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When Paul arrived for his first day of work at the new firm, he half-expected to be met by Arkady Galkin himself. Instead, when he introduced himself to the icily beautiful receptionist, she smiled stiffly, nodded, and said, “Let me get Mr. Frost.” Paul had no idea who “Mr. Frost” was. He hadn’t been given an org chart nor told who his colleagues and bosses would be. He knew only that the company was called AGF Limited, a generic-sounding name that stood for Arkady Galkin Finance.

Two minutes later, a tall, bald man appeared in the lobby. He was wearing an expensive suit and dark horn-rimmed glasses. He had a strong brow and a weak mouth, a tall dome of a head and large ears. With a solemn expression, he said, “Mr. Brightman?”

“Paul,” he said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He had worn a jacket and tie, not sure what the dress code would be. You could always take off your tie.

“Paul, then. I’ve heard much about you. Your reputation precedes you. It’s marvelous to have you here.”

“Thank you. I look forward to it.”

Mr. Frost had a very slight foreign accent, probably Russian, though his surname wasn’t Russian. He had the broad shoulders of an athlete and moved smoothly, like a cat. Walking quickly and fluidly down a plush hall, he brought Paul to his new office.

Paul was introduced to his new administrative assistant, Margo Whitworth, whom he shared with a colleague, Chad Forrester. Margo was an attractive dark-skinned woman with short black hair, shaved on the sides; she was quick-witted and seemed pleasant. Paul liked her at once. Her desk was outside his and Chad’s offices.

Paul’s office wasn’t very big but had a postcard view of the city. On top of a mahogany desk was a three-panel monitor array, a phone, and nothing else. An armoire stood on the left of the room. The desk faced away from the million-dollar view. His first real office.

The entire firm was sumptuous. Cherrywood and granite, subtle lighting, two terraces, a full gym with locker rooms and showers. The break room was outrageous. An automatic German coffee machine that dispensed espressos and cappuccinos. A juice refrigerator with some thirty kinds of juice. A breakfast spread of half-bagels with cream cheese and lox and mini-omelets of various kinds. Fruit bowls (raspberries and fresh-cut pineapple, strawberries, mango, and papaya). The breakfast was cleared away at eleven, when lunch was served. It was like a continuous buffet at the Four Seasons.

Mr. Frost brought Paul to the morning meeting, which was already under way in a conference room filled with twelve people, only two of whom were women. Arkady wasn’t there. The uniform here for the men seemed to be dress shirt, no jacket or tie. Most of the men wore leather sneakers.

During a pause, Mr. Frost introduced Paul to the group. “He comes to us from Aquinnah Capital,” he said. “He’ll be portfolio manager for U.S. equities.”

Paul was introduced quickly to his colleagues—“Ivan Matlovsky, real estate; Chad Forrester, emerging markets; Jake Larsen, venture capital,” and so on, and finally to Nikolai Galkin. Niko was identified as being in “Special Projects,” which probably meant a sinecure: he got paid to do nothing. Paul couldn’t help but wonder if any of them knew about his relationship with the boss’s daughter, but no one said anything.

Mr. Frost brought him next to the large corner office of the boss, Arkady Galkin. (Frost’s office, he saw, was right next door.) Galkin lumbered around from behind his desk. He was wearing a finely cut navy-blue suit and light-blue tie. He broke into rapid-fire Russian, and Mr. Frost replied in Russian just as fluent, sounding like a native.

“I warn you, Paul speaks Russian,” Galkin said in English to Frost.

“Barely,” Paul said.

Mr. Frost excused himself.

Galkin gave Paul a bear hug. “Welcome to family,” he said.

Paul smiled. He thought he’d joined the family when he got engaged to Tatyana.

“You see the break room?” Galkin asked.

“Very impressive.”

“Impressive? You will gain twenty pounds working here, if you’re not careful. Tatyana doesn’t want husband with dad bod before he’s dad.” He said “dad bod” with a delighted twist, like it was a phrase he’d just learned and was happy to have a chance to use.

They both laughed, Paul probably for different reasons. He was amused to be lectured on this topic by a man with a protuberant potbelly.

“Many perks working for my firm. Best health insurance plan. Breakfast and lunch every day by private chef. But as far as company is concerned, you are not son-in-law. I show you no favor. Neither does anyone here. I suggest you do not tell people about marriage to my daughter.”

“I understand. But word will get around,” Paul said. “Gossip spreads fast.”

Galkin shrugged. “You are an employee like anyone else, new hire. You report to senior managing director, Eugene Frost.”

“Understood. Is that originally his name?”

“He was born ‘Yevgenii Morozov.’ You know what means moroz ?”

Paul recognized the word. It meant “frost.” Frost had Anglicized his name.

“He’s Russian-born but has spent nearly all his life here. I trust him—” Galkin waved an index finger back and forth, searching for a word.

“Implicitly,” Paul suggested.

“Yes. Implicitly. Mr. Frost speaks for me. He is senior managing director,” Galkin repeated. “Usually, I am not here.”

“Okay.”

A long pause. Galkin smiled, looked at Paul for an uncomfortably long time, as if he were deciding what to say. Finally, he nodded and spoke. “I was little surprised you accepted job offer.”

“Why?”

“Because I am what sometimes called oligarch . Oligarchs have bad image in America. All of these stereotypes in this country about Russians. Russophobia , is called.”

“I’m marrying a Russian woman, don’t forget.”

“Yes. Is true. But you were at very white-shoe firm, and we are not so white-shoe.”

“I wasn’t exactly at Goldman Sachs.”

“Please. Aquinnah? Named after Bernie Kovan’s house on Martha’s Vineyard? I call this white-shoe.”

Paul chuckled. “Okay—fair.”

Galkin clapped his hands together, signaling that the conversation was over. “Now,” he said as he steered Paul toward the door, “if only you can get my daughter to move out of shithole in East Village.”