"Let me read it to you," I say and I pull open the letter. Gerard takes my arm and takes me over to a sofa so I can sit down.
I clear my breath and begin. "Dear Ashley," I start and look over at him. He gives me a look and I smile and keep going.
"The last few days without you have been fucking terrible," I read. I smile as I read and look over to Gerard. He's shaking his head with a little bit of a smile too. He has a sense of humor it seems and all of a sudden I can see what someone like Yasmine finds attractive in this older, much more distinguished looking man.
"I gotta be honest. I went out to Pasha today hoping a nightclub with the boys would get my mind off things, but nothing is the same when you're fucking gone. I know it was fucked up of me to make you call me King Henry and not tell you it was me you were talking to," I continue reading and I see Gerard raise his eyebrow. That's what I thought. I keep going. "The Russian mob has been after buying the company for as long as Dad's been dead, because it's one of the only profitable outfits in the region, but I know how these guys treat their employees. And I could never put you in that sort of danger. I could never let you work for them. I sold everything else but Simulated Pleasures and I I held onto it because you were there. But as I kept talking to you, I sort of realize now why Dad did what he did and why it was so successful. He was lonely. And by providing the things that he did, he helped other people out there in the world who were lonely find at least a little bit of temporary happiness. A small pleasure. Not a replacement, that's for sure. But maybe a small escape. Maybe a chance to not have to think about real life. Because babe, real life without you is so fucking boring, and it took talking to you on a pay-per-minute line for me to understand that. But you don't want anything to do with me, so I'm letting you know that as long as you've quit, I'm going to sell Simulated Pleasures in the morning. Gonna sign the paperwork. So you never have to worry about me again. Just know that I fucking love you."
I fold the letter away and look at Gerard. He looks at me.
"It seems that Arsen has realized what drove his father at last," Gerard says. "And it seems he has you to thank for it."
I nod and smile. I never knew how much Arsen cared for me. I mean I guess I knew. But I never consciously acknowledged the fact. But there's more to this mystery.
"Arsen mentioned something about this being the only profitable operation in the region?" I ask Gerard.
The elder lawyer nods. "That's correct," he says to me.
"What are they basing that on?" I ask.
"Well, it's all very complicated, but usually they base any sort of company profitability on the prior quarter. That's why companies report quarterly earnings … " He tries to continue but he's just confirmed what I was thinking.
"Where is he, Gerard?" I ask. I have urgency in my voice.
"He should be getting into the office in around half an hour for a meeting at 9 am and then he should be meeting with Luca Giannoni to finalize the deal later on this evening at 5 pm at Del Frisco's," Gerard says.
I get up from where I'm sitting. "Are you supposed to be there?" I ask.
Gerard nods. "I should hope so," he says with a smile. "Considering I have the paperwork."
I smile and feel like hugging him. "Then let's go, Gerard. I'm coming with you tonight, but first I have something I need to get ready."
Gerard looks questioningly at me as I beam brightly at him. "It's time for the company to meet Misty with the silky voice."
58
Arsen
To be quite honest, I'm actually a bit relieved that the Russian mob tries to affect gangster living based on what they see from The Godfather and such. I mean, we could be fucking sitting at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach to sign these papers if they had suggested it instead of Del Frisco's right in the heart of Times fucking Square. I mean, what would they even serve at the Russian place if we had to schlep all the way over there? Borscht? Dumplings? I'm no fucking Cossack, if I'm going to be doing a deal with the mob, let it be at least at a world famous steak house where they pour good wine.
We're seated at a large table by the window, overlooking Broadway. Ever since the mayor turned Broadway into a 24/7 pedestrian zone, it's gotten a lot weirder and crazier in Times Square. Ever walk by and see the women with just the body paint? The angry Elmo? The Naked Cowboy? Thankfully I don't have to look at a naked fucking cowboy as I decide what cut of meat I want to be putting in my mouth tonight.
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.