• You wouldn’t think it from looking at me – a glimpse of a thousand dollar business suit, a whiff of French cologne, and a flash of a platinum credit card – but honestly, sometimes my life is hell. I deal with idiots on a daily basis, those thickheaded simpletons of the underbelly who don’t truly appreciate the care that goes into crafting a beautiful Cuban cigar, and it taxes me and wears me down. Sometimes I think, “I’ll quit.” I could easily sell my share of the family business for a couple billion and move far, far away. I could easily damn myself, turn myself into the authorities for conducting shady deals for fifteen-plus years. I do have a conscience, deep down. I could right the wrongs of all my past deals – take the wealth away from the mob and bestow it back to the people, where it technically belongs.

    I could, I could, I could. I could do all of these things, if I cared to. Yet, at the end of the day, when I’m unwinding in my monstrous office with a glass of brandy and tying up the strings of a particularly satisfying business deal, I realize: I don’t want to. Why should I stop getting what I want? Yes, the path to success may be hell, but I know that I’ll always get what I want in the end.

    I am the youngest of three well-off brothers, spoiled from birth. Upon my father’s passing my brothers, Zach and Patrick, and I were bequeathed the entirety of my father’s company. Oh, Cronus Industries – what a gift to behold! The company, which has been in my family for generations, has now expanded to owning the majority of the city – and its bounds seem to be limitless!

    Being the oldest (and the favorite), Zach was given the largest share of my father’s company. Honestly, the whole “bigwig executive” routine works for him. Zach has the office with the best view. Zach has the penthouse. Zach is married to Hera, an absolute stunner, and Zach is fooling around with multiple gorgeous women. He plays the part well. He has the blonde hair, the tan skin, the megawatt-caliber smile of a two-bit game show host. Zach physically represents the company – assuring that Cronus Industries is always presented in a positive light.

    When Patrick took over his division of Cronus Industries, I was almost certain he had gotten the short straw in the deal. However, as the world plummeted blindly into a new millennium (the “Y2K bug” had scared the daylights out of the poor plebian masses), everyone seemed to grasp onto the idea of uniting in camaraderie, and the international division of our father’s company began to show promise. Under Patrick’s watchful gaze (from his yacht – he rarely conducts business from his office) our father’s dream has become a reality: one family can truly begin to “run” the world.

    Sometimes I gaze longingly, almost lustfully, down the lengthy expanse of hallway that separates Zach’s office from the rest of the company. I ache to smile and pose for the paparazzi outside of gala events, and even out my tan on a stately yacht. Oftentimes I wish for the fair hair and clear eyes of my older siblings; most days I wish I wasn’t the youngest brother.

    One glance around my expensive gothic office silences such desires. Under my older brothers’ rule Cronus Industries has remained the successful company my father determinedly made it out to be, even exceeding his expectations in the past few years. Yet, no matter how one looks at it, it cannot be denied that I am the true victor – I’m the one working behind the scenes and pulling the strings. I’m doing the dirty work, and I’m turning this city to gold.

    By now I’m sure you must have an inkling as to what sort of division I run at Cronus Industries. You see, unbeknownst to the general public, our company receives much of its funding from certain… illegal practices. You can imagine my shock as my father, upon his deathbed, confessed to having as much power in the city as a Don! I am not ashamed of my work; I’m truly the only one in my family who could stomach it at all. My charm is undeniable and my ruthless determination makes me a champion amongst the mob bosses and black marketers. I can get a greedy swine to squeal. I can squeeze secret funds out of the slimiest of men. If I want something, I go and get it.

    Up until quite recently, I’ve never had to doubt my power.

    You see, my wanting exceeds mere deals in the business world – I am, still, a man. I am a single man – a tall, dark and handsome single man with a multi-billion dollar fortune at my fingertips. Sense a problem here?

