All In

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  They had gone up against Investum twice before, testing their strength against the Swedish finance world’s most venerable family in a battle for board seats, and they had lost. It had cost them appalling amounts of money both times. Some of their financial backers had pulled out, Hammar Capital had bled like wounded prey, and David himself had taken a beating in the press. But they had analyzed their mistakes and started the strenuous work of regaining people’s trust.

  And now here they were.

  Stronger than ever. Ready to do what had never been done before. Hijack Investum.

  Some would say it was crazy. But it was basically a sound business plan. They’d run the numbers over and over again. Gordon Wyndt had summarized it for them one night in his office in Manhattan overlooking Central Park: crazy, reckless, but full of possibility. The fact that the De la Grip family would probably go under after the raid was a side effect that Michel accepted as necessary. For David that was the actual motivating factor, the reason he had worked single-mindedly toward this one goal.

  Because the downfall of those two men would set him free.

  And if a woman who stood at the sidelines was crushed in the process, then that was collateral he knew he was ruthless enough to accept.

  8

  Peter De la Grip listened to his father’s icy monologue. The oxygen in the smallest conference room at Investum was running out. Peter tried to stifle a yawn but didn’t succeed and was forced to yawn into the crook of his arm. His father gave him an irritated look and returned to verbally tearing the female chairman of the board to shreds.

  Peter glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost six and the office was emptying out, but when his father got going it could take some time. He wondered if his father did it on purpose, left conversations like these until late on a Friday to really screw up his victim’s entire weekend.

  Outwardly, his father was in favor of equal rights for women, of course. Anything else would be media suicide. But the small number of female directors at Investum’s various subsidiaries didn’t usually last long. When Gustaf De la Grip summoned them to headquarters and went off on one of his merciless tirades, they usually resigned voluntarily. His father would then complain in the press about how difficult it was to find women with the right skill set and career focus.

  In the sauna and on their fall game-hunting trips, however, he took a different tone. Then the demeaning words about women in the workplace really hit the fan in a way that few outsiders would even believe. Women were scatterbrained, it was that time of the month and it was affecting their logic, they weren’t biologically suited to serve on corporate boards. Sometimes it was almost tiresome. But his father didn’t believe in having women at the top, and Peter wasn’t the type to fight for someone else. People had to fight their own battles. But anyone who claimed that the world of Swedish business was a level playing field had no idea what they were talking about.

  He turned in his chair and looked askance at his phone. Louise had texted to say they were having guests over. He’d been to the liquor store and Östermalmshall, but he was going to be late, and he hated to annoy Louise. He quickly texted her that they should start without him. It couldn’t be helped.

  “I expect your cooperation and loyalty,” his father told the director. “I thought you were going to show that you were worth our investment.”

  Peter was forced to peek at his papers, because suddenly he couldn’t even remember her name.

  Rima Campbell, age fifty-two. An immigrant, she hadn’t had a chance from the beginning.

  “But I . . . ,” she said, and Peter rolled his eyes. His father hated being interrupted. In the worst of cases, he would begin again. Peter never interrupted his father.

  Gustaf continued. “You’re not cooperating. You’re not loyal. You’re questioning the board.”

  Peter had sat through countless meetings like this. Only women were subjected to such treatment.

  Sometimes he agreed with his father—sometimes the victim really was the wrong person for the job. Sometimes, like today, he thought Gustaf was making a mistake.

  The woman with the hopelessly un-Swedish name was good at what she did and seemed to be doing a decent job. Simply the fact that she’d made it this far—she was an immigrant, a woman, and a single mother—suggested that her skills were above average. Her two sons were probably adults now, but Rima Campbell had built an impressive career for herself while raising two children. She had done it on her own, stayed single, and broken right through most of the glass ceilings. But it didn’t matter what Peter thought of her performance. Gustaf did what he wanted. And right now he was intent on breaking the dark-skinned director, whom he’d hired just a few months earlier. He wanted to show that women didn’t belong at the top, that they were overly emotional and prone to overreacting. He wanted to show that he was right.

  Gustaf continued, “Your colleagues tell me you’re not loyal. People are dissatisfied with you.”

  “Who? Which colleagues?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But you need to know: no one likes you.”

  Peter was close to breaking in. Surely this was a little over the top?

  Rima was a little pale, but she was holding it together, and Peter didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have done any good.

  “I can’t defend myself against anonymous accusations,” Rima said grimly.

  Gustaf began anew, attacking her over and over again in a chilling voice. Finally she just sat there in silence, her eyes dry, red splotches on her neck.

  “I want you to take the weekend to think about it and consider whether we can work together in the future,” Gustaf concluded coldly. “Currently I just don’t see it.”

  Rima swallowed. Peter didn’t dare look at either of them; he was practically holding his breath. She stood up. Her hands were shaking. But she hadn’t started to cry, and her voice had remained polite throughout. Clearly, she was really tough. But it was over for her, he knew it. On Monday she would resign. He was sure of that.

  Before Rima had even left the room, his father said, loudly enough for her to hear, “That’s what happens when you hire a jungle bunny.”

