“. .” Philippe Vargas said with all the recrimination a powerful man could muster with three words.Philippe, patriarch and founder of the Vargas Development Group, had the look of a patrician nobleman. Shoulder-length silver hair that shined like the metal. Piercing brown eyes that looked down on the world through wire-rimmed blended bifocals and unblemished skin that spoke of male vanity and tonics.Raul took after his mother.“What?” was all Raul could come up with to combat his father’s attitud...e. He glanced over at Malic, who sat at the opposite end of the fourteen-foot teak conference table, his expression masked.“Water under the bridge,” Philippe said disingenuously while he glanced down at his platinum Rolex Day-Date. “Sit, sit.”Raul obeyed his father and grabbed a seat in the middle of the table. He drummed the thick, black-glass tabletop idly, staring out the thirty-eighth-floor window, wishing he were dead. “Malic al-Yasiri,” Philippe went on, “our beloved partner in this endeavor, just dropped a million five into our bank account, guaranteeing the construction loan and ensuring that eight years of development will not go up in flames.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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