by Hazel Parker
I had liked Fitz when he was here. And now, I was to suddenly judge him for going to a job that was similar in a lot of ways?
Seemed like I was the one that was full of bullshit.
Around eight, Ben, drunk, came out of his office and announced that it was time to “pound some pussy at the club.” Some of the other dudes stood up, laughing, and cheered him on, saying they’d join him when they finished their work. I rolled my eyes at the whole scene but stayed low, trying not to make my feelings too well-known.
I wasn’t going to quit this job anytime soon, but Jesus, did it have some serious drawbacks sometimes.
As soon as Ben left and a few minutes had passed, I also made my exit. I needed to get to sleep. I needed to wake up, spend the weekend processing everything that had happened, and then figure out a way to move on with my damn life. If I couldn’t spend it with Fitz the banker, then I needed to figure out who I wanted to spend it with.
And the answer can’t be myself. I know that’ll come back to bite me at some point.
I stormed out from my desk and to the elevator. At the bottom of the elevator, I hailed an Uber. I took it straight to my apartment. I went upstairs and tossed all my clothes on the floor.
I went over to the couch in nothing but my underwear, but just before I sat down, I looked at it, remembering the last time Fitz was over.
We’d spent so much time talking about if his job switch was the right thing. I couldn’t believe that he had gone through with it. I’d even gotten distracted during sex, that’s how bad it was.
But he had also talked about how he wanted us to be much more than just one night. He wanted us to be much more than two nights. He wanted us to be something that lasted.
I could see him right there, talking to me, his hand on my knee, my hand on his hand. The two of us weren’t two bankers; we weren’t a banker and a car mechanic; we weren’t anything like that. We were just two adults talking, flirting, and getting closer to each other. There wasn’t anything about what we were doing that depended upon our bank accounts, our job titles, or any other sign of exterior value.
We were just two people who had great chemistry, born out of an initial attraction to intelligence and refined and developed through some fun moments, some absolutely insane moments, and some sweet moments.
And I’d thrown it all away not because of something Fitz did, but because of the people at his club. If that didn’t mark me as insane and stupid, I didn’t know what did.
I knew what I needed to do.
I needed to go back to where I had dumped Fitz.
If Fitz was going to be anywhere, it was going to be either at his place or at Brooklyn Repairs. The problem with his place was I didn’t even know where he lived; we had never met up at his place. The problem with Brooklyn Repairs was that it was in Brooklyn. But I didn’t have a way of finding out his location in Manhattan.
“Time to head over,” I said to myself.
I hated the idea. I was going to get hit on by some ugly, boorish dudes. I was going to see a bunch of girls running around like they were at sorority rush. I was going to see things that offended me.
But I was also going to see Fitz. And that was enough to get me going. I just had to remind myself that as long as he accepted me being a part of Rothenberg Banking, I had to accept him being a part of the Savage Saints. They wore the same shirt, just with slightly different colored collars.
I took an Uber down, wanting to get there as quickly as I could. I wasn’t sure what I would say when I saw Fitz, but I did know that I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone else if I could help it. I didn’t need a fucking uncle or daddy or whatever the hell the one older creep had said; I just needed Fitz.
When the Uber pulled me up to the shop, the first thing I noticed was that there was an admittedly handsome man with blonde hair and a smirk standing outside, his hands by his sides. He didn’t look like anyone that I recognized from last Friday, but then again, I hadn’t bothered to pay attention to anyone besides Fitz.
I got out of the Uber, stepped forward, and nodded to the man, trying to ignore him as much as I could before I entered the shop. But he stepped in front of me.
“Sorry, store’s closed,” he said, chewing gum and smiling at me.
“I’m not here for a car,” I said. “I’m here because…”
Don’t say the name. They don’t need to know anything more than necessary.
“There’s a party going on tonight. Savage Saints.”
“Yeah?” the man said, chewing gum. “Party’s canceled as well.”
Something felt very off about this man. He wore the Savage Saints cut, but he wasn’t like the rest of the guys. He was a little too refined, a little too put-together.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Dom,” he said. “And what’s yours, pretty lady?”
“That’s not your concern—”
“Is it now?” he said, eying me up and down. “I need to know who you are and why you seem so hellbent on getting in. Perhaps I can let you in if you tell me that.”
This is so not worth it.
No, Amelia. You knew this was going to happen. You knew there were going to be creeps that you’d encounter along the way. Get through this guy, get to Fitz, and go from there.
“I’m Amelia, and I’m here to see Fitz.”
“Ahh, Fitz,” he said. “The only one with brains in the club.”
I cocked an eyebrow, wondering what that meant.
“Wait here.”
He stepped inside for a second, taking care not to pry open the door too much for me to see. I thought of opening the door myself and following in, but I didn’t trust Dom not to make this a trap. At least out here, out in the open, I had people who would see if something happened to me.
I only had to wait a few moments before Dom stepped back outside.
“Apologies for the inconvenience, Miss Amelia,” he said. “Step right in.”
