Episode 1.

I know where I'm going. And I know who I want to be. That's why I took this job... and why, four years later, I continue to support clients. And your demands. And his lots of money. Most of the time they simply want discretion, which is, in fact, the bank's specialty. Other times, they want a little... personal touch. The phone rings and I display all my charm.

"This is Oliver," I say. How can I help you?

"Where the hell is your boss?" —a voice from the southern sierra explodes in my ear.

-Forgiveness?

"Don't fuck with me, Caruso!" I want my money!

It's not until he says the word "money" that I can recognize the accent. Tanner Drew, New York City's top luxury skyscraper developer and patriarch of the Drew Family Office. In the world of individuals "at the top," a family office is as high as your fortune. Rockefeller. Rothschild. Gates and Soros. Once hired, the family office oversees all advisers, lawyers and bankers who manage the family's money. Professionals who charge to get the most out of every penny. You don't talk to the family anymore... you talk to the office. So if the clan head calls me personally... I'm about to lose a few teeth.

"Has the transfer arrived yet, Mr. Drew?"

"You can bet I didn't get it, you asshole!" What the hell are you going to do to fix the problem? Your boss promised me that the money would be here at two! At two o'clock! he yells.

I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Lapidus is...

"I don't give a damn where he is...!" Forbes's uncle gave me until today; I gave your boss that deadline and now I'm giving you that same deadline! What the fuck else do we need to discuss?

My mouth suddenly feels dry. Every year, Forbes magazine presents a list of the 400 richest people in the United States. The year before, Tanner Drew was ranked four hundred and three. He didn't like it at all. So this year he is determined to move up a rank. Or three.

Unfortunately for me, the only thing standing in his way is a forty million dollar wire transfer to his personal account that we apparently haven't made yet.

"Wait a second, sir, I..." "Don't you dare make me wait..." He hit the call-hold button and waited. A minute later I expect to hear the voice of Judy Sklar, Lapidus's secretary. All I hear is a recorded message. With the boss on a partners retreat for the rest of the day, there's no reason for her to be in his office. I hang up and try again. This time I'm going straight to DEFCON One. Henry Lapidus's mobile. At the first call, no one answers. The same thing happens with the second. When it rings for the third time, I can only stare at the flashing red light on my phone. Tanner Drew is still waiting.

I contact him again and pick up my cell phone.

"I'm waiting for Mr. Lapidus to return my call," I explain.

"Son, if you leave me waiting again...

Whatever he's saying, I don't pay attention. Instead, my fingers glide over my cell phone, speed-dialing the number for Lapidus's pager. The instant I hear the buzz, I punch in my extension and add the number "1822." The ultimate urgency: double 911.

"... try his pathetic excuses." All I want to hear is that the transfer has gone through!

"I understand, sir.

-No, son. You do not understand. "Come on," I implore, looking

stare at my mobile "Dream!"

"What time did the last one leave?"

transfer? yells from the other side

of the line.

In fact, we officially close at three...

The clock ticks on the wall at a quarter past three.

... but sometimes we can lengthen the

hours until four. When he doesn't respond, I add. What is the account number and bank it is supposed to go to?

Drew quickly hands me all the facts, which I scribble on a small yellow Post-it sheet. Finally, he adds:

"Oliver Caruso, right?" That is your name?

His voice is soft and relaxed.

-Yes sir.

"Okay, Mr. Caruso. That's all I need to know.

Then hang up. I look at my cell phone, which is still silent. No answer yet.

Three minutes later, I've called and left pagers for all the members I have access to. No one answers. I take off my coat and loosen my tie. After a quick search in the Rodolex of our network, I find the number of the University Club, venue of the retreat for the bank's members. When I start to dial the number I swear I can hear my heartbeat. "You're talking to the University Club," a female voice answers. "Hello, I'm looking for Henry Lapi...

—If you want to speak to the operator

from the club or with a guest's room, please press zero — she continues saying the recorded voice.

Zero pulse and another mechanical voice says:

—All the operators are busy... please don't hang up.

I grip my phone tighter and frantically dial the numbers, searching for someone in authority. Baraff... Bernstein... Mary in Accounting. Any. Any. Any.

I hate the Fridays around Christmas. Where the hell is everyone?

In my ear, the mechanical voice of the woman repeats:

—All the operators are busy... please don't hang up.

