Predator - страница 2

The master’s program lasted two years, and by the time he finished, around 2005, Cross was already developing a strategy of his own. In those days, volatile markets were a gold mine: options, hedging, short-term trades. Trading was undergoing a transformation, and Cross threw himself into it. Everyone fought, but only a few won. His first trades were painful, and the losses were brutal. But he didn’t back down. Gradually, he began turning a profit. Trade by trade, figure by figure, through calculation alone. He started bringing together a team of men as obsessed as he was, sharp and unlikely to panic. Even then, while still working under someone else’s name, he began building his own system. Without pomp, banners, or slogans. What worked was cold efficiency and a clear plan. And he made it work.

The night over Malibu was warm, still, and thick with darkness. Beyond the window, the sea spread like shattered black glass all the way to the horizon. Only a few yachts glimmered in the dark, as though someone had scattered the lights of lovestruck lanterns across the water.

The two-story villa, with its open terraces, white railings, dancing palm shadows, and faint scent of salt in the air, welcomed guests like a hostess sure of herself.

Inside, the music played low, with a rich bassline and a sweet aftertaste of the eighties that made you want to move even while standing still. On the first floor, a long glass table was covered with drinks: whiskey in squat bottles, clear vodka with droplets on the necks, champagne in ice buckets, tequila with lemon wedges. A thin trail of hookah smoke wound lazily from the edge of the bar toward the ceiling, like a snake slowly waking from sleep. Farther along stood two more tables laden with all kinds of appetizers and dishes.

Along the wall stood a pool table, green as a dollar bill, its balls neatly arranged, waiting for someone swaying slightly on their feet to strike them too hard or, perhaps, with excessive grace.

When their hands could no longer hold their glasses, the guests began to play. Everything had already been said, everything drunk, and the room had long since begun to swim. The girls looked as though they had stepped out of a music video: silk dresses, bare backs, moist lips, and looks that needed no words. One had a gleaming belly ring, another had champagne poured into her shoe, another was laughing herself to tears, because the alcohol had long since fermented inside them, and now they laughed more from the exhaustion of being beautiful than from any real amusement.

The men stood with expensive watches on their wrists, two days’ stubble, and a faint boredom on their faces that faded only when a woman who had yet to say yes walked past.

Upstairs, a DJ was at work. Well practiced and very good at what he did, he stirred their blood slowly, deeply, almost secretly, or with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

And Cross… He neither took center stage nor hid in a corner. He was simply there, yet everyone felt his presence. He sat back on the sofa with a glass in his hand, listening as the evening scattered around him like sugar over warm glass. He barely drank, taking only small sips of whiskey, watching and remembering.

Now and then, someone came over, clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand, and told him who had made how much, who had sold what, who had taken whom to bed, and how many minutes had passed before she lit a cigarette. Cross nodded and smiled, but none of it touched him inside. Yes, he liked the lights, the women, the smoke, and the whiskey, but they were not what gave him pleasure. The pleasure came from knowing he could afford all of it. Like a man who needed no introduction.