    I’ve had my share of high-society women, women whose Botox-ed faces appear to have sucked all of the fun out of the room – women who order miniscule portions and merely push them around expensive crystal plates. I’ve become bored with Swarovski pendants and Jean Paul Gaultier print dresses and the heady scent of Chanel No. 5 (which lingers in the nostrils hours after an impersonal air-kiss).

    Perhaps this is why I’ve become so intrigued.

    By the time I had woken from my death-like sleep and stalked into the Plutus Division of Cronus Industries one bleak Tuesday morning, my employees (or “minions,” as Zach so wittily refers to them as) were already hard at work. My floor is generally silent; every so often the silence is broken by a muffled cough or the shushed open-close of a filing cabinet. Needless to say I was quite surprised to hear a soft laugh, which I can only compare to something as light as the tinkle of a silver bell, coming from the way of my office.

    “Is Demi in there rearranging the furniture again?” I ask an employee whose name I’ve never bothered to learn. The poor man (boy, more like it – are they sending me pre-pubescents now?) appears startled when I speak to him and practically covers his face with his hands. I shrug and skulk down the hallway to my office.

    From behind the heavy door I hear the hushed conversation of two women, giddy as schoolgirls. The one voice, somewhat deeper but nonetheless beautiful, I instantly attribute to my secretary, Demi. The woman has worked as my personal assistant (and keeper of my sanity) for the past twelve years. She is plain in the fact that she does not wear MaxFactor pancake makeup or Dior mascara, but her face seems to glow with some natural radiance that most women only dream of having. She refuses to cut her hair, an unruly mass of flame-red curls, although I insist she would look chic with a blunt bob. Although I scold her for constantly bringing armfuls of wildflowers into my office (I always make a show of tossing them into the garbage can in front of her), although I holler for her to stop her infernal humming as I dictate, and although I always complain that the coffee she brings me is too sweet, I would be a mess without her.

    “Demetria,” I warn in a sickening singsong voice, “I’m still nursing a hangover from three days ago, and I swear if I open this door and see a single doily on my desk, I will jump out the window.”

    The chatter stops. I hear the click of Demi’s heels as she crosses the space from my desk. The door opens slowly, revealing my secretary in an emerald green wrap-dress which very nicely accentuates her curves (she does know how to dress, I’ll give her that).

    My eyes drift past her, past the dark mahogany furniture and the deep cobalt walls of my office. They overlook the inviting sheen of the martini shaker at my mini-bar and instead rest upon another engaging glimmer; for there upon my desk, amongst an oversized arrangement of blood red flowers, was… her.

    “These came an hour ago, from a Mr. Winters,” Demi is saying to me, “They’re Amaryllis flowers, lovely things, I think. H, did you know that Amaryllis comes from the Greek word for ‘to sparkle?’ ”

    Yes, I’m aware of the fact – or if I wasn’t before I am now, for there is no other possible way to describe the creature whose large blue eyes peer out at me from amongst the flowers. I’m not a sentimental kind of guy (unless, say, a vintage bottle of Perrier Jouët is involved) but I swear in the moment that those surprised sapphires peered out at me the whole of my cold, dark office seemed to turn to molten gold and an almost Cheshire Cat grin curled up the corners of my mouth.

    I practically float past Demi, who is still blathering on at me (I have a habit of doing that), and slowly approach the arrangement of flowers. When I am about ten steps away from reaching my desk the blue-eyed girl steps out from behind the arrangement, looking embarrassed, and offers a half-curtsy to the floor. My brain and eyes all at once register light blonde hair tiny waist full pink mouth delicate hands no wedding ring and I reach out my own manicured hand in an offering.

    “Beautiful,” I breathe, and the word can pass for a comment on the flowers so nothing is said.

    The young woman greets me with a short, careful handshake and steps back, eyes cast to the floor. I continue to stare at this beauty, this vision, until Demi interrupts my thoughts.

