Falcon leaned across the table, lowering his voice like a late-night radio host chasing a conspiracy.
“Tell me something,” he said. “You’ve been around the music industry, Hollywood, the big charity galas… What do you know about old man Rothschild’s big balls? The fancy ones. The masked ones. The ones where the billionaires whisper like kings.”
Across from him sat Britney Spears, stirring her drink slowly.
She laughed.
“Oh honey,” she said, “you mean the aristocrat masquerade circuit? The tuxedos, the opera glasses, the people pretending they run the world?”
Falcon nodded.
“Exactly. Those.”
Britney leaned back in the booth.
“You think that’s power?” she said. “A ballroom full of aging bankers and their weird little rituals?”
Falcon raised an eyebrow.
“So you’ve been?”
Britney smiled mysteriously.
“I’ve seen enough,” she replied. “Enough to know the mythology around the Rothschild family is half smoke and half theater.”
Falcon tapped his recorder.
“So what happens at these so-called slumber parties of the elite?”
Britney tilted her head.
“Mostly old men trying to feel important,” she said. “Gold plates, secret handshakes, and people acting like the 19th century never ended.”
Falcon laughed.
“But you said you could bring down Le Baron’s whole operation.”
Britney’s smile faded just a little.
“Oh I could,” she said calmly. “But the funny thing about empires…”
She slid her sunglasses on.
“…is they usually collapse all by themselves.”
Falcon looked at his recorder, stunned.
“Now that,” he muttered, “is a headline.”
