You're not poor. You were just hiding. Elena paused. She had forgotten the money.
She had ignored the statements for years, living off her tips to punish herself for a mistake she made years ago, a deal that went wrong and hurt a family business. She had been doing penance, but penance was over. "$12 million isn't enough to hurt Thorne," Elena calculated. "His fund is worth 4 billion.
"No. Marcus grinned, a shark-like expression that matched hers. "But $12 million is enough to buy the entrance ticket to the game. "What's the play?
Julian needs a bridge loan," Elena explained, her mind working at light speed. If he buys Kensington, he can't use traditional banks for the remediation costs because he's hiding the toxicity. He'll need private credit, high interest off the books financing to modernize the facility before he flips it. He'll go to the Shadow lenders, Marcus agreed.
He'll go to Vanguard Shadow, Elena corrected. Because Vanguard Shadow is the only firm aggressive enough to fund a deal that risky in 48 hours. Marcus raised an eyebrow. Vanguard Shadow doesn't exist.
It does as of tomorrow morning. Elena said, "You set up the shell. I'll front the face. We offer him the money he needs to close the Kensington deal.
We let him buy the toxic land. We let him think he's safe." And the catch, the catch is in the collateral agreement. Elena said, "We don't take the land as collateral. We take his personal stake in Thorn Dynamics and we add a material adverse change clause triggered by, let's say, an EPA investigation." Marcus whistled low.
You're going to lend him the money to buy the poison, then call the cops on the poison trigger, the default, and seize his entire company. He humiliated me for $500," Elena said, standing up and walking to the window. She looked out at the city, her reflection superimposed over the lights. "I'm going to take his company for 10 cents on the dollar." Marcus stood up and extended his hand.
Welcome back, Elena. I've missed this. The following morning, Julian Thorne was pacing in his office, his suit jacket thrown over a chair.
His office was a temple to his ego modern art floor-to-ceiling glass and a desk made of reclaimed aircraft aluminum. But the air in the room was stale with panic. The EPA report is real, Brett said, his voice shaking. He was standing by the door, afraid to come closer.
We pulled the archives this morning. That waitress. She was right. Kensington is a Superfund site waiting to happen.