    “This is Polina,” she says. “She’ll be interning here this summer.”
    I am all at once saddened – such beauty should not be tainted by the menial labor of photocopying and coffee-running! If this girl was mine, she would be waited on hand-and-foot. She would only wear silk and drink fine champagne out of my mother’s antique crystal. My eyes glaze over as I imagine, in an almost Nabokov-worthy fantasy, Polina singing to me, sweet as a little bird, and I would reward her with strawberries or jewels for her fingers. I am bothered by the frail appearance of her slim, white, swanlike neck – for what gems could possibly rest upon it comfortably without straining her? But oh, if she was mine…

    Possessing Polina became my newest obsession. I became bored with my electronic trinkets – the new plasma screen television mounted on my office wall went unwatched. Each morning I passed by my collection of Movado watches, one more modern than the next, yet upon slipping one on I felt trapped in a time that I could not stand. Polina’s classic beauty called to mind the 1920’s, a time of decadence and dancing, red-lipsticked women and men in pinstriped summer suits. I could not tolerate the site of a computer, yet I frequented the copy room many a morning. I yearned for a sighting of the sweet Polina, moving with the controlled grace of a secret flapper. I dropped sly compliments her way and she took them silently with a small, soft smile.

    “Leave the poor girl alone, H,” Demetria warned me one day as she dropped a stack of presentations on my desk. “You’ve corrupted enough young innocents. She’s a sweetheart. I’ve taken a liking to her.”

    “I’ve taken a liking to her, too,” I retort, and gaze upon the Amaryllis flowers sitting, sparkling, on my corner table (the only flowers I’ve ever allowed in my office).

    It became harder to catch a glimpse of the darling girl. My secretary had taken her under her wing (instructing her in all of the annoying ways of the office, no doubt) and shielded her from me as much as possible. But I was determined to have Polina to myself, and one humid summer night I found my chance.

    Each July, Cronus Industries throws an exclusive soiree at the Plaza Hotel for its most-important (richest) clients. Though I generally shunned the crowds and spent the evening sitting in the corner of the bar, nursing a brandy, I decided that this July would be different. I would be charming and witty and sweep the young girl off of her feet.

    "H, where the hell did you find that getup? It's straight out of a Fitzgerald novel!"

    Patrick has materialized by my side, slapping me on the back. His eyes roam over my vintage gray high-waisted tuxedo, and I am secretly proud of my choice of outfit for the evening. Zach wanders over with Demi draped over his arm and I almost want to punch my brother because my secretary looks beautiful tonight, charming and lively, and I'm certain they'll probably sleep together.

    "Really, H," Zach whistles, "That's one hell of a tux. You'll be all over Page Six with that."

    Zach is jealous and I'm smug. The youngest brother is triumphant!

    My pride only lasts so long, for I have all at once again taken to scanning the crowd, looking past high society vixens and heiress spinsters - hoping for a glimpse of that secret jewel, the sparkling sapphire-eyed darling known as Polina.

    I have braved the crowds for this maven. I have small-talked with crooked CEOs and their bored wives. I have air-kissed dozens of perfumed, Botox-ified women over plates of canapés. I even twirled one patron's homely drunken sister across the dance floor!

    Before I can react or think up some witty form of greeting, Polina has appeared at my side. I yearn to reach for her delicate hand, to cup it in my own like a dainty pink shell. I almost succeed. I feel the heat of her arm for a swift moment before she has moved on past me. She scurries towards Demetria (a glowing beacon on the dark ocean of high society shindigs, I suppose) and helplessly offers up some flimsy accessory with a whispered, "I'm not entirely sure how to wear this!"

    I watch, bemused, as Demi fastens an old-fashioned tortoise-shell comb snug to Polina's cascade of golden curls. My eyes rove over her cherubic face, pinch-flushed cheeks and raspberry lips; they flit upon the delicate curve of her bare, swanlike neck and appreciate the mysterious hollow of her collarbone. Polina seems to glitter in a stunning vintage halter dress of pale green silk. The demure neckline does not draw away from her beauty; rather, the muted gold beads (with impeccable fluted detail!) seems to draw me in further, and coax me to try my luck.