  Peter looked down at the table.

  After Rima left, his father asked, “Are you going out to the estate?” as if nothing unusual had happened, as if he hadn’t just broken a woman and also been so racist that Peter was ashamed.

  But Peter just nodded. It didn’t matter; his father never listened to what anyone said. Father always knew best.

  “Louise invited some friends over for the weekend,” he said.

  “Business acquaintances?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Peter bowed his head at the approval, wished his father’s praise didn’t mean so much to him.

  They said good-bye. Gustaf strolled out to the car that his private chauffeur drove up and Peter walked down to the garage. As soon as they parted, he felt some of the relentless pressure lifting. It was almost a physical relief, as if someone had been sitting on his chest and had now gotten off.

  He clicked to unlock the car and then opened the door.

  Friday. A whole weekend with no other obligations than to possibly play host to one or two well-organized dinners. How wonderful. He drove out of the garage and headed out of the city. As he drove through the Friday evening traffic, his mind turned to the uncomfortable meeting, but he brushed it aside.

  He had more than enough of his own problems to deal with. Getting into a conflict with his father was the last thing he needed.

  As soon as the speed limit went up, he pushed down on the gas pedal.

  But it had been a rough meeting. It got rougher every time, but you didn’t question Gustaf De la Grip. Not if you wanted a prominent position at Investum. And that, more than anything, was exactly what Peter wanted—a prominent position, the most prominent: CEO.

  Sometimes it felt like he’d been fighting his whole life.

  He was reminded
of that even today. How he started school, worked like an animal, and only heard that he had to put in more effort. How was it possible to fight so hard and still never really get there?

  His father, who didn’t believe in weakness, psychologists, or other failings, had handled every difficulty by scolding him sporadically. In a family where one was expected to excel at something, where everyone was the best at something, in a family whose motto was “Business is pleasure” he had never been anything more than mediocre.

  He stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

  The sense of impotence and frustration had always been like a darkness within him. And his outlet had always been to attack those who were even weaker. Better to bully than to be bullied. Better to hit than to be hit. That could have been the De la Grip family motto right there, he thought. Sometimes he dreamed that someone would intervene and speak up, change the story, prevent the catastrophe. But he didn’t want to think about it, had devoted so much time to not remembering.

  Still, it was strange, he thought as he followed the traffic, that at the age of thirty-five he could still be struck by that sense of panic he had experienced as a schoolboy, of never getting it right. It was like one of those nightmares people talked about—you worked like crazy but never got anywhere. That was exactly how it had been.

  He had always had to struggle to achieve what had come so easily to Natalia and Alexander. Both of his siblings had earned top grades and gotten into the School of Economics with no problem. After two unsuccessful attempts to get in, he had given up and started a degree at the regular university instead. His father had never said anything, but he hadn’t needed to. By that point everyone knew that Peter was and would remain second-rate.

  He sighed heavily, wondered why he’d thought of this just now. He hadn’t thought about these things for a long time. But something was changing; he sensed it.

  Alexander had disgraced himself with his drinking and womanizing. No one was counting on him anymore. And Natalia. Well, she was a woman—it didn’t matter how good she was.

  Peter looked in the rearview mirror and then passed someone quickly. Natalia seemed to be doing a good job with this new bank deal, he was willing to concede that to himself, even if he would never admit it to his father. But he hoped Natalia would pull it off. It was important to their father, and it was best for everyone that their father get what he wanted.

  Peter saw the sign and turned onto the side road to the house. Soon he’d be home. Louise was already waiting for him, the perfect hostess, elegant and refined, content to be a lady of the manor at one of the country’s finest estates. As long as Louise got to live out here she would be satisfied, he knew that. Maybe he didn’t love her, but he understood her, and that was good enough. They suited each other, and he had never expected love. Didn’t even know if he could love or be loved.

  He slowed and drove down the long, oak-lined avenue. Some of the trees were several hundred years old. He glanced off to the side, studied the well-tended fields and waterways glimmering in the summer light. The day he’d signed the paperwork and taken over the family seat had been his proudest. It was like receiving the recognition he’d been waiting for his whole life, acknowledgment that in spite of everything, he did deserve his hereditary due. It was an opportunity to finally look ahead toward the long term and not just live from year to year.

  He drove in the open iron gates, listened to gravel crunch beneath the tires. Climbed out and stood, gazing up at the yellow façade.

  Maybe he should finally let go of the demons that had pursued him for so long. Because when he took over the castle, when he realized his father really was choosing him as his heir and not Alex, not some worthy cousin, but him, then it was as if someone had finally let a little light into the perpetual darkness that surrounded him and said, “Now, Peter, you’ve done the right thing for so long that the statute of limitations is up on what you did in the past.”

  If that was true, then there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep it that way.

  Nothing.

  9

  Saturday, June 28

  It was a magical performance, Natalia thought. She didn’t take her eyes off Sarah Harvey for a second. It might have been one of the best evenings of her life. The atmosphere at Café Opera was close and intimate, the experience almost private.