I'm tempted to hit the panic button and call Shep, who's in charge of bank security, but…no…it's too big a problem…without the proper signatures, I'd never let myself. So if I can't find someone who has authority in the transfer department, I need to at least find someone in the back office who can...

I already have it.

My brother.

With my earpiece in one ear and my phone in the other, I close my eyes and listen as her phone rings. One time two times...

"I'm Charlie," she says.

-You are still here?

"No... I left an hour ago," she replies impassively. It is a creation of your imagination.

I decide to ignore the joke.

"Do you still know where Mary from Accounting keeps his username and password?"

-I think yes because?

"Don't move from there!" Down in a minute.

My fingers fly over the phone's keypad to connect the line to my cell phone…in case someone at the University Club answers the call.

I bolt out of my office, turn right, and head straight for the private elevator at the end of the dark mahogany-paneled hallway. I don't care that it's reserved for customers only. I enter Lapidus's six-number code into the keypad above the call buttons and the doors open. Security Shep wouldn't like this either.

The instant I step into the elevator, I turn and hit the Door Close button. Last week I read in a business book that the Door Close buttons on elevators are almost always offline; They're just there to make people in a hurry think they're in control. I wipe the sweat beading from my forehead and run my hand through my dark brown hair. Then I press the button again. And I press it again. It is a trip of three floors.

"My, my, my," Charlie exclaims, looking up from a stack of papers with his eternal boyish smile. Chin lowered, he peers over his classic horn-rimmed glasses. He has been wearing those glasses for years, long before they became fashionable. The same can be applied to his white shirt and his wrinkled pants. Both are inelegant pieces that he has taken from my closet, but somehow they fit perfectly on his slim body. Casual elegance; never farfetched

Look who's coming for fun in the slums! He sneers. Hey, where's your badge? I'm not a proletarian anymore?

I ignore the hit. It's something I've had to get used to in the last few months. Six months, to be exact—which is how long it's been since I got him the job at the bank. Charlie needed the money and Mom and I needed help paying the bills. If it had been just gas, electric, and rent, we wouldn't have had a problem. But our hospital bill...for Charlie; That has always been taken personally. It's the only reason he took the job. And while I know he sees it as just a way to contribute to the family finances while he writes his music, it must not be easy for him to see me upstairs, in a private office with a walnut desk and leather chair, while he's down here with the cubicles and the beige formica.

-What's happening to you? Him," he asks, rubbing my eyes. Does fluorescent light hurt you? If you want, I can go upstairs and get your lamp, or maybe I should take your mini Persian rug down... I know how industrial carpet affects your... "Will you please shut up for a minute?"

-What happened? —He asks,

suddenly worried. Is it about mom?

That's always his first question when he sees me upset…especially after the debt collectors gave him quite a scare last month.

"No, it's not about mom...

"Then don't do those things!" You almost gave me a vomiting attack!

"Sorry... I just... I'm running out of time." One of our clients... Lapidus was supposed to do a transfer and I just got ripped off because the money hasn't arrived yet.

Charlie props his heavy black shoes up on the desk, tilts his chair back onto its hind legs, and picks up a yellow can of Play-Doh from the corner of the desk. He lifts it up to his nose, removes the lid, sniffs at the can as if he were a child, and laughs. It's the typical high-pitched little brother laugh.

"How can you think it's funny?" I ask him.

"Is that what you're worried about?" A guy who hasn't gotten the money from him? Tell him to wait until Monday.

—Why don't you tell him... his name is Tanner Drew.

Charlie's chair hits the floor hard.

-Are you serious? -Question-. How much money are we talking about?

He didn't answer.

"Come on, Ollie, I don't mean to make a fuss.

I remain silent.

"Listen, if you didn't want to tell me, why did you come downstairs?"

I cannot refute that argument. My answer is barely a whisper. "Forty million dollars. -Forty millions! He shouts-. You've gone mad?

"You said you wouldn't make a fuss!"

"Ollie, this isn't like ripping off a redneck out of a wad of cash. When you're talking eight digits... that's not even pocket change for Tanner... and the guy already owns half of the center...

"Charlie!" -scream.

He is interrupted; he already knows I'm screwed.

"I could really use your help," I add, watching his reaction.

For anyone else it would be a moment to treasure: an admission of weakness that could tip the balance between walnut desks and beige Formica forever again. To be honest, I probably deserve it.

My brother looks me straight in the eye.

"Tell me what you need me to do," he says.