I did so. The lights were out, except for in the office—which had blackout curtains covering most of the office itself. Only in slits could I see lights.
“Where the hell is—”
Chapter 17: Fitz
Thursday Night
“Hey, snap to it!”
Uncle glared at me. He didn’t say a word more, but he knew I was thinking about Amelia. He had me at attention in a moment’s notice, the threat of more gossip being shared enough to get me to shape up and listen.
“Our deadline, as I’ve said, is tonight,” Marcel said. “We have to make a decision, and we have to make it now. I, for one, have made my position clear. I am not giving fifty percent of the profits to them. I am not giving fifty percent of the profits to anyone who is not one of the five people in this room. It is just not fucking happening.”
I understood Marcel’s position, but I knew that the Las Vegas Saints were saying the exact same thing, just about us not contributing anything. They had the money, resources, and weaponry to back up their demands; we did not. We had one man who had served in the NYPD, two guys who had spent some time in jail, and two investment bankers. The odds were not exactly in our favor, even if we brought in prospects to help.
“Does anyone actually favor the fifty percent deal?”
“No, but,” I said, pausing long enough for everyone to look at me, wondering if I was insane. “Fifty percent of the profits means after expenses. Which means that we can do a lot of accounting tricks to make it look like we’re not turning a profit. I’ll tell you this right now; we’re not making money. So the Saints have to know—”
“And you think they won’t pick up on that?” Uncle said. “You really think the Las Vegas Saints won’t realize that we’re playing games with our numbers?”
I fumbled over my words, but Uncle didn’t give me a chance to finish anyways.
“Club takeovers happen all the time in this world. Usually, they’re forceful. Sometimes, the club being taken over recognizes they have no choice, and they
quietly assimilate. Rarely, a deal like this gets offered. I doubt that if we were any closer than Texas, they’d be acting so nice to us. This is all to say that by normal takeover standards, this is a sweetheart deal.
“But, I’m with Marcel. We have so much distance from them that we don’t owe them shit. To think that we would have to pay them fifty percent of what we make and see them, what, twice a year, maybe? That’s insane. If we were closer, for the sake of our lives, I’d say we surrender. But we have the entirety of the American continent on our side. We don’t need accounting tricks to save us money.”
“My point,” I said, given the platform to speak once more, “is that this isn’t as bad a deal as it may seem. We shouldn’t pull out tricks to the point that it looks like we’re never making money. We’re not dealing with the IRS here; we’re dealing with an MC. We can’t use ‘the law’ because they’ll just break our fingers. But we can make several justifiable claims about not making money for a while without resorting to loopholes.”
The room went silent while Marcel pondered what I had to say.
“I am only in agreement with that,” he said, “if we make it so that such a contract with them would end after a year.”
“And they’re never going to go for that,” Niner said.
That might have been the sixth sentence I had ever heard Niner say.
“Gangs don’t operate on contracts. I know we’re not a gang, but in spots like this, things are going to go down gangster-style. They’re going to demand money until they no longer have the means to enforce it or we have so little money that it doesn’t matter to them anyway. And if we have no money, we got bigger problems to worry about.”
“Lovely. So we’re back to where we started.”
Marcel shook his head.
“Sorry, Fitz, but I’m not accepting this deal under any circumstances.”
Another rejection. Just like the one Amelia gave you.
See what happens when you try and introduce your ideas? It blows up in your face. Nothing good comes of it. Just shut up, be quiet, and don’t try and stir the pot.
You’re in the club. You’re an officer. You don’t need to prove anything.
“I say for now we do nothing,” Biggie said. “They can’t be serious about coming out—”
“No,” I said. That statement was too stupid to be ignored, even with my doubts in my head. “If we can’t come up with a counter-proposal, then we need to ask for talks with them. Direct communication.”
Marcel looked around the room. People actually seemed to like that idea. It was about the only thing that had drawn even lukewarm approval from everyone in the room.
“We need to spend tomorrow before the party going over this,” he said. “And frankly, if we have to, we skip over the party. I didn’t think things would get this serious, but at this point, I’m not going to waste any time letting things escalate. I’ll reach out to the Savage Saints.”
“And ask for direct talks,” I added. “Don’t just say we need time. Ask for talks.”
Marcel nodded.
“Then so it is,” he said. “I’ll ask them for direct talks to pick up tomorrow.”
* * *
Friday Night
“I thought I told you to ask for talks,” I said, glancing at Marcel.
“He did,” Richard said, taking a puff of his cigar. “But I didn’t say that we could extend talks at two weeks. I said we needed a deal by then. Since you have failed to come to terms on that, it’s time for me to bring out our terms.”
“And you didn’t come back to us with what they said?”
“They didn’t say a goddamn thing!” Marcel protested.
“Why would we need to?” Richard said. “We were very clear on what we expected from you. I don’t know how you could have misinterpreted that. And even if you had, you had two weeks to ask us for clarification.”
