All In (6 page)

“No, I'm out shopping. How about you? Your assistant said you were in a meeting. I didn't mean to bother you.”

“We're done. I was just about to leave.”

“Yeah, it's late,” she said. She pictured David about to walk out the doors of his office building—the HC building was like a white castle on Blasieholmen, a brash newcomer at one of Sweden's most exclusive addresses. She couldn't help but wonder where he was going, whom he was going to meet. “Well, I just wanted to thank you personally,” she said.

“I hope it works out at such short notice. It's tomorrow . . .”

“Yes, it will definitely work out,” she said and managed not to blurt out that she didn't have anything planned all weekend. “Thank you.” She should really hang up now that she had thanked him. Repeatedly. Surely he was going out with some glamorous, leggy model tonight.

“Natalia?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“You were so quiet,” he said. “I was starting to wonder if you'd hung up.”

“Sorry,” she said. “It's been a long day. I have to go back to the office to check what the market's doing before I head home.” She could have bitten her tongue. Why couldn't she have hinted that she was on her way somewhere too?

“Well, then, I hope you have a pleasant evening,” he said politely. “Both tonight and tomorrow night.”

“You too,” she said lamely. “To both.” She made a face because she sounded like an idiot. Åsa was staring at her, goggle-eyed.

“Thanks,” she added, for what was probably the fifth time, but he had already hung up by then.

She noticed Åsa's raised eyebrows. “What happened? Was that him?”

Natalia nodded. She quietly returned her phone to her purse and pulled out her wallet.

“Nat? What are you thinking?”

Natalia smiled. She was definitely going to buy the golden dress. “I think I just found a reason to shave my legs.”

7

D
avid hung up the phone, not completely comfortable with how impulsively he'd acted. But she'd sounded so happy about the tickets—genuinely happy—that he didn't regret having gone to the small trouble. Nor having taken her call.

David spun his desk chair back around. He had forgotten he wasn't alone and found himself looking at a bemused Michel Chamoun. Michel, who was sitting on the low sofa with his feet on the coffee table and his laptop on his knees, raised his eyebrows at David.

“What?” David asked.

“What was that all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“It sounded like you were talking to Natalia De la Grip,” Michel said slowly. “A private little conversation with one of the members of the family that owns the company that we're planning to hostilely take over. A deal we've been working on for more than a year. A deal that will define our whole future.”

“That was her,” he said. “But it was no big deal.”

He could be nice to Natalia even though she was a De la Grip. As long as it was no more than a meaningless gesture.

Michel gave him a distrustful glance, as if he hadn't quite bought David's explanation. “I suppose you see that you can't just have your own personal agenda on the side. Didn't you give up on that tangent?”

David felt a flash of anger. He rarely got mad—and definitely not at Michel—so the emotion made no sense. But Michel was right, of course. It was very close to unprofessional. But he had it under control, there was no cause for alarm.

“It's totally harmless,” he said, the anger already gone. “It doesn't mean anything. I was just finishing something I started.
She
's done.”

And that was true. Because David knew what he wanted. No one and nothing could make him lose focus on what was most important in his life.

“No distractions now,” Michel said, but David saw that Michel had already moved on.

“No risk of that,” he replied. No risk at all, he repeated silently to himself.

He couldn't bring himself to hate Natalia De la Grip; she had seemed far too decent for that. But he hated her family. What they stood for, what they'd done . . .

“I don't feel anything for her,” he added and knew that was the truth. It didn't matter if she was nice or attractive. Despite that, she was still a typical example of her upper-class, blue-blooded background, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. With her perfect table manners and her well-heeled gentility, she had always been surrounded by the best life had to offer without having to worry about a roof over her head, money, or the future—the things most other people struggled with. She had been fun to talk to, and she was obviously just as fond of the sport of finance as he was, but apart from that they had
nothing
in common.

Michel nodded. David handed him the paper he had been tallying numbers on before the phone call. Michel scratched his bald head as he checked the columns of numbers a second and then a third time.

They had been on an incomparable journey: a poor guy from the wrong side of town and a second-generation immigrant. Together they had challenged the whole Swedish establishment again and again. Hammar Capital's unparalleled success in the field of venture capitalism was due to a number of factors: timing, hard work, and a bold but sound business idea.

But at the same time David would be the first to admit that sheer luck was an important factor in their success. Several of his crucial turning points had been ninety-nine percent luck, a fact that he had never made any secret of.

The media always pointed to his ability to connect with financiers as contributing to his success. Through his network he had access to just about any important global player. But the path here, to becoming a venture capitalist who was on a par with most of his European competitors even though he operated from one of the smaller nations, had been lined with potential catastrophes.

