“Maybe it’s the way the mob is going to treat the staff?” I say, rhetorically.
“What’s wrong with how they treat their staff?” Gerard asks. “It’s always on the up and up.”
“You wouldn’t feel a little guilty knowing we just sold someone’s business to the mob?” I shoot back.
“It didn’t seem to stop you from unloading the porn studios, the web cam operations, the sex dungeons, the brothels, the escort services, and strip clubs,” Gerard says. “Name one time for the other businesses when you brought up an issue with how the mob treats its workers.”
“That’s not the same Gerard, and you know it!” I shoot back. “The strip clubs independently contract out to the girls. They can leave any time. Hell, we don’t even know if they’ll come in on any given night if its raining or snowing. And the bouncers and managers are all men; they can take care of themselves.”
“The other businesses?” Gerard asks.
“They’re too decentralized. The sex dungeons, if the mob wanted to lay down the law or do anything, no one would show up. And we contractually dealt with everyone on the web cam operations or the porn studios. The escort services we just got a cut. Nothing much would change.”
“And so nothing much would change for this sale either, Arsen,” Gerard says, getting up and grabbing a glass of water and running his hands through his hair. “This is the best deal that’s out there and you’re dragging your feet.”
“These people that work at Simulated Pleasures have never worked with gangsters before,” I tell Gerard.
“And neither have you, Arsen,” Gerard says to me. “We’re not dealing with blue chip corporations here. They can make this personal.”
“Then why would I want them in the lives of my current employees?” I ask back. I think I’ve got a point.
But I know that Gerard has one too. Why didn’t I care so much about letting the mob into the livelihoods of the employees at the other establishments? I mean, fuck, I just told myself back then that they were tough and they could handle themselves.
“Arsen,” Gerard says sitting down and leaning back in his chair. “Something is bothering you about this entire situation. Ever since your father died the single goal you’ve had was to rid yourself of your father’s empire and start from scratch at something else. To cleanse yourself of his filth, as you put it. But the closer we get toward achieving that goal, the more you pull back.”
I’m silent as he continues. “You asked me to find out who Mr. Giannoni’s client was. Against my better judgment I pursued it. And I found out. You wanted to break the sale into pieces. We did that. Now at the last business, you hold everything up. Luca Giannoni and Mr. Mozorov have been patient,” he says in the voice filled with wisdom. “But if we are to continue, I need to know what your reasons for holding us back are. And I need to know now.”
Perhaps it's the way he's asking—questioning my sanity, or maybe it's because I feel as if I've been interrogated for nearly an hour straight, but just then, I lose it.
"I'm in love with a girl!" I snap, slamming my fist down on the conference table and flashing my snarled mouth at Gerard. "There, I've said it. Are you fucking happy? Is that good enough for you, Gerard?"
He’s taken aback, clearly not expecting this to fucking tumble from my mouth.
"Arsen, I don't understand. What does you being in love with a girl have anything to do with the sale of Simulated Pleasures LLC?"
"She's one of the phone sex operators."
He stops for a moment, and a pregnant silence fills the air. For a few awkward moments, neither of us says anything, and then I continue, "She doesn't know."
I see a wave of understanding come across his face and he finally speaks. "You should tell her."
"Who are you, my fucking therapist as well as my lawyer?"
"I mean it."
"What good would that do?"
"Well, for one, are things getting serious?"
I think about that question for a moment. Have things gotten more serious between Ashley and I? It feels like it certainly can, but am I imagining that? Where exactly do I want this to go? Where does she want this to go? I love her. That much I understand.
"I don't know," I say, and that's the truth. I grab the glass of water sitting on the conference table and take a sip. My face is pensive.
"If you think things will—or can—get serious, you should tell her," he says, noticing that my mind is pre-occupied.
I don't say anything, but I nod my head in agreement. Of course he's right, but that's easier said than done. It's one thing to sit here at this conference table and say these things—and even agree with them—than it is to approach the woman you know you love about a secret that you've been keeping from her. Things are working right now. We're fucking happy. I don't want to fuck it all up by coming clean. If she finds out that I've been masquerading as King Henry, there's no telling how she'll react.
"It's not something you want to hide forever," he says, breaking my train of thought.