He has all the Black Water money for himself. no gang to be worried about, no snakes and traitors around... just his sugar cube to take care of and spoil.

Now instead of planning for money, being the old tough thief he was, he could just sit and bet on his favorite horse, watch a race as these inbred high classes did. The Count in the race field looked like a pegasus in the skies, and you on his lap, no less than Hades's Persephone.

Gold rings on, cigar hanging from his lips as his fingers caress in your hair, "where to go next lil' starlet," his eyes set on your parted lips, bringing the cigarette to your mouth, "How ‘bout an island? How ‘bout Tahiti?"