“Not all of it, just a controlling stake. Mayberry and Massot aren’t the fit you thought they’d be.”

“We’ll make ’em fit,” said Stockton, unconvincingly.

“I’ll be blunt. The deal has been disastrous for you, me, and the stockholders. I’ve lost my father’s company, you’ve ruined your stock price—I’m sure your board’s about to fire you—and there are senior citizens out there who are seeing their retirement fund evaporate.”

Pete tried to think of a comeback. He could only manage a shrug.

“You need to pull something out of the fire. Announce that you’ll divest yourself of Massot, sell it to me. Then quit Mayberry. I’ll pay you a separate deal, on the side.”

“On the side?”

Massot nodded. “A separate deal between you and me. Private payment for services rendered.” His dark eyes swept across the American. “I’m sure you find it distasteful to be bound to Mayberry for your paycheck. Sell Massot to me before it goes bankrupt, and I’ll reward you in the way you deserve.”

“You’re bribing me?”

“I certainly am.”

Stockton thought about it for half a second. “Sounds good. I hate this fucking racket.” He stretched, sighed. “I’ll want six million euros or no deal.”

Tom Massot smiled coldly. “You’re not in a position to argue. I am going to form a company, Bagatelle Incorporated, registered in Switzerland. It will have assets of cash, mostly. I will issue you three million shares. There will be no restriction on your selling them, which you can do immediately. Bagatelle will have a value of ten million euros in ten million shares.”

Stockton closed his eyes; an immense sense of relief washed over him. Of course, this was the end of his little scheme with Lazard. No more dragging the kid’s name through the mud. But who the fuck cared about that, he was going to make about 3.5 U.S. His Mayberry stock might even improve once he dumped the Massot nightmare. Let this punk try to rescue it without the staff and the designers.

“You got it. How quick can we do this thing? I can’t let the directors find out.”

“I’ll form the company tomorrow; you’ll sell the share block to me at eleven a.m., at which time you will receive your shares.”

“I’ll say this for you, you don’t take nothing personal,” Stockton mumbled. “I figured you’d get all snotty about losing control in the first place, but I guess you know business is business.”

“Indeed,” Massot said. He turned to leave.

“I fired that tramp Judy Dean tonight,” Stockton said.

Massot turned around again, and his eyes flashed. “Don’t refer to Miss Dean in that manner.”