Alex Elliott's Blog - Posts Tagged "buffett"

     After out little dinner and chat, Dominick delivers a series of
rapidly spoken orders to my grandfather’s efficient staff. Their eyes see
nothing. Effectively I am nothing, according to him. Caught in a web of his
greed. A festering wound and one I’ve fashioned so to speak.

     The china, sterling, crystal, plus a few sporadic crumbs
are removed from the gleaming oak table that has been in my family for twelve
generations. A demitasse of espresso is placed in front of each of us.

     “This offer isn’t negotiable. It’s my way. You
naked. One month.”

     My face goes numb. I stare at the man in front of
me, refusing to think about the hard-muscled body housed beneath his flawless
suit. “Did you say offer?” I finally
choke out.

    “Tick tock, Ms. Buffett, I have other appointments.”

    This is how it goes. Whether capitalizing on a
corporation in receivership or the space between my thighs, he’s ruthless. “How
long do I have to decide?”

    His silvery predacious eyes flicker across my face like
one of the wolves my grandfather had set free in the Rockies when I was child.
Instead of running into the wild, the beta circled around and attacked him.  Dominick meets my gaze. “I’m feeling generous.
One minute.”

     “You’ve got to kid—”

    “Fifty-four seconds. You’re wasting time, unless you’ve
decided.” A smug grin curves his full lips. Lips I’d once kissed. “Given you have
zero options, don’t think too hard.”

    His cockiness mainlines into my right ventricle. “I
can get a loan. You’re not my only line of credit. My name is equity in any
bank.”

    “Are you through?” 
He lifts his cup of espresso and sips, his strong fingers far too
masculine for a dainty piece of china from the Ming Dynasty. “Let me remind you
what you are. You’re an out of work mason with a note due on your studio and
you’ve signed a contract to deliver a commissioned sculpture to the Munich
Modern Museum without the means to purchase a chisel, hammer, marble without my
permission. No one. Not even my uncle in Sicily will cross me to loan you a
dime.”

     Instinctively, I understand the depth of his cruelty
but what’s his long game. “What is it that you’re after besides vengeance?”

      “Looking for
the angles. Sweetheart, don’t try. Those little chess matches you and Wagner
played were games. Nothing more. I come from the world of test me by being a
tease, and I’ll fuck you on the floor as I deal with the next item on my agenda.
That mouth of yours, beautiful as it is, will be wrapped around my cock before
the sun sets. The only courtesy I’m extending you is to allow you to save face
and agree.”

     My breathing accelerates like I’ve sprinted along
the beach. I stare at the photograph of the pink boulder on my cell. It weighs
eight hundred seventy-two kilos. Solid granite. Fuck. Who would believe my way
out of hell is hard. Raw. Rock.

    No different than the prick in front of me who has bided
his time and holds me in checkmate all because of his twisted sense of
entitlement, and now he’s developed a taste for revenge.

     “Fuck you very much!” I reply.

    “Get up.” A muscle clicks along his jaw. “The only
words out of your exquisite little mouth for the next four weeks better be ‘Yes,
Sir. Thank you. How may I please you?’”

    “Don’t think so, Nick.” I use his nickname from the neighborhood
he grew up in before he became a Senator. Before he became CFO of an empire.

     “So stubborn.” He shrugs out of his bespoke charcoal
jacket that costs more than my entire meager wardrobe. One by one he removes
his links. Rolls up his shirt sleeves. And I refuse to budge. Coming over he
roughly tips up my chin until I’m forced to gaze into his cold heartless eyes. “I’m
going to enjoy teaching you to submit to me. Lesson number one. How to say, “Yes,
sir”

     “What shall
we work on tomorrow? Please?” I jerk my chin away and spit out. “Let me save
you the trouble. Yes, you’re a fucking asshole. Sir. And please sir, go fuck
yourself. Anymore lessons?”

   Two men wearing dark suits enter and stand by the door. Unzipping his trousers, Dominick lowers his gaze to my
mouth. “Let’s just stick with the first. Repeat after me, 'Yes. Sir.'”