Wall Street Titan: An Alpha Zone Novel

Chapter 2

2

Marcus

“Yes, that’s right,” I say impatiently. “I want her to be neat and well-groomed at all times. She has to have a sense of style; it’s very important. A brunette would be best, but a blonde would work too, as long as her hairstyle is conservative. She can’t look like she just stepped out of Playboy, understand?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Carelli.” The stylish brunette in front of me crosses her long legs and gives me a polite smile. Victoria Longwood-Thierry, matchmaker for the Wall Street’s elite, is exactly what I have in mind for my future wife, except she’s in her fifties and married with three children. “What about hobbies and interests?” she asks in her carefully modulated voice. “What would you like her to be into?”

“Something intellectual,” I say. “I want to be able to talk to her outside the bedroom.”

“Of course.” Victoria makes a note on her notepad. “How about her profession?”

“That doesn’t really matter to me. She can be a lawyer or a doctor or spend all her time doing charity work for orphans in Haiti—it’s all the same as far as I’m concerned. Once we marry, she can either stay home with the kids or continue her career. I’m comfortable with either option.”

“That’s very enlightened of you.” Victoria’s expression is unchanged, but I get a feeling she’s secretly laughing at me. “How do you feel about pets? Do you prefer cats or dogs?”

“Neither. I don’t like having animals indoors.”

Victoria makes another note before asking, “What about her height? Do you have a preference?”

“Tall,” I say immediately. “Or at least above average.” I’m six-foot-three, and short women look like children to me.

“Okay, good.” Victoria jots it down. “How about body type? Athletic or slender, I would assume?”

I nod tersely. “Yes. I’m into fitness, and I want her to be in good shape so she can keep up with me.” Frowning, I glance at my Patek Philippe watch and see that I have only a half hour before the market opens. Turning my attention back to Victoria, I say, “Basically, I want a smart, elegant, stylish woman who takes care of herself.”

“Got it. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

I’m skeptical, but I keep a poker face as she gets up and politely ushers me out of her office. She promises to contact me within a couple of days, shakes my hand, and heads back in, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume. It’s not too strong—Victoria Longwood-Thierry would never be so tacky as to wear strong perfume—but I still sneeze as I head to the elevator.

I’ll have to add this to the list: the wife candidate can’t wear perfume, period.

By the time I get to my Park Avenue building from Victoria’s West Village office, my programmers and traders are glued to their screens. Only a few of them notice as I make my way to my corner office. I’d normally stop by their desks to ask them about their weekend and get an update on our positions, but the market is already open, and I can’t distract them.

With ninety-two billion of my investors’ money at stake, there is no room for error.

My office is huge and has a great view of the skyscrapers on Park Avenue, but I don’t stop to appreciate it. Once, this office felt like the pinnacle of achievement for a scrappy kid from Staten Island, but now I’m hungry for more. Success is my drug, and with each hit, I need a bigger dose to get the buzz. It’s not about the money anymore—in addition to my personal stake in the fund, I have a couple of billion stashed away in real estate and other passive investments—it’s about knowing that I can do it, that I can succeed where others have failed. The recent market volatility has resulted in record losses for hedge funds and mutual funds alike, but Carelli Capital Management is up in the high teens, outperforming the market by over forty percent. Foundations, pension funds, wealthy individuals—they’re all tripping over each other in a rush to invest with me, and I still want more.

I want it all, including a wife who’d fit the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

On the surface, it should be easy. At thirty-five, I have enough money to keep the female population of Manhattan in Louis Vuitton bags and Louboutin shoes for the rest of their lives, I’m not bad-looking, and I work out daily to stay in shape. The latter I do more for health than vanity, but women seem to appreciate the results. I can pick up any woman in a club in a matter of minutes, but none of them are what I want.

I want high class. I want elegance.

I want a woman who’s the complete opposite of the one who raised me—hence, Victoria Longwood-Thierry and her old-money connections.

It was my friend Ashton who pointed me in her direction. “You know the kind of woman you want isn’t going to be hanging out at a bar, right?” he said when, after a couple of beers, I mentioned my specifications for a wife. “You’re talking about American aristocracy here, Mayflower and all that s**t. If you’re serious about tapping high-end p***y, you need to talk to my aunt’s friend. She’s a professional matchmaker working with politicians and rich Wall Street dudes like you. She’ll find you exactly what you need.”

I laughed and changed the conversation, but the germ of the idea had been planted, and the more I investigated Ashton’s aunt’s friend, the more intrigued I became. It turns out Victoria had matched at least two hedge fund managers I know—one with an Olympic gymnast, the other with a Princeton biologist who once moonlighted as a model. Upon further digging, I learned that both marriages are going strong so far, and that, more than anything, convinced me to give the matchmaker a shot.

I intend to be as successful in my personal life as I have been in business, and having the right kind of wife is a big part of that.

Sitting down at my gleaming ebony wood desk, I turn on my Bloomberg monitor and pick up a stack of research reports. I have Victoria on the case, so I put the wife hunt out of my mind and focus on what really matters: my work and making my clients money.

It’s already eight p.m. when my phone buzzes with an incoming message. Rubbing my eyes, I look away from my computer screen and see that it’s a text from Victoria.

I have the perfect candidate for you, the text says. She can meet you at Sweet Rush Café in Park Slope tomorrow at 6 p.m. If that works for you, I will email you more details. Emmeline lives in Boston and is only in town for a couple of days.

I frown at my phone. Six o’clock? I almost never leave the office that early on a Tuesday. And Boston? How am I supposed to get to know this Emmeline if she doesn’t live in New York?

I start texting Victoria that I can’t make it, but stop at the last moment. This is what I wanted: for Victoria to introduce me to a woman I would never meet on my own. Given the matchmaker’s track record, I can spare one evening to see if there’s anything worth pursuing there.

Before I can change my mind, I fire off a quick text to Victoria agreeing to the date, and turn my attention back to my computer screen.

If I’m leaving the office early tomorrow, I have to work a few more hours tonight.