Just Business

The gun was placed on the table.

Emily Anderson didn't lose her appetite. The food was great, the service better and the first drink was on the house. Not for the first time she was impressed by him. Henry Hopman knew how to run a successful business. Fallen Paradise was one of the best nightclubs in New York City. But according to Sophia, it was a front to launder his dirty money. Like most times, she had trouble taking her words seriously. It wasn't her fault, she still saw her as a child. And Michael wouldn't say anything about it. He didn't like to talk about work when she was with them. His intentions were good and she knew what he was trying to do, keep her safe, her operations protected, plausible deniability and all that nonsense, but she couldn't help but feel that he was trying to distance himself from her life and cut her off entirely from Sophia's.

It was one of the reasons why she came to him. Henry Hopman had built up a reputation over the past few years. Staring at the gun kept on his side of the table, she wondered whether this is how he handled his business. Fear and intimidation. Old school tactics. It should work, it should have the needed effect, get the right results. But her hand didn't shake in the slightest as she reached for her martini glass and brought it to her lips, taking a healthy swallow to cure her of her sudden dry throat. He focused on his tuna and ate like it was normal to have a gun next to his plate. Maybe it was, she wouldn't know. As he reached for his wine, he looked at the firearm with a half smile and scoffed in amusement.

"Michael is in the house." He shook his head and fixed his grey eyes on her, his voice a touch shy of actual pleading, appearing jovial and good natured by all accounts, though she did catch a small glimpse of annoyance lurking under the surface of his skin. "Emily, talk some sense into that man. I run a respectable nightclub. He can't waltz in here with a gun. What if someday my bouncers forget to search him? I will have a massacre on my hand and the police crawling all over my ass."

No wonder. She thought she recognized that gun. Really what was that man thinking, she had no idea. With the new changes in legislation, it had become easy to procure guns and ammunitions in the city. Some even argued it was necessary to survive in a city like New York. She didn't like it. She hated it. She knew he had a registered firearm, even a concealed carry permit. But he was an army man. He had discipline. Sophia didn't. When he told her about their visits to the shooting range and asked her about her opinion on getting Sophia a gun for her nineteenth birthday, she had blew up in his face. And things had been frosty ever since.

"He won't listen to me." Blue eyes sought to capture his attention in a heavy silence. The two of them were upstairs in his private office, having dinner like it was normal thing to do on a Friday night. Downstairs on the dance floor and in the bar, the younger generation was living it up, partying like there's no tomorrow, some engaged in heavy petting and steamy make out sessions in the backrooms and unisex toilets. Outside the club, there was still a huge crowd, people lining up, waiting to get in on the action, men bragging about their fake connections and women shamelessly flirting, shoving their breasts, flashing their panties, stooping to new levels just to get one foot through the door. Emily considered herself much too old for that type of nonsense. In some ways so was he. And a few other former students from the batch of '18. Regrets, she had a few. "None of you will."

"I have an excuse." By excuse he meant he was a criminal. She had no doubt he had worked for the mob in his earlier days, every young man who wanted to make it big in the underworld worked for them at some point in their life. But he was never made an actual member. Perhaps he didn't like how they ran things. He had trouble with authority figures since his high school days. Rumour had it he got into fights with kids from other schools. People thought he was a delinquent, long dyed hair, piercings, played it rough on the soccer field, the lanky loudmouth in a group of erstwhile popular students. They never thought he would amount to anything. He would be in and out of jail over some petty crimes, they said. He proved them all wrong to an extent. He did end up becoming a criminal, but he was his own man, his own boss, the head of his own gang which had routed the lesser known gangs out of the streets. But he still felt less of a man. "What's his?"

Emily stayed quiet. She didn't come here to defend him. Michael lived by his own set of rules. He worked for the police as a paid consultant. He worked as a private investigator for his civilian clients. And he worked for the mafia as a fixer. Henry hired him, Alexander hired him, but she couldn't because he would have taken her case as the perfect opportunity to have his so called protégé gain some real world experience in what he termed as legwork. Sophia was nineteen and no longer living with her. She couldn't stop her with the old excuse that she was too young to be involved in such serious business. Michael would have taken her with him. She didn't want that to happen. So she came to Henry with a request.