  The last note of the final encore ebbed away, and if Natalia had ever felt a spiritual presence, now was the time. There was thunderous applause from the invited guests, and Natalia caught Åsa’s attention. They were seated at a table right up next to the stage. She could tell Åsa was so moved that she had tears in her eyes.

  The soprano circulated around the tables, greeting friends, and shook both Natalia and Åsa’s hands. After that they strolled out into the summer evening. Despite the late hour, it was still light outside, and an almost tropical heat lingered over the city.

  “We can’t go home now,” Natalia said, still filled with the music. “How about one last drink?”

  Åsa waved a hand and nodded. “Alright, but somewhere without tourists,” she said. “What are all these people doing here?”

  Natalia laughed and took a few dancing steps across the cobblestones in her high-heeled golden sandals.

  As a child she had danced ballet—long, hard workouts. She had loved the old-fashioned discipline, the pale-pink shoes and simple outfits, but since she wasn’t one of the very best in her group, her mother decided it was a waste of time to continue. The next day she began at a school for ballroom dancing instead.

  Natalia furrowed her brow. All these choices that had been made for her, which shaped her. If it had been up to her mother, she would never have entered the financial world. “Wasted on a woman.” But Natalia had put her foot down on that one.

  She wove around an embracing couple. “What did you think?” she asked. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

  Åsa had grumbled and complained. No normal people stayed in Stockholm at this time of year. And Café Opera wasn’t that hip. But she’d still canceled an all-weekend party and come along.

  “It was nice,” Åsa admitted, but then swore as one of her sky-high heels stuck between two cobblestones. She’d had more to drink than Natalia and was a little wobbly. A curl of blond hair was dangling in front of one eye, and the thin shawl she wore over her shoulders shimmered under the streetlights. She looked like a movie star.

  Natalia couldn’t stop smiling. The June night was warm and magical. The streets were filled with people, and she felt young and strong, as if the last few years of worry and grief had randomly decided to go off and burden someone else.

  “I haven’t had such a nice time in ages,” she said.

  “Not since Jonas,” Åsa said, surprising Natalia with her astuteness, because they never talked about the past. Åsa was allergic to pity parties and sadness, so just a few weeks after Natalia’s breakup with Jonas, she was already sending clear signals that it was time for Natalia to move on.

  Åsa’s inclination was always to move on and never look back, but Natalia had taken the breakup hard. And Åsa’s limited sympathy had hurt her more than she dared admit. But maybe the tide was finally starting to turn.

  “Let’s go in here,” said Natalia. She pointed at a subdued and very, very expensive bar and its long line and encouraged Åsa: “Get up there and get us in.”

  Åsa, who personally knew everyone who was anyone in Stockholm nightlife, caught the bouncer’s attention. He nodded in recognition, asked the line to step aside, and then they were in.

  “You’re my idol,” Natalia chuckled.

  “I’m everyone’s idol,” Åsa said, clearing the way over to the bar for them. She ordered for them both. “Two vodka tonics, please.”

  The club was crowded and warm, and the din forced them to stand over by the bar so they could talk.

  “I don’t know a single person in here,” Åsa said.

  “Is that good or bad?” Natalia sipped her drink. It
was strong and cold, and she was thirsty. She looked around. Well-dressed men and skinny women with long hair laughed, toasted, and flirted.

  Lord, when did everyone get to be so young? She tried to remember the last time she’d been out to drink for any reason other than work, but couldn’t.

  “You know as well as I do that all the civilized people have already started packing for their vacations in Skåne.”

  “I know,” Natalia groaned. The Swedish summer schedule followed a rigidly prescribed pattern. The Royal Swedish Yacht Club’s Gotland regatta was this weekend, then all the political speeches during Almedalen week next week, and then the week after that Båstad for a week. Mingle, tennis, sun, and swimming. Year in and year out.

  “I’m eternally grateful that you came. And it was something, you have to admit. Better than the same old people you’re always hanging around with.” She sipped her drink again. “This is good,” she said appreciatively.

  Åsa shook her head and ordered another drink with a quick hand gesture. She’d finished her first drink in only a couple of minutes. “When are you going to listen to reason and stop rebelling? Okay, I get that you don’t want to hang out with your parents, but seriously, Natalia, you can’t work all summer. Isn’t that how people get burned out?”

  “No,” Natalia said. “And I’m not rebelling,” she lied.

  Åsa was right on the mark. She was actually acting like an overgrown teenager, rebelling against everything her parents were used to expecting from her. But she hated the conformity of the Swedish summers she’d grown up with and hated that everyone, absolutely everyone, seemed to think that was the only way to do it. Vacation in the right spot with the right people at the right time. Torekov, Båstad, and Falsterbo in the summer. The Alps in the winter. That’s what she’d always done for as long as she could remember.

  Wherever they went, they always saw the same people. She’d gone along with it her whole life without even thinking about it. Jonas had done the same. All their acquaintances and their parents had done it. But this year—her first summer on her own—Natalia refused. Thank you very much. It had only taken her half her life to dare to go against the current.