Donald Byrd's "I'm A Fool To Want You" plays on the harmonious speakers in the ceiling corners of the lounge. Red-painted walls, warm low-light lamps and sculpted button-cushioned red loveseats. She designed this lounge, The Red Room, less than a year ago on the fiftieth and top floor of the Martelli Corp. building, and it's already open to enjoy.
As the saxophone and piano duo play, her eyes mindlessly drift across the walls, painting by painting snug in the red-hued lowlight. The dark still-life works of Evaristo Baschenis to Pensionante del Saraceni, personally hand-picked to her tastes.
Her eyes land on the newly-stocked bar, with bottles of all colours of tinted glass, and the newly-appointed bartender, who's pouring her drink behind the counter. He looks young, not much older than her. An attractive face, dark hair, and a fitted black and white bartender's suit. Although she had not picked him, he was clearly to her tastes as well.
He sets the bottle of wine down, moves the glass onto a silver tray, and lifts it up as he brings it over to her, sitting in one of the loveseats. He gracefully sets the tray onto the table before her, a dark red squared napkin before her, and places the wineglass on top of it with his head down.
She picks up the glass with a slender hand and brings it to her nose to smell. Ah, a vintage Barolo Falletto. She swirls the wine in pleasant satisfaction. Everything was exactly to her tastes…
The glass stops mid swirl and hits the table with a harsh clack.
Everything was to her tastes, except for the glass. The wineglass has a smudge.
"A smudge, Andrews."
The bartender bows before her, white gloves folded in front of him. "I'm Matthews, miss."
Her eyes glow. "And I'm thirsty."
He nods gracefully with his eyes closed. "Right away, miss."
Just before his white-gloved fingers touch the wineglass, she tips it over the edge of the table and it shatters on the floor. "A smudge is a sign of disrespect, Andrews. Do you disrespect me?"
He bows with his eyes closed again, lower this time. "Surely not, miss."
"Surely not," she repeats.
He speaks with his head still down. "It was a mistake, miss."
"A mistake," she repeats. "Yes it was. Disrespecting me was a bloody mistake."
Still in his bow. "I'm terribly sorry, miss." His body shook a little, as if it were a hard position to hold.
"Stand up and come closer."
He rises and steps directly in front of her, crunching on the broken glass.
"What's my name?"
His head lowers in another bow. "Alessia Martelli."
She smiles, the name so pleasant to her ears. Yes, in reality she owned much more than just this lounge; she owned everything. Alessia Martelli of the Martelli Corporation. There was only one man with more power than her; the man whose name is written on the large orange envelope on her lap, "To Mr. Marcello Martelli".
She slips her hand beneath the envelope and the hem of her dress, fingering with her thigh band and revealing a glistening golden knife before the bartender. She strokes the knife with her index finger before pointing it at him.
"Carve my initials into the back of your left hand."
He stares at the knife in her hand for a time, before removing his left glove and accepting it. She had to admit the way he kept such a neutral expression pleased her greatly. He plunges the knife into his hand, immediately squirting blood onto the white dress shirt of his uniform. A vein on the first stab, how unlucky. She flashes a pitiful smile at him as he carves, with great difficulty and a great amount of blood dripping, her letters AM. With trembling bloody hands, he holds the knife back out to her, handle facing her.
She accepts it, inspects it, and licks some of the blood off the blade. The taste is salty in her mouth. "I own you." Her eyes shine against the knife as they bore into his. "One should never disrespect their owner, hm?"
He bows before her so low his entire body trembles and it looks as though he'll snap in half. He clutches his left hand with his white-gloved right one, as it's completely soaked through red. He grips it tight in his bow and his blood drips onto the floor before his shiny black shoes and broken glass. "Yes, miss Martelli."
Her brows raise. I like this one. A smile spreads on her lips as "Minor 9th" begins to play on the speakers, a lovely mix of jazz instruments. "You can go now, Matthews."
He rises to the vertical, bloody hands clenched tight. "I'll bring a new glass right away."
She sets the bloody knife on the table and wipes the blood off her bottom lip with her thumb. "No, my thirst's been satisfied. Just send someone to clean the mess off the floor."
"Right away, miss."
The bartender's gone out the door leaving her eyes closed and a sublime smile, listening to the jazz in the red-tinted lowlight of her lounge.
Soon, two maids enter the lounge; one with a bucket, rag and mop, and the other with her hands behind her back. The former scurried to clean up the mess at her feet, and the latter approaches her in a bow.
She recognizes this one well. "Is he all done, Maria?"
She bows. "Yes, miss Martelli. Mr. Martelli is ready to see you now."
"Alright." She uses the red napkin the bartender provided to wipe his remaining blood off her knife and notices some of the blood had dripped onto the orange document-sized envelope. I'm sure he won't mind. She slips her gold knife back into the thigh strap beneath her dress and gets up from the chair. That Matthews… what a fun way to kill time. My lounge really is the best. She smiles. "After you, Maria."