Falling for the Family Heir

Chapter Three

Atlas’ phone rang just as he savored the feel of Allegra’s tongue on his cheek. He paused, growling. Should he do it? He sighed, head sinking to his chest. It was an asshole move and he was pulling it.

“Don’t move. I have to take this.”

Allegra’s eyes popped open in shock and she reared back. She just licked the man and he was taking a call? What kind of new-age bullshit was this? She leaned back, calculating out how quickly she could leave this lounge. Where was Oscar? She had definitely spent enough time in this guy’s company to last her a lifetime. She was not looking for another Ben, thank you.

Meanwhile, Atlas was absorbed in the most mind-numbing conversation with his accountant. The accountant wanted to go through all the numbers, line by line, on Atlas’ new acquisition opportunity. Each line was so crucial, so important, that the company owner had to understand the minutiae (!)

Atlas interrupted his accountant, “OK. Vern? I understand that you feel that this is important for me to get. I respect that. But I am going to decline this impromptu meeting that you have sucked me into; I am at an important engagement. I understand the risks, but you, sir, also have to understand that this money is mine, and I am choosing this gamble. OK? Don’t worry, Vern, you don’t have to cover your ass. I am not going to throw you under the bus. Copy? OK, I am getting off the phone now; good night.”

Atlas turned around, his fingers massaging his throbing temple “I’m so sorr-”

His heart dropped. Where was Allegra? As if in answer to his question, a waiter approached Atlas, a dainty little card perched delicately upon his golden tray.

“A note for you from your party members, sir.”

Atlas took the note, shaking his head in frustration. The note was from Oscar.

‘Hey bud, had to get Allegra to another show. Took an Uber. Dang u must not have been that interesting lolz. Love ya! X – Oscar’

Cockblocked by freakin’ Vern. Atlas pulled out his phone and called Oscar. It went straight to voicemail. The bastard put it on silent. He texted Oscar, saying he was sorry he missed them leaving and was wondering if he could get Allegra’s contact details. Swirling the ice cubes around in his whiskey glass, he waited for a response but, after several minutes, was convinced none would be incoming for tonight.

Atlas called for his car to be pulled around, tipping the waiter who brought him the note. He waited by the front, cracking his neck in frustration, adjusting his suit jacket. Atlas had one of those faces that always seemed to have a permanent frown plastered on them, an ideal poker face. But he never had anything out of place. His clothes were always pressed, his shoes were always clean. Not a single hair would be out of place. Nothing was frivolous or not well thought out in his life, and that was just the way he liked it.

And then there was Allegra. She was tough. She was willing to walk up and leave. It bruised Atlas’ ego, causing him to smirk. Rejection? That’s new. There was something in his heart that mourned this rejection, however. It could have meant something more.

“Sir?”

Atlas’ train of thought was interrupted by his driver, who had pulled up in front of the club, the car doors already open.

“Oh. Moto-san. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were…anyway, thank you for coming so fast.” Atlas smiled kindly at his driver.

His driver bowed low, smiling the friendliest of all smiles to Atlas, closing the door gently behind him. Haruki Iwamoto was a short, sturdy, fast man who was in his fifties, but looked like he was in his late thirties. He was affectionately called Moto-san by Atlas, who had known him since Haruki drove for Atlas’ parents: a friendship of over twenty years. Whenever Haruki opened the door for Atlas, the contrast in height between the two seemed comical, making Atlas look seven foot when really he was just six foot. Despite being in America for well over thirty years, Haruki never could shake off his accent, nor his old habits of simply being polite and respecting people. Strange man. He also kept secrets well, a trait Atlas treasured in him. Settling into his driver’s seat, Haruki looked back at Atlas in the rearview mirror.

“Home, sir?”

“Yes, Moto-san. This night has not gone like I planned.”

“Oh. No more Candy?”

“Candy? Oh, you mean Cindy. No, er, no Cindy tonight.”

Atlas laughed softly, looking at his phone, hoping for a message from Oscar. Tutting, he leaned his head back onto the car seat, groaning loudly. It was not lost on Moto-san. That was his cue.

“Something wrong, sir?”

“No.” Atlas said, poutingly.

“Oh. OK then.” Haruki continued driving, not prodding further.

“Well…” Atlas said half-heartedly.

That was his cue again. Haruki asked again, kindly.

“Yes, sir?”

“I made a real error in judgement tonight. And I am regretting it.” Atlas said dejectedly.