"I took care of it." Henry said. He had finished dinner before her and gotten up, walking to his desk to retrieve a toothpick. He looked down from above, peering through the blinds on the windows, at the couples flocking to the dance floor, the friends at their table enjoying good food, having a pleasant conversation and the single men and women finding happiness in the bottom of a bottle, even as the loud music drowned out the problems overflowing in their respective lives. He wanted everyone to have a good time. He was not a bad guy. He was not. He just did bad things to make a living. He was better than the alternative. New York and crime were synonymous. You couldn't bring down one without the other. You can't end crime or stop it. But you can control it and that's exactly what he was doing. Yet, he was trying to make a difference, trying to make himself out as the good guy because of one good deed. He felt stupid. Michael's gun mocked him. "You don't have to worry no more. The kids in your orphanage are safe."

Emily let out a small sigh. The nightmare was over. But it also meant her worst fears were realized. "I was right." She should have visited more often, listened to the kids, paid more attention to them. But she didn't and now the innocent were paying the price. "The kids were being abused." How long had this been going on, how long were the kids in her orphanage being preyed upon, she didn't want to know. She didn't want to believe it even now. It would keep her awake at night. She let this happen. It was gross negligence, an oversight. She had too much on her plate. She was getting old. Her life was falling apart. She came up with the worst excuses. "I'm sorry."

She was thirty-three and tears are falling out of her eyes. He was twenty-five and his hands are calloused. She was still married and he was an alleged crime lord. She was wearing a nice cocktail dress, he's wearing a waistcoat, a gun strapped behind his back. She had long, dark hair which reached her lower back. He had long hair for a man, dyed red and kept it in a short, low ponytail. He doesn't have any visible piercings, though she can catch a small peek of his tattoo, visible under his rolled up shirt sleeves. The touch is a tad too familiar but she doesn't dislike it. Comfort was hard to come by these days. "I hate tears." He cradled her cheeks, wiped away a stray teardrop, held her gaze and lowered his head, placing a kiss at the side of her mouth. It was chaste, it was nothing. "So don't apologize. Your name's not Noah Jones. Let me ask you something." As he whispered conspiratorially, his voice sent thrills down her spine, his lips almost brushing her earlobe, making her squirm in his hold. "Do you want him dead? I will do it myself."

Noah Jones, the bastard. Who would have thought it was him. He looked like a messiah. But he turned out to be the worst kind of predator. But she didn't want him dead, did she? "No!" Emily tried to compose herself. "No." It wasn't worth it to become emotional. Work needed to be done. So much work. But killing that monster won't accomplish anything. "I want him in prison." The orphanage should now be her number one priority. She sat back down and wiped her tears with a handkerchief. With a small smile, she looked at him as he poured her a glass of scotch. "I can't thank you enough, Henry. You saved those kids." She took a swallow and felt the liquid burn down her throat. It wasn't her fault her voice came out as a whisper. "I owe you one."

"Don't thank me yet." Henry warned. "The police got involved."

"I don't care." She truly didn't. The police could come to her, ask questions and investigate the matter further. She was clean, nothing except for a guilty conscience. The press would give her some trouble but it wouldn't last. She and her foundation and all the work they did will survive this small setback and they will come back stronger, to do more good in this rotten world, help those who are in need of dire help and preserve her legacy. But she had to be careful from here on now. She had to have a more hands-on approach, look into the people they hired on a personal level or have people she trusted to be a good judge of character perform a thorough and extensive background search. People like Michael. Like Alexander. Like - "Oh." She understood what he was getting at, what he was trying to say. He needed reassurance. He needed her word that she wouldn't tell the police about their arrangement, that she came to him with a problem, asking a favour and he delivered. "But shouldn't the police know about the good you did. It might help you in the future." Her voice grew faint as she gulped and worded out her thoughts carefully. "You know, when you get in trouble."

"Trouble with the law you mean." He chuckled. He thought it was cute that she was worried about his wellbeing. But her worries were baseless. He was untouchable. "Don't worry about it. I have it handled." He had a powerful friend with connections. He was in contact with a resourceful fixer. He had a woman he trusted. And several other people working for him. But she didn't need to know about the inner workings of his world. He tried to switch the conversation back to mundane things. There was something he found strange. It was probably nothing, but he figured he could talk about it.