    "My," I admire, "You're looking lovely tonight, Polina."

    The girl blushes as if she has never had a compliment dropped her way before! I'm about to take advantage of her flustered state to offer her a drink, or a ride in my limousine, or my hand in marriage, or the entirety of my wealth, or anything and everything and my entire world - but my secretary, sensing my impending pounce, gently places her hand on Polina's shoulder and steers her off towards the powder room.

    I let out a low growl and flounder about hopelessly, patting my jacket pockets for a cigar. I am somewhat calmed as Zach, my eldest brother, quietly places a fine, aged Cuban in my hand and Patrick offers me a light. My two siblings share a concerned, if somewhat amused look, and stroll with me out onto the terrace.

    They allow me to smoke in silence for a moment before Patrick clears his throat.

    "It seems you've taken a liking to that fine little intern, H."

    "And who wouldn't," Zach laughs, "She's a perfect 'ten' on the scale!"

    I cough, aggravated, and shoot Zach a look. He shrugs.

    "The way we see it, H, is that you want the girl. Are we correct in making that assumption?"

    I scowl and take another puff of cigar.

    "But," Patrick continues, hestitantly, "We're thinking you've lost the... groove."

    "But you'll get it back!" Zach quickly adds. "You've just been... out of practice."

    I mull over this point. My ears, which have become accustomed to the hideous "big band" swing music that has been playing the duration of the soiree, seem to pick up on a higher pitch. I strain for a moment and then recoil in shock, nearly choking on my cigar; amongst the raucous chatter and the trumpets and jazzy drumbeat I hear the smallest tinkle of a bell. A fay-like shimmer of a noise. A laugh?

    It is a sound I have heard throughout my tortured dreams of the past month - the syrup-sweet laughter of the innocent Polina! Laughing! At me?

    "Don't be the Cronus brother who loses to a woman," Zach coaxes, egging me on.

    "Don't let a woman stand in the way of you and what you want," Patrick adds.

    I turn to face my brothers, the two fair-haired brothers I have always envied, and nod slowly. In this moment, everything is illuminated. In this moment, we are unified in the strong bond of brotherhood. I understand now that I can use my darkness to an advantage. For has there ever been a lamb who has not fallen prey to the lion?

    My (less-fashionable!) brothers leave me in silence. I ponder the night. I contemplate my influence in Cronus Industries, within my family, over the town. Have I ever not succeeded in getting something that I desired? Now was no time to falter. I would not let the will of Demi, my secretary, keep me from Polina. I would not fret over "innocence lost" or the idea of being the corrupter. I believe I sensed it in my first meeting with the golden-haired darling; In Polina's sapphire eyes I saw her own glimmer of darkness. She could easily be won over.

    Thus contemplated, cigar finished and tossed into a rosebush nearby, I take out my cellphone and make a call.

    She is leaning carefully against the abandoned grand piano in the corner of the room, sipping at an effervescent liquid the color of rubies.

    "Vodka and cranberry?" I ask myself, but I am familiar enough with that beverage to notice the color difference.

    I brush away some invisible speck on my lapel, take a deep breath, and stroll casually (hopefully) towards Polina. Once she realizes I am walking towards her, her azure irises dart to-and-fro, startled to the point where she looks slightly ridiculous (but nonetheless endearing). She seems to be searching out someone and finally, not finding them, nods meekly my way and places her drink on the piano.

    Oh, to be standing this close to her! I long to reach out and stroke the pale green silk of her gown, or perhaps the gossamer sheen of her flaxen curls...

    Polina clears her throat and reaches out a finger to wipe the condensation away from her drinking glass.

    "Hello," she mumbles, and this one word boosts my confidence.

    "Are you enjoying your first Cronus Industries event? The first of many, I hope," I suggest to her.