I fumed. It wasn’t Marcel’s fault, then. I had just underestimated the aggressiveness of the Vegas Saints here. I had also allowed Amelia to distract me enough to prevent me from having optimal thoughts. That, too, wasn’t her fault.
“So with that all said,” Richard said, sounding visibly annoyed. “Here’s what’s going to happen. It’s nine. right now. After every half-hour of failed negotiation, we are going to shoot someone in this room. I don’t know who, and I don’t know if it’s going to be fatal. I do know—”
“Richard,” the blond man who had taken me at gunpoint outside said. “A moment, please?”
Richard stared at the man and stared back at the others, holding rifles and keeping us pinned.
“Thirty seconds, Dom.”
Dom and Richard exited into the shadows, shutting the doors behind them. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversation, but I could only make out general gibberish. There wasn’t anything I could even pick up that would have hinted at their conversation, let alone told me all of the details that I needed to know.
And then, just like that, Richard walked right in, a smile on his face.
“Apologies for the delay in negotiations,” Richard said. “But whenever you get the chance at having more leverage, you take it. And Dom has been nice enough to supply me with some leverage.”
My eyes widened in horror when he dragged in the limp body of Amelia and tossed her on the floor before slamming the door shut.
“Amelia!” I shouted, crawling over to her. “What the fuck did you guys do?”
“Knocked her out,” Richard said dryly. “You think killing her would give us leverage?”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said, cradling her. I examined her wounds. She was still breathing, but she did have a bump on the back of her head. “You call this leverage? This is bullshit. You’re supposed to be an MC, not a fucking bunch of thugs.”
“You can say whatever you want, but we are the ones with the leverage here, and, because of your actions, we now know who you care about the most here. We also know that you’re the only one here with an ounce of negotiating common sense. So, consider this your warning, if you can catch my drift.”
Richard smiled.
“We’re going to go outside for a smoke and give you gentlemen a chance to think things through,” he said. “We’ll be back, oh, I don’t know, in half an hour. And I would suggest not trying to escape. There is only one exit out of here, including the windows, and we will shoot anyone who comes out for any reason other than to discuss terms.”
Richard smiled and walked out of the room. The rest of his club members followed.
“What fucking nonsense is this?” Uncle said.
“This is some bullshit,” Marcel added. “We’re not negotiating with them, plain and simple. They’re fucking vile snakes, all of them.”
They’re doing what any good business does. They’re maximizing their chances at making the most amount of money. They’ve probably got people they care about too, but from our point of view at the table…
I don’t know why I’m humanizing them. Probably because it’s the one thing I’ve always done that helps bring peace and deals to the table.
“If we don’t do a deal, someone in this room gets shot,” Uncle reminded him. “And I don’t know what the fuck you’re planning on doing, but I would like to plan on not playing Russian Roulette with my life.”
“So when they shoot us, we come back after them,” Marcel says.
“Stop acting like Superman and recognize for a goddamn minute that this is real life!” Uncle spat.
The room devolved into chaos. Marcel and Uncle fought. Biggie tried to make peace and kept getting shot down. Niner stood in the corner, pondering what to do—probably the only person amongst all of us who had experience in hostage negotiation, or at least knew people who had experience in it.
I sat there cradling Amelia, wondering how the hell it had all gone wrong.
I realized with horror that leaving the room was also a negotiation tactic. They knew we saw them as the enemy, but by letting us bicker
amongst ourselves, it was going to make an even better deal for them. No one had the calmness or detachment to realize that.
“Guys, shut up! Shut up!”
I rose after propping Amelia against the wall. Marcel and Uncle stared at me.
“They want this to happen, don’t you realize? They want us to tear at each other’s throats and act like assholes to each other. They want this in-fighting. If we fight like this, it just gives them all the leverage.”
Marcel and Uncle folded their arms.
“Look, I don’t know what the solution is,” I said. “But I do know that any time you get the other side bickering about what’s best, you win. Inevitably, the more they fight, the more they forget who their opponent is, and they end up making a terrible deal for themselves. So we need to sit down, save the fighting for later, and figure out a deal.”
“He’s right,” Uncle said. “I fucking hate him right now, but he’s right. Let’s sit at the table and talk. Fitz, you want to move her—”
“I’ve got my eye on her,” I said.
The only thing I knew for certain as we all came to the table was that there was zero chance that Amelia was going to get hurt here. It didn’t matter what Richard did. Even if they pinned me down, I would find a way to protect her. She wasn’t someone who deserved to get caught up in the cross-fire of this bullshit. She had come to find me for some reason.
Unfortunately, she had.
We sat at that table and tried to figure out something. We all knew we weren’t getting out of there without offering something to the Las Vegas Saints, but questions of how much we could give them sparked fierce debates that I had to quell a couple of times. Marcel and Uncle were interested in minimizing the amount we had to pay to them. Biggie wanted to give them whatever it took to get them off our backs.
We were in the middle of conversation when the door swung open. Richard and Dom walked in, followed by the rest of the Las Vegas Saints.