California was a different kind of predator. Unlike New York, which announced its lethality with the gray glint of steel and the roar of its concrete canyons, the West Coast hunted with sunlight. It disarmed you with optimism, with the scent of eucalyptus on the dry air and the promise of reinventing the world from a garage. It was a place that sold the illusion of a clean slate.
For the first year, I bought into it. A&V Capital—Arthur had insisted my initial be first—was not built in a garage, but in a sleek, minimalist office in Palo Alto with glass walls that overlooked the Stanford hills. We were lean, aggressive, and ruthlessly efficient. Our days were a blur of pitch decks, term sheets, and due diligence, a language in which Arthur and I were flawlessly fluent.
Our partnership was