    "Oh, yes, of course," she stutters all too quickly, eager to please.

    She picks up her glass and takes a nervous sip, which results in a coughing fit. Instinctively I reach out a hand to her back, to steady her.

    Calmed down, she looks at me appreciatively. I could easily move my hand away and move a respectable distance away from her, but the warmth of her skin draws me a step closer, like a magnet. Her eyes widen, and she looks so susceptible and beautiful that I can only let out a low moan.

    "What are you drinking?"

    She glances at the half-empty glass on the piano and lets out a shaky laugh before mumbling, "Shirley Temple."

    Raising an eyebrow, I regard the sunny little Polina, who suddenly appears so much younger and so very... inexperienced. I can practically smell the lemon-lime soda and grenadine, wafting off of her like the most intoxicating (surprising!) perfume.

    "I think you should come with me," I mutter.

    "Excuse me?" She asks, looking somewhat uneasy.

    I take a deep breath and take another step closer to her. My hand, still resting on her back, applies a slight pressure, which she is keenly aware of.

    Her eyes widen. My face is only a few inches away from her face, and as her startled sapphires raise to meet my eyes, darkening with desire, I am all oily charm and mystery as I tell her I have a car waiting.

    After much coaxing on my part and many protests on her's, I whisk her out of the Plaza and into the night.

    It is only when we have been driving several minutes that Polina pipes up, a frail little chirp.

    "I've... I've left everything at the hotel. My coat, my cellphone, my purse..."

    "You must be cold," I offer, and shrug off my suit jacket. She looks waifish, sitting wide-eyed in the back of my limousine with my gray jacket (too big for her) sitting on her shoulders. Her lips are trembling and her hair is slightly mussed, the comb out of place. I admit such a fact may be due to the slight scuttle that took place upon her refusal to climb into the backseat...

    "I... should get back," she stutters, eyes shining in a manner I have never seen before, "I mean..."

    I tune out Polina's rambling and flip open my cellphone. I notice a text message from Demi:

    "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

    I promptly delete it.

    "No need to fret, dear," I interrupt Polina, "we're going somewhere I think you'll enjoy."

    "Please bring me back to the Plaza!"

    "After coming this far," I shake my head, "you want to go back? No need! You'll enjoy the atmosphere here much better!"

    With those words uttered, like magic, we arrive at our destination: A secluded little restaurant (with astronomic prices), Tartarus.

    The car purrs to a stop and I step out into the summer night. I offer Polina my hand, which she refuses. However, upon peering out the window, curiousity gets the best of her and she gingerly places her trembling fingers upon my own.

    I walk her carefully into the restaurant's foyer. It is comfortably dark, illuminated in a red glow by paper lanterns. Everything is rich; fine fabrics drape across low, dark stone walls. We enter into an area that appears almost to be a garden and are seated by the maitre d'. Polina's eyes flash red as she peers across the room and light up as they rest upon the massive golden fountain in the center of the room.

    "What is this place?" She turns to me, fearful wonderment shaping her mouth into a perfect O.

    "Just a little place in my neck of the woods," I toss out, nonchalantly, and loosen my tie. We sit at a table isolated from the other diners, as I generally prefer, but if an officer were to enter into Tartarus he would have a field day - every single table in the restaurant is occupied by some form of mafioso!

    "As we speak, the good name of the city is slowly being eaten away by power-hungry families," I long to tell her, to offer her some sort of confession.

    Instead I say, "Shall we have a look at the wine list?"

    She drops her gaze to her hands in her lap. "I don't think I should."

    My cellphone vibrates accusingly in my pocket. Bzzt. Bzzt.

    "Come now, Polina," I coo, "it's rude to deny an offer when someone takes you out to dinner."

    "I didn't ask to come here," she whispers sharply. "Please take me back to the hotel! Demetria will be worried about me."

