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I’d have resigned as chairman long ago if I didn’t have Nick around to keep the fucking traders out of my hair. Now that that’s out of the way, no more business until after we eat. You boys need to realize that to gavones like me and David, eating is religion. You don’t sully religion with business.”
    The next hour went by like a blur as David did his best to keep up with the conversation while wolfing down a piece of steak big enough to hang from a meat hook. True to his word, Giovanni kept the dialogue away from business—which was a good thing considering that David was so far below these men in terms of pecking order, he should have been wearing an apron and telling them about the dessert specials. During the meal, David spent much of the time taking mental notes about Giovanni and the others—especially Reston. He still didn’t really know what the Mercantile Exchange was all about, nor did he have any idea what Giovanni and Reston did as chairman and president. But he could tell, even from the nonbusiness conversation, that Reston was sharp, polished, probably a genius. He had a bit of a Texas accent and a little bit of cowboy toughness in his speech patterns, but even so, David could see that the man was as smart as anyone he had gone to school with. From snippets of conversation, he found out a bit about the man’s history. Ten years ago, in his midtwenties, Reston had been some sort of rock-star trader foran oil company in Houston when he’d been invited by an associate he’d met at a conference to work at the Merc. He’d taken the opportunity, even though it had meant a huge pay cut and a major change in lifestyle. He’d quickly risen in prominence, making a small fortune on the trading floor—and catching Giovanni’s eye. Giovanni, who’d first made his fortune in real estate and then doubled it on the trading floor, had already grown to prominence as a key member of the board that ran the Merc. Recognizing Reston’s abilities, the older man had yanked him under his wing. Together, they had built a power base among the board, and when Giovanni had been elected chairman, it hadn’t taken long for him to get Reston the president’s seat, despite the Texan’s age.
    Reston seemed like a straight shooter, brilliant but also hard as nails. David noticed that Reston was somewhat ignoring him during the meal, not openly—nothing rude—but he never seemed to address David directly. It kind of reminded David of the kids at Oxford who wanted nothing to do with the little shit from Brooklyn, so they just pretended he wasn’t there. David couldn’t help wondering if Reston was going to be a problem.
    After the meal was finally cleared away, the billionaire and the consultant demigod excused themselves, and David found himself left alone at the table with Giovanni and Reston. Giovanni quickly ordered another round of scotch; it would be David’s fourth—difficult, but hopefully not disastrous. He’d learned to drink at Oxford, of course, but he’d lost some of his skills over the past two years.
    When the drinks arrived, Reston surprised David by suddenly turning to face him head on, his own drink raised.
    “So, kid,” he said, which seemed kind of funny considering he didn’t look that much older than David, “what do you know about the Merc Exchange? The NYMEX?”
    David touched his scotch to Reston’s, then took a long sip. He could feel Giovanni watching, amused.
    Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the massive hunk of meat in his stomach, but David decided it was time to stopbeing intimidated by these guys just because they were richer, more powerful, smarter—well, goddamn intimidating.
    “Not a damn thing,” he answered.
    Reston laughed.
    “Good fucking answer. Well, it’s not rocket science. An exchange is like a soccer field. It’s where the game takes place. We’re the officials who make sure that the game is played fairly, that everyone follows the rules. The NYMEX