"Fuck you! Goddamn Robert Ryan! A party, on a day this chaotic... Go eat shit!"
In the back of his limousine, Krauman Pelton, who ran the Pelton Hotel, swore without letup.
The subprime crisis that had erupted in America was spreading across the world like an epidemic.
Overnight, the number of travelers plunged.
The Pelton Group, whose main business was luxury hotels, had taken one of the hardest hits.
Occupancy across the hotel chain had dropped below thirty percent.
The company was barely breaking even.
The stock had swung wildly, and he'd learned that the Unions private equity fund had bought up even more shares.
Krauman, who'd been building up funds to take back Pelton's stock, was left feeling hollow.
Directors sent by Unions now sat throughout the hotel's management.
And they watched everything and kept throwing pickoff moves at him.
Krauman's grip on the organization was clearly weaker than it used to be.
Executives and employees openly refused his unfair orders.
He felt as though he'd fallen from running the company to being just another director.
It made his blood boil, but there was nothing he could do.
For now, he was grateful just not to be going under.
Wall Street investment firms and companies were going bankrupt practically every other day.
Rumors were flying everywhere that even the auto industry's Big Three, the pillars of American manufacturing, had run through their spare cash.
And in the middle of all that, Robert Ryan was throwing a party.
He'd flown to New York from McLean, Virginia, on his private plane.
He'd been reduced to a puppy wagging its tail.
Robert Ryan held a large stake in Unions; if he said fired, Krauman would be out of the company on the spot.
He was furious enough to lose his mind.
"...I think we're here."
"Here? We're still on the road, aren't we?"
"Well... the cars are backed up."
The driver answered, flustered.
"Backed up?"
"I think you'll have to go on foot."
"What! You want me to walk?"
A mansion in the Hamptons on Long Island, New York's wealthiest enclave and…