dry cold that drove people off the sidewalks and into the warmth of office buildings and coffee shops.
On the corner of Fifth Avenue and 61st Street, outside the entrance to the duplex penthouse Marcus Vance had once claimed as his kingdom, a small crowd had gathered.
A flatbed truck sat idling at the curb.
Three movers in heavy canvas overalls were carrying items out of the private elevator lobby and tossing them unceremoniously into the back of the truck.
There were no antiques. No fine art.
They were throwing out Marcus’s personal wardrobe: his bespoke suits, his collection of Swiss watches, his Italian shoes, his monogrammed golf clubs, and the hundreds of framed magazine covers featuring his face beneath headlines like *THE NEXT TITAN OF WALL STREET.*
Marcus stood on the sidewalk across the street.
He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn denim jeans that Henrik’s men had handed him before throwing him out of the service exit of the Devereux Tower. His wallet contained twenty-two dollars in cash—the exact amount he had possessed the night he first bought Elara a cup of cheap coffee in a SoHo diner.
His phone was dead. His cards were canceled.
He walked toward his building, his steps staggering, his breath coming in ragged white plumes.
"Hey!" Marcus croaked, waving his arms at the movers. "Stop that! Those are mine! Those watches cost hundreds of thousands of dollars!"
The doorman—the same doorman who had bowed to Marcus for five years, who had greeted him with "Good morning, Mr. Vance" every single day—stepped off the curb, placing a large, gloved hand firmly against Marcus’s chest.
"Move along, buddy," the doorman said.
Marcus stared at him in disbelief. "Frank? Frank, it’s me! Marcus! I live on the top floor! Call the superintendent!"
Frank didn't even blink. His expression was as blank as a brick wall. "I don't know who you are, sir. But this building is private property owned by the Devereux Estate. If you don't step away from the entrance, I’m calling the precinct."
"I own that apartment!" Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with madness. "My wife and I lived there! Elara!"
A sleek, black Town Car pulled up to the curb beside them.
The rear window rolled down two inches.
Arthur Pendelton, Marcus’s closest friend on the Vance Capital board, looked out from behind expensive tortoiseshell glasses.
"Arthur!" Marcus lunged toward the car, grabbing the door handle. "Arthur, thank God! It’s all a conspiracy! Elara’s family—they're insane, they orchestrated a coup! Lend me your phone! Call the SEC commissioner!"
Arthur didn't unlock the door. He didn't even look Marcus in the eye. He looked straight ahead, his jaw tight, his voice muffled by the tinted glass.
"Get away from my car, Vance," Arthur said coldly.
"Arthur, we were partners! We played squash on Sunday!"
"I don't know you," Arthur replied, his voice dead of all affection. "The Devereux group just bought out my fund’s senior debt. If I am seen talking to you for ten seconds, they will call my notes and ruin my children's future. Do not call me. Do not look at me. As far as the world is concerned, Marcus Vance died last night."
The window rolled up.
The Town Car pulled smoothly away from the curb, splashing freezing gutter water over Marcus’s bare ankles.
Marcus stumbled backward onto the sidewalk, falling hard against the stone balustrade of Central Park.
Across the street, one of the movers tossed the last box into the flatbed truck. It contained Marcus’s Harvard MBA diploma in its gold frame. The glass shattered as it hit the steel bed of the truck, the sound sharp and final in the cold afternoon air.
A gust of wind caught a stray piece of paper from the gutter, blowing it against Marcus’s shins.
It was an invitation to the Vance Foundation Gala at the Pierre Hotel.
*Marcus Vance cordially invites you to celebrate the dawn of a new era.*
May you like
Marcus clutched the paper in his shaking, dirt-stained hands, dropped his head between his knees, and began to scream.
***
