
Nineteen minutes before the most important interview of my life, I handed half my turkey sandwich to a nervous stranger in the lobby. Forty minutes later, that same man walked into the conference room, took the chair at the head of the table, and every executive around me went silent—because Jack Whitmore wasn’t another candidate. He was the mafia boss who owned the company.
PART 2 For several seconds, no one in the conference room moved. Boston glittered behind Jack Whitmore in the morning light, all steel and glass and distant traffic,…








