Gerard is sitting next to me and Luca Giannoni and his employer, Dimitry Mozorov are sitting across from me. Mozorov is red-faced from the vodka he’s been drinking and with his dark suit with red tie and grey hair on his portly body he looks like a fucking corporate Russian Santa Clause.
“Ever since Luca here told me about your late father’s empire, the Simulated Pleasures business is one that’s caught my eye,” Mozorov is saying with a thick Russian accent. “I’ve looked at the 90 day charts and I’m impressed at how this small operation has such high margins, Mr. Hawke. You should be commended.”
I take a sip of my scotch and laugh sardonically. Sure, I should be fucking commended. For causing the love of my life to quit the job she was using to get on her feet and then selling it off to mobsters after she left. I’m a real fucking saint.
“How about we wait until after dinner to sign the papers?” Gerard asks the table and I look at him with surprise. This is the same guy that several days ago was asking me why I was dragging my fucking feet?
Mozorov shrugs. “Whether we eat first or eat later makes no difference to me,” he says, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Tomorrow morning, we will be new owners of Simulated Pleasures and a new day will dawn for the callers.”
“What is it that you plan to do?” I ask, more out of morbid curiousity than anything else.
Mozorov looks at Giannoni and nods.
“Since it doesn’t matter much if we tell you now that you’re going to sell, we can be a bit more upfront with our plans,” the lawyer says. “We plan to cut the percentages that the operators make in half,” Giannoni says to me, taking a sip of his wine. “Then after a period of time, we play to make them salaried workers.”
“How do you know they’ll stay?” I ask.
“We plan to start them off with lucrative contracts that they agree to, with steep payments to the company if they decide to quit,” Mozorov answers for him. “It will work similar to the way your gentlemen’s clubs operate eventually, where we’ll just provide the infrastructure and expect them to pay us to use our services.”
“The operators will be responsible for advertising themselves and doing their own promotion, significantly lowering the total costs to the company,” Luca Giannoni says as he drains his wine. “And should the operators not be able to turn a profit for themselves, the only way they’ll get out will be through a sizable payment to the company to break their contract.”
They’re going to fucking prey on the women doing the work. Not on the johns. But the women. Jesus fucking Christ.
But there’s nothing I can do, unless I pull out of this deal. I’ve effectively screwed over the entire company. I don't even know how many women are working as phone sex operators. I never cared. I just wanted to get rid of the operation so blindly that I never thought there was a human element to it.
I look over at Gerard. Somehow, despite the fact that what Luca Giannoni described as a form of employment extortion, he doesn't seem too troubled; it’s like the man has suddenly lost touch with his fucking conscience. Doesn’t he fucking care that while we eat beef tartare and drink wine we’re coming up with a deal that will screw over countless hardworking women all over the city?
“Is any of this fucking legal?” I ask out, not caring anymore.
Mozorov shrugs. “Who cares,” he says with a shrug and a grin. “If we get in trouble we just cancel all the contracts and close up shop. Guaranteed by then we’ll have turned a tidy profit.”
Jesus. These organized crime people should start working on Wall Street if they haven’t already. They’re both fucking snakes in the grass.
Sorry, I’m just in a fucking awful mood. It’s like life has me by the balls and is squeezing as hard as it fucking can.
I take a sip of my scotch and stare out the window.
“Actually, Mr. Mozorov, I don’t think you’ll be successful at what you’re proposing,” a voice says and I turn my head toward it.
What the fuck! It can’t be.
All of us have turned to the fucking angel standing in front of us, dressed in a tight white skirt and black top that shows off her tits. She’s made up to look like a fucking doll and just seeing her makes my cock twitch in my pants. She extends her arm toward Mozorov.
“Ashley Lane, formerly of Simulated Pleasures,” she says to Mozorov. “May I sit down?”
Hand it to Mozorov, he rolls with the fucking punches and takes Ashley’s hand and gently brings it to his lips. “Pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he says as Gerard rushes out of his chair and ushers her in to sit next to me. Gerard gets another chair and sits down. And did I just see a look pass by between him and Ashley? But they’ve never talked before, so it couldn’t matter.