"Where's your billionaire husband?" He asked. "He don't come here no more." He tired to think of his name but it escaped his mind. He was a rich and powerful and she was married to him. It wasn't important. She must have thought the same. Or did he misread the heated look on her face. He probably did. It was probably a good thing. She should be feeling angry about him nosing in on her private affairs. Marriage was her problem. He dodged a bullet with that one.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't." He argued back. It wasn't exactly true. He was good for business. He was a billionaire. He was eccentric. He loved to party. It was a good combination. But bad for everlasting happiness or a stable marriage. He didn't need to be a genius to figure it out. She should have expected it to happen sooner or later. "He stepping out?"

"Yeah." Emily looked at the wedding ring on her finger. She had thought about taking it off a handful of times and throwing it in the river. Ever since her husband told her the truth and asked her to understand the delicate nature of the situation, she had been thinking about sleeping around, behind his back and having an affair of her own with a younger man. It was no longer her responsibility to uphold her wedding vows. He had made a mockery of them. She wondered whether he would even care. If she didn't fear rejection or wasn't worried about making a complete fool of herself in front of a handsome young man, she would have asked Henry if he wanted to sleep with her. But she didn't have the courage quite yet. Besides, he was getting the wrong idea about her husband. It wasn't her responsibility to defend him. But she didn't want him to think it was her fault for his minor transgressions. "I'm not his type."

"What?" He looked at her with a hint of surprise. Her words sounded unbelievable to his ears. He expected the bastard to cheat. Men cheated on their women all the time. It was hardly worth the shock. They were at his nightclub. He was pretty sure a number of men in committed relationships, some even married, were trying to chat up women in the hopes of a sleazy hookup. And women were no different. Girl's night out was code for cheating on their boyfriends or husbands. When he was young, he found the notion disgusting. But back then he was in love. Now, with a healthy dose of reality he understood how childish he had been. Love was a beautiful lie. Now lust, was a healthy ambition for guys with an appetite. Sex and violence, crime and New York, he felt happy to be alive. Still, he didn't know what to say. The beautiful woman in the classy dress who had dinner with him tonight was much more fuckable than any woman at his nightclub, wearing a skimpy outfit, showing her tits, flashing her panties, drunk out of her ass. Her husband had to be a moron. "Is he gay or something?"

Emily downed the rest of her scotch in on smooth motion. When she was finished with her drink, she took the bottle he had forgotten to return back to its rightful place inside the second drawer of his table and poured herself another stiff drink. As she met his eyes, he spotted the embarrassing blush on her face and then for the first time tonight her voice sounded hard and convincing. She had never been afraid of him, but now she looked breathtakingly dangerous, daring him to open his mouth and ask a stupid question.

"Shit." He chuckled.

"We are done here." Emily didn't have to take this. She thought he would understand but he was sitting on his table, hip cocked to the edge, arms folded across his chest and mocking her. She might not be a big shot gangster like him, but she wasn't a small time teacher who was forced out of her school because she couldn't understand the politics and power plays which happened behind closed doors. Those days were long behind her. She was still married to one of the richest men in America. If they were headed for a divorce, she would become one of the richest women in New York. He probably thought she was a gold-digger, a slut, a whore. She had been called worse names by the media when it was hunting season. It didn't matter that she was a philanthropist, a humanitarian. She did charitable work, saved families, countless lives. She made the elite appear less indifferent to the plight of the poor. She made a difference. But at the end of the day, she was a joke because of her failed marriages. "Thanks for the dinner, Henry. And good luck on your future endeavours."

"Funny you should say that." He had a small smile on his face. A smile which could mean a number of things. Good or bad, she would find out in between the next couple of heartbeats. Had her heart been beating this loud, this fast, she spared a thought of wonder. He carried on in a gentle tone, luring her into a false sense of security. He knew how to work his charm. He knew how to work women. "I've been thinking about the future. You and me. I like it. I like you." Emily wondered whether this was a confession of love. He appeared convinced with himself, entertaining a notion which he seemed passionate about. But there was something lurking underneath the surface, something which she found a tad sinister, a bit ominous.