    My forehead creases in distress, which I really must stop doing (I'll get wrinkles). I clear my throat and open up a menu.

    "What would you like to start with? Goat cheese with roasted cranberry marmalade and crushed pistachios? Or how about butternut squash soup with black truffle mushrooms?"

    "I don't want to start with anything, please," she implores, her voice cracking slightly. For a moment I feel guilty. Polina appears helpless, shivering in her green gown.

    I really should tell them to turn down the air conditioning...

    "Come now, Polina," I plead, "please take a look at the menu. I'd really like you to eat something."

    "I'd really like to leave! I... I shouldn't be here!"

    "And why not?" I ask, shutting the menu firmly and placing it on the table.

    Polina says nothing. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stares into the fountain.

    My cellphone vibrates again. Three times. Bzzt, bzzt, bzzzt.

    "Why do you feel you mustn't take your boss, your superior, up on his offer for dinner?"

    "Because..."

    "Because?" I entreat, hands clenching at the red table cloth.

    "Because you're not a good person!" She practically shouts, and then covers her mouth. I smirk. She shuts her eyes tightly, willing her comment away.

    "I didn't mean -" she starts to say, but I interrupt her.

    "I'm not a good person because... I deal with bad people?" I guess.

    "Well..." she shrugs.

    "But, don't you see Polina," I say, and push the menu across the table towards her, "that I may be dealing with bad people, but the results of these deals are doing good?"

    She glances at the menu quickly but peers into my eyes, "Don't think I don't know. I'm interning at your company."

    "To one so... young," I explain, "All of my deals may seem shady. But don't you see that I'm utilizing the money that could be going towards guns and drugs, and putting it towards making this city great?"

    "You're trying to justify the business you conduct with mob bosses?" She asks, her fingers trailing over the cover of the menu. She abruptly takes them away and places them in her lap.

    "I'm only stating the truth," I shrug and edge the menu closer to her, "from an outsider's point of view, my business may appear unethical..."

    "That's because it is unethical!"

    "But Polina," I begin, "if you could only be present for one of these deals. The sway my words can have on a person..."

    She regards the menu, unsure. "You enjoy your power?"

    I chuckle, "Dear, if you could understand the satisfaction of having your words taken so seriously. To be able to change a person's mind..." I push the menu a final inch closer to her, "so quickly. To have influence over such influential people... it is truly..." She flips a page, her eyes not leaving mine, "spectacular."

    I sit back in silence. A minute passes. Bzzt. Bzzt. My phone seems to drill a whole in my pocket.

    Polina shakes her head, dazed, "I.. don't think dessert could hurt."

    The waiter places a small dish in front of Polina and her sapphire eyes illuminate with delight.

    "Oh, pomegranate! This sorbet looks delicious!" She cries, and eagerly lifts her spoon daintily to her mouth. I watch with delight as the places the sorbet on her tongue and shivers in rapture.

    "Are you enjoying yourself?" I ask, fingers steepled, as her own darkening eyes lift to meet mine.

    "Very much so," she states in a throaty voice which startles even her.
    Just then, we hear a commotion at the front of the restaurant. Paying little heed, I turn my attention back to Polina, who is shyly offering me a spoonful of blood-colored sorbet. I am about to reach across the table, eager to brush her fingers with my own, when a shrill cry interrupts such actions.

    "What are you doing?" Demi cries, and grabs the spoon out of Polina's hand. "Sweetheart, I thought I told you to stay away from him outside of the office!"

    Awoken from her sensual daze, Polina glances quickly at me before averting her eyes.

    Demetria spins to face me and jabs a finger in my face. "And you!" She huffs, "You should know better! I may only be your secretary, H, but damn, sometimes I feel like your mother! She's nineteen, for chrissakes!"

    Demi blew into Tartarus on a cold wind and snatched up my warm little Polina. I realized, however, as I took a long sip of my plum wine, that Polina may have left me now... but undoubtedly, she'd be back.