Marcus nodded. He knew the revenue number. What he didn’t know was the multiplier—the percentage of revenue that would become his bonus. Last year it had been 12%. A good year. This year, rumors were flying that the pool was up 30%.
Marcus felt a flicker of empathy, then buried it. On Wall Street, you ate what you killed. And right now, he was trying to figure out if $2.1 million was a feast or just a very large meal.
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
The room gasped. Marcus felt his stomach drop. The European desk was led by a man named Henrik Voss, a brilliant but arrogant German who had been the firm’s golden boy. Henrik was standing near the front, his face ashen. wall street paytime
“You said Sterling might not exist in six months,” Marcus said. “If that’s true, I need to know who’s buying us. Or who’s building a team elsewhere.”
The number landed like a stone in still water. Marcus did the math in his head instantly. 15% of revenue. A strong multiplier. Above the desk average. Respectable. Life-changing, even. But not the $2.5 million he’d dreamed about. Not the “home run” number that would let him pay cash for the house in Greenwich and still have enough left to angel-invest in his friend’s hedge fund. Marcus nodded
He showered, put on a fresh Charvet shirt, and knotted his tie with hands that didn’t tremble but wanted to. Outside, the December air bit hard, but he barely felt it. The walk from his apartment to the glass tower at 85 Broad Street was a ritual he’d performed a thousand times. Today, every step felt like a drumbeat.