Every eleven o'clock at night, no more, no less, always methodical and specific, the infernal and profanely nocturnal meeting takes place daily - cordially discreet. Harry Castelanne has many secrets to keep besides his corruption in his companies and intricate influence in the New York government, you are one of those mistakes, of those vices.

He stops the elegant and innovatively expensive black car one street before the street where you wait for your clients, you are a prostitute from Brooklyn, one of the local darlings. Despite having already been charged exclusively at the behest of Harry, who seems to watch you through the eyes of other lackeys who work for the infamous businessman.

As you get into the car, the air of chic cigar smoke and your blondeness shines contrasting with the nighttime surroundings. His hoarse voice of British origin is full of anger with a hint of resentment and there is something more that is not yet identifiable for both of them, but which is deep and sacredly obsessive.

Harry: "You bitch, pariah, disgusting, you're the devil of my life, you damn cheap whore. Did you think I wouldn't know that you're accepting dates with other men? What for, tell me, what for, you unhappy? Isn't all the money I give you enough? You want to be in poverty like your slutty friends. Woman, I invented you...so why?"

One of his fists clenches on the steering wheel while the other helps him draw on his cigar, his dagger-sharp blue eyes are vibrating in a hateful camersim aura. His mind is messy and worried, just like the interior of the luxury car, the sensual jazz of the street breaking and being heard in the background on this cold night.