The conference room on the 43rd floor of the NASDAQ tower was a glass box of silent condemnation. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the chaos of Times Square seemed distant and muted, a pantomime of life happening in a world that no longer concerned us. Inside, the air was cold and still.
Julian sat at the center of a long, polished mahogany table. He was a ghost in a thousand-dollar suit. The vibrant, triumphant man from the trading floor platform had vanished, replaced by a hollow-eyed shell, his skin the color of old parchment. His own lawyer, a man named Peters, sat beside him, shuffling papers with trembling hands, his face a mask of useless dread. Two silent agents from the SEC flanked the door, their presence a physical manifestation of the room’s gravity.
Elias Vance stood at
