Alvinson poured himself a glass of Macallan 25 as soon as he stepped out of his private elevator. He did not accept defeat. He did not believe in learning moments. To a man who viewed human beings as algorithmic data points to be manipulated, Catalina Morgan was an anomaly that needed to be erased. He pulled his phone from his tailored pocket and dialed a number he reserved for corporate espionage and personal dirty work. “David,” Alvinson barked into the receiver the moment the line connected. David Croft was a former intelligence officer who now ran an incredibly discreet, highly unethical private-security firm in Manhattan. “I have a problem at Le Cirque. A waitress. Name is Catalina. Get me everything. I want her financial history, her family, her education. I want to know where she bleeds.” “Give me twenty-four hours, Mr. Carmichael,” David replied, his voice a gravelly monotone. It took David only twelve.
The next morning, Alvinson sat at his expensive glass desk at Carmichael Analytics, reviewing the encrypted PDF David had sent over. The dossier laid Catalina’s entire life bare, and Alvinson’s cruel smile slowly returned as he read. Catalina Morgan was not just a waitress. She was a brilliant doctoral candidate at Columbia University, specializing in historical linguistics. But her academic career was currently frozen. The file detailed her father, Robert Morgan, a retired postal worker who had suffered a massive ischemic stroke eighteen months prior. Without comprehensive insurance, the medical bills from Mount Sinai Hospital, combined with the cost of his ongoing physical therapy and full-time care, had decimated the family’s savings. Catalina was drowning in exactly $140,000 of medical debt. Alvinson leaned back, steepling his fingers. She was financially fragile. She was desperate. That made her exceptionally easy to crush.
He picked up his phone and dialed the general manager of Le Cirque. “Mr. Carmichael, what an honor,” Gregory’s voice trembled slightly through the speaker. “I hope your dining experience last night was—” “It was atrocious, Gregory,” Alvinson cut him off, his voice dripping with fabricated outrage. “I am calling to formally complain about the server who attended table four. Catalina, I believe her name was.” “Catalina? Sir, she is usually our most—” “She was entirely inappropriate,” Alvinson lied smoothly, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. “She eavesdropped on confidential corporate discussions between Ms. Hayes and myself. Furthermore, when I asked her for a wine recommendation, she made a deeply disparaging comment about my guest’s palate. It was thoroughly unprofessional. I am currently reconsidering my patronage at Le Cirque. And I will certainly be warning my colleagues in the financial sector about the lack of discretion your staff possesses.”
Panic radiated through the phone line. Le Cirque survived on the patronage of men like Alvinson. “Mr. Carmichael, please accept my deepest apologies. I assure you, this is not the standard of our establishment. I will handle it immediately.” “See that you do,” Alvinson said softly. “I expect to never see her in your dining room again.” He ended the call, a dark sense of satisfaction settling in his chest. The natural order of the world, as he understood it, was restored.