Page 26 of The Silver Fox Brother

Victor opens the door. "Have a good day, Mr. Sterling."

"Thanks, Victor."

The lobby is marble minimalism, a security desk staffed by people who know me by sight. I nod at them, head for the private elevator that goes directly to the fortieth floor.

Marcus is already at his desk when I step into the main office suite—mid-twenties, efficient, anticipates what I need before I ask for it. He's been with me for three years, keeps my schedule running like precision machinery.

"Morning," he says, standing with a coffee in hand.

"Saw the Vertex email. I've already started compiling a list of replacement firms."

This is why I pay him well.

"Good. I need options by end of day." I take the coffee—black, hot, exactly right—and head toward my office.

"Steinberg meeting still at eight?"

"Conference Room A. All materials are staged."

"Anyone else coming in I should know about?"

"Fletcher confirmed racquetball at noon. Tom from the site wants fifteen minutes sometime this morning about steel delivery delays. And your father called."

I pause. "What did he want?"

"Didn't say. Asked you to call him back."

Conrad Sterling calling three days after the Hamptons event means he wants something. Probably wants to discuss the development projects he mentioned at the party,or more likely, wants to criticize something about how I'm running my business.

I won't be calling back.

"Anything else?"

"That's it for now."

I nod and continue to my office.

Corner positioned, floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, views of the city that stretch for miles. My desk is clean—laptop, a few framed architectural renderings of completed projects, a crystal tumbler for late-night scotch when timelines require it. No clutter. No unnecessary distraction.

I set my briefcase down, pull up the Vertex file on my computer, and start drafting an email to my legal team about contract penalties. They don't get to walk away without consequences.

By 7:30, I've handled six emails, reviewed financials for a Brooklyn project, and approved a revised timeline for a Queens ground-breaking. Marcus appears in my doorway.

"Steinberg is here. Early."

Of course they are. Investors with fifty million on the line don't show up late.

"Give me two minutes. Offer them coffee."

"Already done."

I close my laptop, grab the presentation folder Marcus prepared yesterday, and head for Conference Room A.

The Steinberg Group today is Richard Steinberg and his daughter Anna, along with two of their senior analysts. I've worked with them before—they're smart, thorough, and they don't invest in projects that won't return thirty percent minimum.

"Richard. Anna. Gentlemen." I shake hands around the table, taking the seat at the head. "Thanks for coming in early."

"We're looking forward to seeing what you have, Knox," Richard says. He's sixty-eight, still sharp as a blade, built his investment firm from a single family office into a billion-dollar operation. "Sterling Tower has been generating buzz."