They had gone up against Investum twice before, testing their strength against the Swedish finance world's most venerable family in a battle for board seats, and they had lost. It had cost them appalling amounts of money both times. Some of their financial backers had pulled out, Hammar Capital had bled like wounded prey, and David himself had taken a beating in the press. But they had analyzed their mistakes and started the strenuous work of regaining people's trust.

And now here they were.

Stronger than ever. Ready to do what had never been done before. Hijack Investum.

Some would say it was crazy. But it was basically a sound business plan. They'd run the numbers over and over again. Gordon Wyndt had summarized it for them one night in his office in Manhattan overlooking Central Park: crazy, reckless, but full of possibility. The fact that the De la Grip family would probably go under after the raid was a side effect that Michel accepted as necessary. For David that was the actual motivating factor, the reason he had worked single-mindedly toward this one goal.

Because the downfall of those two men would set him free.

And if a woman who stood at the sidelines was crushed in the process, then that was collateral he knew he was ruthless enough to accept.

8

P
eter De la Grip listened to his father's icy monologue. The oxygen in the smallest conference room at Investum was running out. Peter tried to stifle a yawn but didn't succeed and was forced to yawn into the crook of his arm. His father gave him an irritated look and returned to verbally tearing the female chairman of the board to shreds.

Peter glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost six and the office was emptying out, but when his father got going it could take some time. He wondered if his father did it on purpose, left conversations like these until late on a Friday to really screw up his victim's entire weekend.

Outwardly, his father was in favor of equal rights for women, of course. Anything else would be media suicide. But the small number of female directors at Investum's various subsidiaries didn't usually last long. When Gustaf De la Grip summoned them to headquarters and went off on one of his merciless tirades, they usually resigned voluntarily. His father would then complain in the press about how difficult it was to find women with the right skill set and career focus.

In the sauna and on their fall game-hunting trips, however, he took a different tone. Then the demeaning words about women in the workplace really hit the fan in a way that few outsiders would even believe. Women were scatterbrained, it was that time of the month and it was affecting their logic, they weren't biologically suited to serve on corporate boards. Sometimes it was almost tiresome. But his father didn't believe in having women at the top, and Peter wasn't the type to fight for someone else. People had to fight their own battles. But anyone who claimed that the world of Swedish business was a level playing field had no idea what they were talking about.

He turned in his chair and looked askance at his phone. Louise had texted to say they were having guests over. He'd been to the liquor store and Östermalmshall, but he was going to be late, and he hated to annoy Louise. He quickly texted her that they should start without him. It couldn't be helped.

“I expect your cooperation and loyalty,” his father told the director. “I thought you were going to show that you were worth our investment.”

Peter was forced to peek at his papers, because suddenly he couldn't even remember her name.

Rima Campbell, age fifty-two. An immigrant, she hadn't had a chance from the beginning.

“But I . . . ,” she said, and Peter rolled his eyes. His father hated being interrupted. In the worst of cases, he would begin again. Peter never interrupted his father.

Gustaf continued. “You're not cooperating. You're not loyal. You're questioning the board.”

Peter had sat through countless meetings like this. Only women were subjected to such treatment.

Sometimes he agreed with his father—sometimes the victim really was the wrong person for the job. Sometimes, like today, he thought Gustaf was making a mistake.

The woman with the hopelessly un-Swedish name was good at what she did and seemed to be doing a decent job. Simply the fact that she'd made it this far—she was an immigrant, a woman,
and
a single mother—suggested that her skills were above average. Her two sons were probably adults now, but Rima Campbell had built an impressive career for herself while raising two children. She had done it on her own, stayed single, and broken right through most of the glass ceilings. But it didn't matter what Peter thought of her performance. Gustaf did what he wanted. And right now he was intent on breaking the dark-skinned director, whom he'd hired just a few months earlier. He wanted to show that women didn't belong at the top, that they were overly emotional and prone to overreacting. He wanted to show that he was right.

Gustaf continued, “Your colleagues tell me you're not loyal. People are dissatisfied with you.”

“Who? Which colleagues?”

“I can't tell you that. But you need to know: no one likes you.”

Peter was close to breaking in. Surely this was a little over the top?

Rima was a little pale, but she was holding it together, and Peter didn't say anything. It wouldn't have done any good.

“I can't defend myself against anonymous accusations,” Rima said grimly.

Gustaf began anew, attacking her over and over again in a chilling voice. Finally she just sat there in silence, her eyes dry, red splotches on her neck.

“I want you to take the weekend to think about it and consider whether we can work together in the future,” Gustaf concluded coldly. “Currently I just don't see it.”

Rima swallowed. Peter didn't dare look at either of them; he was practically holding his breath. She stood up. Her hands were shaking. But she hadn't started to cry, and her voice had remained polite throughout. Clearly, she was really tough. But it was over for her, he knew it. On Monday she would resign. He was sure of that.

