“Indeed. He does have access to our inventory, but then he would have to pay or replace the goods, and at our list price. He’s a big boy. I’m sure he’ll figure out his finances. Look, I have to jump. Lunch at San Pietro. Good luck with the daughter. Ciao!” Corbett ended the call, fixed his tie, and donned the matching jacket to his wool-and-silk Canali suit.

Taking one last look in the mirror, he smirked. “Screw all of them,” he said to his reflection. He would figure out a way to take control of the cooker. He could probably buy out Marcus’s share if Steinwood was right about Marcus’s finances, and Steinwood would also take the money. But at the moment he needed to create a strategy to exit Live-Life-Long.

By branching out into related areas, Corbett had parlayed his cut of the business into a very tidy sum of money—the possession of which he had gotten quite used to. It bought him the best tables in the most elite restaurants in New York. Not so much in the Hamptons. There was a level of snobbery from the old-money crowd that seemingly permeated the soil, which used to grow potatoes, and the waters, which had once employed many fishermen. Who the hell do they think they are? He would seethe when he did not receive an invitation to someone’s private party. It wasn’t enough that he paid handsomely to attend various fund-raisers—sometimes in excess of three thousand dollars per person! It infuriated him that he was never on the short list of invitees to the estates of Sagaponack and Water Mill. But this year it was going to be different. He would make one big lasting impression on those boorish old-money snobs, who had finally given him a membership in one of the yacht clubs.

Corbett made his way to the elevator bank and punched DOWN. Before exiting the lobby, he nodded at the doorman, who smoothly opened the door for him. Corbett strutted down Madison Avenue toward his destination, taking time to peer at a leather briefcase in the window of Bottega Veneta. Price tag—thirty-two hundred dollars. He didn’t really need one but thought perhaps he should go to his lunch meeting with it. Would make him look business savvy. He glanced at his watch. He had chosen the Raymond Weil Maestro for today. Simple. Elegant. Not over the top. If he stopped in the boutique, he would be late for lunch. Not a good idea. His future was waiting. So were the truffles.

* * *