Page 25 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

“Timing was perfect,” I reply, leaning forward. “Got out right at the peak before the post-IPO reality check hit. Stock’s already down thirty percent since we dumped it. Let the pension funds hold the bag, along with the mom and pop suckers.”

Luca chuckles, running a hand through his meticulously styled dark hair. “Always the strategist. Get in, hype the shit out of it, get out before the bubble pops. Ruthless. I love it. And all legal, too. Gotta love thiscountry.” He pauses, his eyes gleaming. “Calls for a celebration, wouldn’t you say?”

I know that look. “Later, maybe. Got that call with the London fund at three.”

“Plenty of time.” Luca reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small, sleek silver vial. Unscrews the top. Taps a small mound of white powder onto the back of his hand.

Cocaine. Of course.

“Come on, Leo,” he urges, holding it out. “Victory lap. You earned it.”

Do I need it? No. Do I want it? The low-grade restlessness humming under my skin answers for me. That lingering Vegas irritation. The pressure of maintaining the image, the empire. The constant need to beon. Yeah, maybe just a bump. Take the edge off. Sharpen the focus for London.

Just like Dad needed a drink to face the day.

The thought flickers, unwelcome. I shove it down.

“Fine,” I say, leaning across the desk. I snort the line quickly, expertly.

The sharp sting hits my nostrils first. It’s like inhaling winter air that’s been crystallized into pure sensation, and makes my eyes water slightly before I can stop them. Then comes the numbing sensation spreading across the delicate membranes inside my nose, followed seconds later by that familiar chemical burn sliding down the back of my throat.

Almost instantly, a wave of cold clarity washes over me, followed by the artificial confidence surging through my veins.

The world snaps into sharper focus. The lingering fog dissipates.

“That’s my boy,” Luca grins, taking his own hit. He leans back, sniffing hard. “So. Axiom’s cashed out. What’s next on the hit list? That AI drone startup in Palo Alto looks promising.”

“Looking at it,” I say, the coke already making my mind race faster. “Due diligence reports are on your desk. Potential ten-bagger if they nail the next funding round. Need to decide if we lead the Series B. The London call is actually related... gauging their sovereign wealth fund’s appetite for co-investing.”

Yeah, ‘potential ten-bagger’ if their tech isn’t ninety percent vaporware and the market doesn’t take a nosedive six months before exit. Luca knows the game. It’s all a fucking crapshoot. You do the diligence, you run the numbers, you listen to the pitch, but at the end of the day? It’s a gut check. A bet. For every Axiom unicorn that makes headlines, there are fifty fucking donkeys we bury quietly in the portfolio graveyard. My gut’s usually right, better than any spreadsheet, but it’s still just a high-stakes gamble dressed up in fancy suits.

“Always business.” Luca waves a dismissive hand, though I know he’s just as focused on the money as I am. That’s why we work. Kindred spirits clawing our way to the top. “What aboutrealfun? Chamonix next month? That new line off the Aiguille du Midi looks insane. Vertical drop, tight couloir. Makes the last run look like a bunny slope.”

Wingsuiting. Flying. The only time the noise in my head truly shuts off. Just the roar of the wind, the adrenaline rush, the absolute focus required not to become a red smear on a mountainside. It’s the ultimate control. The ultimate escape.

The ultimate danger.

“Already booked,” I confirm.

“Good man,” Luca says. “We’re at the top of our game. Girls. Adrenalin. Money. This is whatlivinglooks like.” He taps out another line, smaller this time. Offers it.

I hesitate for only a fraction of a second. The first hit just dialed things up. This one will lock it in. Keep the edge sharp. Keep the doubts buried. Keep the restlessness at bay.

I take the second hit. The energy surges, clean and powerful.

I feel invincible. Ready to conquer London, Chamonix, the whole goddamn world.

“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet office. “Let’s talk strategy for the London call. I want them eating out of our hands.”

Luca grins, the coke glittering faintly around his nostrils. “Music to my ears.”

We dive back into work, the conversation rapid-fire, fueled by adrenaline and chemicals. Numbers fly, strategies form, contingencies are planned.

Two point three billion liquid from Axiom. After taxes, fees, and giving the Limited Partners (the pension funds, endowments, and other big-money investors who actually fund this circus) their initial fifty million back plus their preferred return, call it two billion clean profit back to the fund. Now comes the split. Standard LP agreement means eighty percent of that profit gets reinvested into hunting the next unicorn. That’s one point six billion added to the war chest. The remaining twenty percent, four hundred million, is the ‘carried interest’ or ‘carry,’ which is the fucking reward for the General Partners, us, for making the LPs richer. Luca gets his share of that carry based on our partnership deal, call it eighty mil for him. My take is bigger, around three-twenty mil, because on top of my share of the carry,I get the return on the significant personal capital I invested in the fund right alongside the LPs. Luca put less skin into Axiom, so he gets less of the direct profit distribution, though his carry percentage is the same.

So I personally made three-hundred and twenty million on Axion. Not bad. But the real game is deploying the remaining one point six billion. How many bets? Eighty deals at twenty million average? Spread the risk? Or do we go bigger, maybe forty deals at forty million? Concentrate the firepower, hunt for therealgame-changers, the ones that return the whole fund? It’s decisions like these that make or break us.

But this is where I thrive. The speed, the pressure, the kill.

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