“That is unusual for you, sir.”

“Very. You know how much I love overthinking.”

“Yes, it’s good.”

Atlas laughed, “You think overthinking is good, Moto-san?”

“Better than no thinking.”

“Yes, well…tonight I chose work over a beautiful woman. An incredibly talented…interesting…soft woman. That was the wrong call.”

Haruki didn’t say anything, nodding understandingly.

Atlas paused before asking, “Moto-san, I want you to be honest with me. Like, just tell me the truth, no fluff, no thinking you’ll hurt my feelings OK? Do you think I am…a bad man?”

“Sir, why do you think you are bad man?”

“I only think about work. People? They don’t seem to register up here. I know I’m selfish. And good people, they consider others, they care about how others feel. Right? ”

“Sir, you care about me?”

“Of course I do, Moto-san. I would do anything for you.”

“So, you care about people. Remember, you paid for my Japan ticket? Remember?”

“Yes, but that was nothing, Moto-san.”

“Not for Moto-san. You think how much I miss Japan and you bought the ticket. That is not selfish person.”

“I mean, Moto-san…with all due respect, those are such small things.”

“OK. Maybe small to you, not to me.”

Atlas smiled. His heart felt a little lighter. “I am sorry that your last Japan trip was not so happy though, Moto-san.”

“It’s not your fault, sir. My mother was old. It was time. My sister and I say goodbye. We did last rites.”

They arrived at Atlas’ fortress in the Bronx. A black brick warehouse building in Riverdale with no windows, save for the very top of the building, with views of the Hudson and New Jersey out of one side, the distant Manhattan skyline from his bedroom in the south.

“Thank you for the ride, Moto-san. You have made me feel better.”

“Sir.” Haruki was about to get out and open the door for Atlas.

“No, no. Sit. I can open this door on my own.”

Haruki watched Atlas walk to his front door where his concierge, Jesse, greeted him. His driver smiled to himself. He parked the car in the garage and put on his helmet to drive back home on his little Vespa. Haruki lived in Pelham Gardens, on the opposite side of the Bronx from Atlas. He walked past one of the schools where his niece just graduated from. It had a new roof because the old one was leaky and decrepit and had started a severe mold infestation. But thanks to the new roof, no one with asthma got more serious lung infections, like his niece. Atlas anonymously donated the roof and fought Haruki to pay for inhalers for the rest of her life. Inhalers she would get via Haruki, not Atlas.

Bad man, he scoffed to himself. He had no idea who he was. Haruki made a call.

“Welcome back, sir. I left your decaf cold brew on your dresser. Do you need anything else?" Jesse, Atlas' sharp and loyal twenty-two-year-old assistant, often attracted attention for his talent, reminding Atlas of his younger brother.

Atlas considered a hot coffee to drown his sorrows, perhaps with Bailey's, but ultimately decided he preferred to be alone for the night.

“Thank you, bud. Go home, rest up. I’ll bother you again in the morning.” Atlas smiled kindly at Jesse, patting him on the shoulder as he got into his elevator. The elevator was a service elevator, but Atlas had it decorated with monochromatic paintings and a chaise lounge. Extra? You bet.

Atlas walked into his apartment and started making himself more comfortable, undoing his bow tie and removing his jacket, putting them away to be laundered. He saw the cold brew with ice cubes on his dresser. He moved it to the side table near the couch as he tucked his items away. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt but paused, the sound of something quickly skittering across the concrete floor, drawing his attention. He dropped his gaze, looking to his periphery through the corners of his eyes, with his ears perked up to hear if the sound repeated. It couldn’t be Jesse. Jesse didn’t skitter.

He felt the breeze from the open window brush against the back of his neck. He turned around slowly, thoughtfully surveying his empty apartment as he held his breath. After several moments of nothing else moving, he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and moved towards the couch, ready to consume his cold brew. Sinking into his couch, legs spread apart, Atlas leafed through the day’s newspaper to get to the stock market section. He reached out for his drink but paused before picking it up. He frowned, his jaw clenching. He picked up the cup, which was now hot, gentle tendrils of steam rising from the top. He opened the table drawer and saw a mini-bar sized bottle of Baileys. With a vacant expression, Atlas poured the Baileys into the now hot coffee, bringing it to his lips and letting the beverage slink down his throat, laying the cup back down.

Beads of sweat slowly started forming on his pale pecs and on his brow. Another hot night, he noted, as the first kiss of December snow started descending on the Hudson.