“Your oysters, Mr. Callaway,” she said softly. Her voice was unremarkable. Victor watched her place the plates down with practiced precision. He felt a sudden malicious urge to puncture the boredom of the evening. He wanted to flex his power, to contrast his brilliance against the mundane existence of the working class. “Hold on a second,” Victor said, raising a hand to stop her from leaving. She paused, clutching the empty tray against her chest like a shield. “Yes, sir. Is something wrong with the order?” “No, the oysters are fine,” Victor said, leaning back and unbuttoning his suit jacket. He winked at Brad. “Actually, my friend and I were having a debate. We’re about to move a significant amount of capital, like more money than this entire building is worth, and I wanted a, let’s call it, ground-level perspective.”
Brad snickered, covering his mouth with a napkin. The waitress stood perfectly still. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.” “It’s simple,” Victor said, his voice dripping with condescension. “If you had ten million dollars right now, where would you put it? Crypto? Gold? Or maybe you’d put it all under your mattress.” He looked at her, expecting a flush of embarrassment, a stuttered apology, or a naive suggestion about a tech stock she had heard about on the news.
The waitress looked at him. For the first time, she actually made eye contact. Her eyes were a startling icy gray. They did not look submissive. They looked analytical. “I’m just a waitress, sir,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your dinner.” “Oh, come on,” Victor pressed, enjoying the game. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip and slapped it on the white tablecloth. “Consultation fee. Humor me. What’s your name?” “Selena,” she said. “Selena. Okay, Selena, impress me. Where is the smart money going?”
Selena looked at the hundred-dollar bill, then up at Victor. She did not reach for the money. She shifted her weight slightly, and her posture changed. The slump of the tired server vanished, replaced by a rigid, terrifying confidence. She glanced at the Bloomberg terminal notification flashing on Victor’s phone, which was sitting face up on the table. It showed the ticker for TRTN, Triton Heavy Industries.
“You’re buying Triton,” Selena said. It was not a question. Victor raised an eyebrow. “I am.” “Very observant. Because of the Nevada lithium deal,” she continued. “You think they’ve secured the drilling rights.” “We know they have,” Brad interjected, trying to regain control of the conversation. “It’s a done deal.” Selena let out a breath, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Sir, if I were you, I wouldn’t buy Triton. I would short it. I would short it with every cent of leverage your prime broker will allow.”
The silence at the table was instant. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to fade away. Victor’s smile faltered. “Excuse me?” “Triton doesn’t have the drilling rights,” Selena said, her voice low and rapid-fire. “The CEO, Jonathan Vargas, has been falsifying the geological surveys. He’s been using a shell company called Red Creek LLC to pay off local inspectors, but he missed a payment three days ago. The EPA is raiding their headquarters tomorrow morning at eight a.m. Eastern. The stock isn’t going to jump forty percent, Mr. Callaway. It’s going to zero.”
Victor stared at her. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Brad looked between them, confused. “What is she talking about? Who is Red Creek?” Selena was not finished. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a blade against Victor’s throat. “Furthermore, you’re leveraged four to one on this trade using a swap agreement with Goldman Sachs. If Triton drops below twelve dollars a share, you face a margin call that will liquidate your entire portfolio. You’re not just risking the profit, Mr. Callaway. You’re risking the firm.”