Bon Appétit

The Last Supper

Nicholas Vaughn deserves to die. He laughs like he’s never lost a thing in his life. That changes tonight. Tonight he will lose everything.

We sit across from each other in the private dining room of The Holloway Club, an establishment so exclusive that men like him—men who pillage pension funds and gut entire industries for sport—consider it their sanctuary. A place where they can sip their vintage Bordeaux and joke about insider trading, knowing the walls, like the law, will protect them.

His watch, a limited-edition Vacheron Constantin, glints under the dim chandelier light. His suit, bespoke Italian, clings to his frame in a way that whispers obscene amounts of money. His cufflinks, platinum and engraved, once belonged to his father—a man just as vile, if the SEC archives are to be believed.

He doesn’t know it yet, but this is his last meal.