“Well, aren’t we perfect,” Stockton sneered. He had his own three million safe and sound in his pocket. He didn’t need to suck up to Massot any more.

Tom turned to the remaining two suits. “Would you give us a moment, gentlemen, please? And kindly issue the press release we have prepared.”

They nodded. The Frog lawyer said good day to him as they left the room. Stockton ignored the old fool. He didn’t have time for the hired help.

Massot stood up, and Stockton followed him.

“Would you like a drink?”

He gestured to the decanter of whisky sitting on an oak side table, with a single cut-glass tumbler next to it.

“I guess it’s a bit early for me, son. We’re not all drunks like you,” Stockton said rudely.

“Don’t call me son.” Massot shrugged. “I thought you might need it.”

“And why’s that?”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Tom Massot. And he smiled.

Pete Stockton stared. In walked Hugh Montfort and Sophie Massot. Or Montfort. What-the-fuck-ever. Cool as a freaking cucumber, Montfort in one of his classy dark suits and the Sophie woman in a butterscotch silk skirt, hose, matching shoes, and a cream shirt, dripping with pearls and gold bracelets.

“Maman, Hugh; Pete here was just asking me why he’d need a drink at eleven o’clock in the morning.”

Sophie spoke up. He remembered that voice, soft and gentle, English with a Frenchified accent; he’d always laughed at her naivety, but today when she spoke there was a thread of steel to it.

“That would be because Tom has ruined you, Mr. Stockton. The way you sought to ruin us, the way you plundered the savings of millions of House Massot shareholders.”

Pete laughed. “Don’t let’s get crazy, lady. He got his daddy’s company back, but he paid plenty to do it. You want to call yourselves the victors? All you did is pay my ransom money.” He stared at Tom contemptuously. “And that’ll hurt a lot worse than a kick in the balls—son.”

“Tom didn’t pay you anything,” Hugh Montfort said. “Nothing to speak of, at least. Meanwhile, selling the division at such a discount will certainly get you fired.”

“If you call three million shares in the parent company nothing to speak of.” Pete rolled his eyes. “You don’t give up, Montfort, do you? Whenever he sells a piece, I’ll get a cut. Whenever he makes money, I make money. Let Mayberry fire me! I don’t need those fuckers. I prefer a private income. Work is for losers.”

He tapped his contract, smugly. There it was, against his chest, reassuring in its crisp white envelope with the Massot monogram.

“I didn’t grant you three million shares in the parent company,” said Tom Massot.