I've been having a really, really fucking shitty day.
I was up to my eyeballs in cops and my enemies were having the time of their life enjoying my downfall.
I'd met with lawyers all day today and yesterday to try and figure a way out of this madness, but it wasn't looking good.
Right now, it was possible that I could face a minimum of twenty years in prison for my crimes.
Shit.
I hadn't gone home, knowing there would be cops waiting for me at my gate. For once, I needed to be by myself and just drink my damn sorrows away while listening to a consistent playlist and hope that liquor would alleviate my fears, even for a few hours.
I'd become a criminal in the most cliched way.
Poverty.
Watching my parents struggle to make ends meet to feed me and my siblings. My dad had lost his job in '88, and we only had my mother's nursing income to cover food and expenses for six people.
We'd had to move from a house in the suburbs to an old trailer in the wrong part of town. We got kicked out of school for changing districts and started attending the public school a few blocks from the park.
It was there that I got mixed up with the wrong crowd. I blinked twice and I was a part of the gang, running errands for my boss, a man named Big Earl.
He liked me, Big Earl. And I respected him.
He was the one who showed me how to take advantage of the situation and use my wits to get the most of a deal.
He taught me the basics, and five years after he'd taken me under his wing, I was in charge of my own little operation.
Big Earl didn't want me dealing with anything too bad, so he gave me the weed and told me he'd talk again when I tripled profits.
It took me about six months to achieve that goal.
That's when Big Earl decided to make me his right-hand man. Pretty impressive, for a nineteen year old, huh.
My parents were ashamed of what I did, but neither of them complained when I moved us into a better residence - it was still a trailer because I didn't want to attract any attention from the fed - nor did they say anything when I brought food to the table.
My sisters, both younger than me, didn't much care about what I did. At least not until Big Earl bit the big one and left me in charge of his various business at the tender age of twenty-one.
Drugs, laundering, protection racketeering, prostitution, bribery and some fraud.
Nothing special, nothing new.
I made it my goal to run a cleaner operation though, and I fired everyone who had been forced into a job. I wanted loyalty, people I could trust not to rat me out to the cops.
My prostitutes were the cleanest in the city, and they were about as classy as anything. The job was still disgusting, but they were grateful for the money, and I let them keep more than half of it since they'd more than earned it.
I own a building on the east side of town where the girls usually conduct their business. The cops didn't really know about it since I had put it in my brother's name - the only member of my family who didn't hate me.
So that's where I went. I kept a penthouse on the top floor where I usually slept when I was around that area on business.
The eighteen storey building had been remodelled years ago with a modern, sleek exterior and large, obnoxious windows.
The first floor was a lobby with crazy security, but you wouldn't know from the large reception desk and the posh gentleman sitting behind it.
The second floor was a bar, exclusive to certain clientele only. The third was a more... risque place where the girls got to take their clothes off and showed the fellas their goods if they wanted.
Floor three had a gym and spa, where they took care of themselves as best they could. The rest of the floors housed the girls, and the floor beneath mine were eight playrooms.
That's where all the nasty, dirty shit went down. And nobody had access to that floor without laying a hundred thousand on the table first.
I made my way up to the eighteenth floor, and glanced out the windows as the storm ragged outside, matching my mood perfectly.
I slowly made my way into the penthouse, turning on the lights I needed to find the bar and the phone.
My lawyers had advised me to only answer calls from them and my family, and the occasional legitimate business partner. Nothing incriminating, nothing suspicious.
So I picked up the telephone, and dialled two and pound for Mona's private residence.
While I ran the business, she ran the girls. She knew every single one of them, their preferences, their skill set, the shit they hated doing.
Despite it being past midnight, she sounded awake and alert.
"Mr. Aldine."
"Good evening, Mona."
"How may I be of assistance to you tonight, sir?" came her Southern drawl.
"I need something to take my frustration out on."
She paused for a second, surprised at my request because I never touched the girls. I just didn't.
Normally, I would scour fancy hotel bars for a quick lay, but I wasn't in the mood to fake being a gentleman.
My mask had been scrubbed off by the media, revealing the dirt and darkness I hid behind my exceptional smile and charisma.
There was no need, you see, for me to pretend to be something I wasn't just to get some pussy anymore.
I had about thirty, healthy, gorgeous women who'd been trying to tempt me for years. All I had to do was pick one.
"Of course, Mr. Aldine. What would you like?"
I poured a generous amount of my best bourbon in a glass with some ice in it, swirled the liquid around while I thought about her question.
"Experienced," I supplied. "I want her curvy, and a little soft, preferably with an ass and a nice pair of tits."
I took a sip, and swallowed.
"Resilient. Fearless. She should be able to... take what I'm going to do to her tonight. I don't want a girl who's going to cry when I get rough."
"Of course, sir. Any preference on hair and eye colour?"
I thought about it, then shook my head.
"You have carte blanche on those, Mona. I trust your judgement," I said, taking another sip.
"I'll have someone up in fifteen minutes," she said before I hung up.
I replaced the phone on the handle and moved to the living room, grabbing the remote and turning on the sound system.
I selected my favourite lounge music playlist and placed the remote down on the table before I went back to the bar to pour another glass of bourbon.
I took the decanter and set it on the table next to my right-back Chesterfield armchair, and sunk into the plush leather with a groan. I sat there, gun still in my holster, sipping slowly while I waited for the girl to arrive.
Thirteen minutes later, the elevator leading to my floor dinged, a sign that I had a visitor. I sat in the darkness of my living room, waiting for her.
I heard the door open, and her heels clicked loudly, confidently, against the wooden floor. Her steps were slow, measured, then a little unsure.
I was sitting so I could see her when she entered the room, but she wouldn't see me.
