The Signature

Alistair retrieved a fresh document from his leather briefcase. He walked back to Declan, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him across the floor toward the shattered window.

The wind whipped through the hole, screaming at them. Eighty floors down, the cars looked like streams of red and white light.

Alistair slammed Declan’s upper body onto the ledge of the broken window. He pinned him there, half of Declan’s torso hanging out over the abyss.

"Jesus, Sterling! Don't!" Declan screamed, flailing at the empty air.

"The fall takes approximately seven seconds," Alistair shouted over the wind. "That is a long time to think about your poor investment strategies."

Alistair slapped the contract onto the glass beside Declan’s head. He produced a pen.

"Sign the transfer, Declan."

"I can't... I can't move my arm!"

"Use the other one. It’s an acquisition, not a calligraphy contest."

Declan scribbled his signature, his hand shaking so violently the pen tore the paper.

"Done! It's done!" Declan shrieked.

Alistair inspected the signature. Legible enough for the lawyers.

He pulled Declan back in and let him drop to the floor. Declan curled into a ball, sobbing, broken in body and spirit.

Alistair walked back to the table. He picked up his jacket, shook out a speck of glass, and put it back on. He buttoned it. He fixed his tie in the reflection of the unbroken window.

He walked over to the intercom panel on the wall and pressed the button.

"Yes, Mr. Sterling?" his assistant’s voice chirped, oblivious to the carnage.

"We have concluded the meeting," Alistair said. "Please send the cleaning crew to the Sky Vault. There has been a spill. And we need a window repair team."

"Right away, sir. And Mr. O'Malley?"

"Mr. O'Malley is leaving. Please have security escort him to the elevator. He is feeling... unwell."

Alistair released the button.

He walked over to Declan, who was trying to crawl toward the door. Alistair stepped over him, careful not to let his oxford shoes touch the blood pooling on the floor.

He went to the bar and poured a fresh glass of scotch.

He walked to the window—the intact one—and looked out at the sprawling grid of Chicago. The lights glittered like diamonds on black velvet. Somewhere down there, in the South Side, ships were docking. *His* ships.

He caught his reflection in the glass. His lip was split, a thin line of red marring his perfect composure.

Alistair frowned. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood. It was annoying. Imperfect.

But as he looked past his reflection to the city he now owned a little more of, he allowed himself a small, cold smile. The suit was intact. The deal was signed. The beast could go back to sleep.

"Tomorrow," Alistair whispered to the city, raising his glass. "We discuss the West Side."