When I was nine he’d pulled me out of a riptide off a beach in Portugal and handed me back to my mother without so much as a change in his breathing.

He was the calmest human being I’d ever met, and the reason my father slept at night, and the single person in the world I could call from that bathroom floor and know — know — would not panic, would not doubt me, would not waste one precious second asking whether a drugged bride on a boat might be imagining things.

That certainty was worth more than the three hundred million on the line.

It is a specific kind of wealth, having one person you can call on the worst night of your life who will simply believe you and move.