Page 49 of Faking It
“I know what he’s talking about,” Enzo pipes in. “I miss that thrill of the chase. When my Nonno tasked me with adding a new market to the vineyard, I felt like I could breathe again. It was new. It was different. It wasn’t the same ‘ol day in, day out bullshit.”
I hate that they just put words to how I’ve been feeling lately. Bored. The day to day not holding any sort of challenge, like it did in the beginning. We’d succeeded in the world of business. The hustle was over.
The breeze off the Mediterranean swirls up and smells of salt and sea and the coconut oil worn by many around us.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, interest piqued, but plate more than full.
“I say we have a contest,” Kostas says as he picks up a fresh beer. “One where we find that thrill again.”
“You can find it in the next woman who walks through the door. Who are you kidding?” Mateo jokes.
“True, but it’s not the same.” He looks out to the bar, the people, and takes his time finding the words he wants to use just like he did when I first met him at Princeton over a decade ago.
“You’re too young to be having a midlife crisis,” Enzo adds. “More pussy will fix that for you.”
“I’ve got all the pussy I want,” he counters.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, knowing those words will only lead to a pissing match between the three of them to see who’s fucked who lately. “We all can . . .so Kos, what’s the deal?”
“I’m too young to lay down and die.” Kostas and his flair for the dramatic. “I think we should make a bet. A contest. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.”
“A contest? We’re not in college anymore,” Mateo says. Memories flash back of the four of us. The competitions that would end in fist fights. The egos that would spar for dominance. The need to be on top always paramount.
“Hear me out,” Kostas says with a lift of his finger. “We each get to use one million of our own capital to invest how we please in a new business venture.”
Enzo blows out a sharp whistle when god knows he has billions in that family bank account of his. “Only a million?”
“Only a million,” Kostas says like only one who has lived a life of infinite privilege could. To most new businesses, a million would be a fortune. To us, it’s a simple drop in the bucket. “It has to be something you’ve never dabbled in before. We put a time frame on it. A start date. An end date. We see who can take that million dollars and make it the most in that amount of time.”
The idea makes my blood hum.
I study the reactions of those around me, men who are like brothers to me. Our lives are so busy that we may only get to see each other ever year or two, and yet we’re so similar in drive and ambition, it’s scary.
“Okay,” Enzo draws the word out. “What are the stakes?”
“Pride. Getting our balls back.” Kostas purses his lips and looks at each one of us. “Not being in our early thirties and feeling like there’s nothing left to accomplish.”
“A good lay with two or three of my closest le signore could do that for me,” Enzo says with a laugh that tells me he’s already been there, done that. Possibly even paid for it. Fucking, Enzo. “We need more to it than that.”
“How about four million,” Mateo speaks up and has us all whipping our heads his way. “One million from each of the losers. We set a start date, we all put up the million dollars for our venture, we all agree on a neutral accountant and after a set amount of time, that accountant goes through the financials of each company. The one that makes the biggest profit or has the greatest resale value—something like that—wins a million from the other fuckers.”
“And this stays between us. No one outside the four of us will know about this,” Enzo says and we all nod.
“Of course.”
“Outside investors?” I ask thinking how beneficial it could be to merge forces with someone. “Can we have help?”
“Mmm,” Kostas murmurs as he runs a finger over his bottom lip in thought. “They can add another million max, but you have to retain majority ownership. But why would you share your profit?”
“You never know what opportunities might present themselves,” I murmur, meeting him stare for stare.
“Agreed.” A sly smile slides onto Kostas’ lips. It’s high enough stakes that he’ll bite. “Does it matter what we invest in?” he asks.
“It must be legal,” I interject, knowing they sometimes dip their fingers in pies that aren’t always free and clear.
“Of course,” Mateo says.
“I’m not fucking around on that, mate.”