Sophia's word came back to haunt her. He was dangerous. But she didn't think he would kill her. He wasn't a mad man. He wasn't a psychopath. He was the owner of a nightclub, she told herself. He might be thinking about sleeping with her. After all she looked quite good in this dress, if she said so herself. Who knows maybe it wasn't the dress. Perhaps he was attracted to her personality. She liked to believe certain things. "I like you too."

"That's good, that's good." He nodded his head a couple of times and lowered his grey eyes on her. His voice, she found was a bit more assertive this time around. "This makes it easier." She didn't know how his mind worked, but she knew a little bit about the mafia. He wasn't like the other mobsters, thank god, but he was still a criminal. She remembered one time, back when he was starting out, Michael had told her about how the underworld functioned. There were a number of things to account for but broadly speaking, they traded in three essential commodities – money, sex and favours.

"What do you want?" She had paid him for his services beforehand. The amount was nothing to be laughed at but she could afford it. It hadn't felt like extortion. When he told her tonight that the job was done, that the kids were safe and the culprit was caught, Emily admitted to him that he had done her a favour and that she was indebted to him. She owed him a favour in return and he seemed like the sort of guy who would come collecting sooner rather than later. She didn't mind. She would try to help him in the future, lawfully of course. She didn't know whether she would be strong enough or willing enough to break the law to clear her debts. She had done everything he had asked so far. The only thing left to do was fuck. She wondered whether he would take her back to his place or flip her over and have his way with her on his desk.

"You run several charitable funds." He began and she was surprised he knew about them. She wondered whether he had his men look into her activities. It didn't seem like he would read up on her from the papers or follow her on several social media platforms, raising awareness on several important social causes which affected the lives of the people of this great city. Perhaps he had her followed. She won't lie. It creeped her out a little. But not as much as she would have had initially expected. She blamed Michael for this. He didn't think following someone was abnormal behaviour. But he did consider you stupid if you didn't realize you were being followed. But she wasn't dealing with him at the moment. She was dealing with Henry Hopman. And she thought it wasn't his style. He was a pretty straightforward guy for a supposed mobster. He said what he meant and meant what he said and she had no problem with this kind of attitude. But she might have a problem with what he was about to ask. If he wanted to extort her by taking money from her charities, she knew she had the courage to say it to his face that he was the worst that humanity had to offer. But instead, he surprised her. "I want to donate some money for a good cause. And I don't want to be double crossed." There was earnestness in his voice. "I like you. I trust you." His voice grew deeper and it almost sounded like an order. "I want you to handle it."

"But," She didn't know how to say it without being impolite, without showing a hint of minor disrespect at his dubious background. He was offering to contribute to her charities. Even though he said it was 'some money' she had a feeling it wouldn't be a paltry sum. No one in their right mind would refuse. But this might land her in some serious trouble. He made quite an income from his nightclub but he had other less reputable businesses. A voice of reason which sounded oddly like Michael's told her to refuse, told her it was dirty money earned through questionable actions and illegal means. He was a crime lord. He was a killer. Right at this table, while having dinner, while pouring her a drink, he had offered to kill a man and she had no doubt in her mind that the way he had said it, with his hot breath on her blushing cheeks, his lips almost touching her earlobe, he had thought of it as a kind of flirtation, as a way to seduce her. If that was the case, there was something wrong with him. But it had almost worked and she was really considering it. Maybe there was something wrong with her. She shouldn't accept it. She couldn't. She had to be firm. "I-I can't."

Henry was undeterred. He took a small piece of paper and started to write something on it. A look of casual attention marred his features momentarily. He was by the table. She was on the seat farther away from him. Dinner was finished. Her glass was empty. It was time to leave. She got up on her feet and turned towards the door. But before she could move outside, he took her hand and pressed the small piece of paper into it. He didn't touch her for too long, he didn't linger, he let her go and when he released her she almost missed his warmth, his strength, his hold. She didn't look at him or speak to him or ask in a high pitched voice 'who did he think he was' or 'what was the big deal' or 'how dare you touch me'. It didn't matter. She knew all her answers lied in this small piece of paper. And in the end it all came down to a few jotted numbers.

"Think of the kids." He said.

She did.

-x-x-x-