Before Rima had even left the room, his father said, loudly enough for her to hear, “That's what happens when you hire a jungle bunny.”

Peter looked down at the table.

 

After Rima left, his father asked, “Are you going out to the estate?” as if nothing unusual had happened, as if he hadn't just broken a woman and also been so racist that Peter was ashamed.

But Peter just nodded. It didn't matter; his father never listened to what anyone said. Father always knew best.

“Louise invited some friends over for the weekend,” he said.

“Business acquaintances?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Peter bowed his head at the approval, wished his father's praise didn't mean so much to him.

They said good-bye. Gustaf strolled out to the car that his private chauffeur drove up and Peter walked down to the garage. As soon as they parted, he felt some of the relentless pressure lifting. It was almost a physical relief, as if someone had been sitting on his chest and had now gotten off.

He clicked to unlock the car and then opened the door.

Friday. A whole weekend with no other obligations than to possibly play host to one or two well-organized dinners. How wonderful. He drove out of the garage and headed out of the city. As he drove through the Friday evening traffic, his mind turned to the uncomfortable meeting, but he brushed it aside.

He had more than enough of his own problems to deal with. Getting into a conflict with his father was the last thing he needed.

As soon as the speed limit went up, he pushed down on the gas pedal.

But it
had
been a rough meeting. It got rougher every time, but you didn't question Gustaf De la Grip. Not if you wanted a prominent position at Investum. And that, more than anything, was exactly what Peter wanted—a prominent position, the most prominent: CEO.

Sometimes it felt like he'd been fighting his whole life.

He was reminded of that even today. How he started school, worked like an animal, and only heard that he had to put in more effort. How was it possible to fight so hard and still never really get there?

His father, who didn't believe in weakness, psychologists, or other failings, had handled every difficulty by scolding him sporadically. In a family where one was expected to excel at something, where everyone was the best at something, in a family whose motto was “Business is pleasure” he had never been anything more than mediocre.

He stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

The sense of impotence and frustration had always been like a darkness within him. And his outlet had always been to attack those who were even weaker. Better to bully than to be bullied. Better to hit than to be hit.
That
could have been the De la Grip family motto right there, he thought. Sometimes he dreamed that someone would intervene and speak up, change the story, prevent the catastrophe. But he didn't want to think about it, had devoted so much time to
not
remembering.

Still, it was strange, he thought as he followed the traffic, that at the age of thirty-five he could still be struck by that sense of panic he had experienced as a schoolboy, of never getting it right. It was like one of those nightmares people talked about—you worked like crazy but never got anywhere. That was exactly how it had been.

He had always had to struggle to achieve what had come so easily to Natalia and Alexander. Both of his siblings had earned top grades and gotten into the School of Economics with no problem. After two unsuccessful attempts to get in, he had given up and started a degree at the regular university instead. His father had never said anything, but he hadn't needed to. By that point everyone knew that Peter was and would remain second-rate.

He sighed heavily, wondered why he'd thought of this just now. He hadn't thought about these things for a long time. But something was changing; he sensed it.

Alexander had disgraced himself with his drinking and womanizing. No one was counting on him anymore. And Natalia. Well, she was a woman—it didn't matter how good she was.

Peter looked in the rearview mirror and then passed someone quickly. Natalia seemed to be doing a good job with this new bank deal, he was willing to concede that to himself, even if he would never admit it to his father. But he hoped Natalia would pull it off. It was important to their father, and it was best for everyone that their father get what he wanted.

Peter saw the sign and turned onto the side road to the house. Soon he'd be home. Louise was already waiting for him, the perfect hostess, elegant and refined, content to be a lady of the manor at one of the country's finest estates. As long as Louise got to live out here she would be satisfied, he knew that. Maybe he didn't love her, but he understood her, and that was good enough. They suited each other, and he had never expected love. Didn't even know if he could love or be loved.

He slowed and drove down the long, oak-lined avenue. Some of the trees were several hundred years old. He glanced off to the side, studied the well-tended fields and waterways glimmering in the summer light. The day he'd signed the paperwork and taken over the family seat had been his proudest. It was like receiving the recognition he'd been waiting for his whole life, acknowledgment that in spite of everything, he did deserve his hereditary due. It was an opportunity to finally look ahead toward the long term and not just live from year to year.

He drove in the open iron gates, listened to gravel crunch beneath the tires. Climbed out and stood, gazing up at the yellow façade.

Maybe he should finally let go of the demons that had pursued him for so long. Because when he took over the castle, when he realized his father really was choosing him as his heir and not Alex, not some worthy cousin, but
him
, then it was as if someone had finally let a little light into the perpetual darkness that surrounded him and said, “Now, Peter, you've done the right thing for so long that the statute of limitations is up on what you did in the past.”

If that was true, then there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep it that way.

Nothing.