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Sweating suddenly and feeling wildly under-dressed despite wearing his best suit, LaVonte stopped right in front of the velvet-lined booth.

"HJ Wingstreet?"

The man looked up, all teeth. Some of them were pretty long, frighteningly so. Did this guy pay some dentist to look like this?

"So you're the kid making waves on Dow Jones?" he replied. LaVonte immediately bristled. Kid? He was damn near forty. But he didn't get this far in the game without fielding all the racist chumps who thought they were his superiors. He slid into the booth as gracefully as he could, dropping his briefcase and suit-jacket neatly onto the seat. He took Wingstreet by the hand and didn't even flinch at the cold and tacky touch of his skin, like he'd been outside for too long though judging by his ash tray he's been at this booth for hours.

"LaVonte Worthy, how do you do? You must be the famous heir of Wingstreet Industries I keep hearing about—"

"I am Wingstreet Industries," he interrupted.

LaVonte smiled, "That so?"

"The same way you were the real genius behind your brother's empire."

LaVonte felt every bit of the petty ground he gained crumble away as Wingstreet took a drag from his cigar, the coil of smoke disappearing into the bar's already cloudy air.

"LaVonte Worthy, real name, Lazarus Reed Church. Thirty-nine, single, moved out of Memphis in '76—"

"Did my brother send you?"

A white-bellied snake, that's what H.J. reminded him of; Lavonte had come to this meeting, hoping for something worthwhile. He'd walked through the rain and snow because he hoped that all the rumors about Wingstreet financing up-and-coming entrepreneurs was true.

But no.

He hated shit like this. Hated not being in control, hated the reminder that he had to beg hard for a good life. Smile falling limp, LaVonte felt the powerful pulse of dread radiate through his blood. He hated the way HJ Wingstreet's brilliant eyes glinted in the haze of tobacco, and whatever else slurred thick in the room's hot air, like he could feel every single one of LaVonte's nerves lighting up.

HJ leaned forward, the lit end of his cigar dangling dangerously close to LaVonte's hair. "He didn't send me, Mr. Worthy. But you could."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm in the business of investing and I very much want to invest in you. It couldn't have been easy working your way up especially when your biggest rival is your brother," Wingstreet settled back into the plush seat and for the first time, LaVonte saw something glimmer beneath the table, an honest-to-god golden sceptre encrusted with a palm-sized ruby. "But I'm seeing things that have me concerned."

"Like what?"

"Like, you're not working for your family anymore, Mr. Worthy. So, why the fuck aren't you going straight for their throat?"

Until now, HJ's voice had been a careless drawl, hardly the tone of the filthy rich magnate LaVonte's been hearing whispers about on the floor. So he was unprepared for the hard edge it suddenly took on, the way it rang sharp and clear like a slap even though HJ hardly spoke above the band playing in the corner of the room. "You know their personnel. You know their trade secrets. From the moment you've been onboard, everything's been going up. I'd go as far as to say that every way that your family operates, every success has been by your design—"

"That's not—"

"I don't want Worthy and Wingstreet Industries to be led by someone who's too scared to be a big swinging dick."

"What?" LaVonte gawked at him, mouth hanging open, "W-Wait, Worthy and… You wanna be partners?"

"Maybe. If you can prove that you're worth it. Sentiment won't make any money, Mr. Worthy. Prove to me that you're willing to do what it takes to live like a king and I'll hand you the crown that goes with this sceptre."

HJ angled his wrist so that the ruby in his hand glittered. No, not a ruby, LaVonte realised, it's a diamond, blood red. Each cut and angle was precise, hypnotising. How the hell… Even if he was swinging around a fake rock, it was a wonder how no one in the whole of New York's mugged this guy!

Be-fucking-ware of them snakes in the grass.

"Why me?" LaVonte said forcefully, smile gone. Pleasant facade all gone. He was in a velvet booth in Manhattan's sweatiest, most cramped speakeasy. "Is this the spiel that you give to all of your investments?"

"I've been watching you for some time, LaVonte. I see someone extremely clever and competent, someone hungry—" HJ let out an eerie sound then, something that gurgled horrifically very, very low in his throat. Looking back on it, LaVonte should've recognised the snarl, should've run away from the panting animal that he was clearly dealing with— "and I am the exact same. Together, I think we're gonna climb the fuckin' food chain."

LaVonte was raised right, he knew that he should've run. But when the devil offers you his hand and tells you even snakes can become fucking kings? It's hardly the worst deal in the world.

He looked deep into the uncanny colour of HJ's eyes and grasped his hand again.

Even the sinking hole to hell can be an open door.

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