Chapter Text
A mafia boss, a botanical science professor and a corrupt politician walking into a high-class bar sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Maybe that would be right under less pressing circumstances, but for the two men sat across the mahogany bar and the poor, unwitting bartender in the private room, owned by said politician, it was about to become their reality.
Mr Ram Vera cut a very imposing figure, slicing through the opulent atmosphere like a knife with his aura of intimidation and quiet power; all in all, the perfect picture of a mafia family head. He simply meant business - business being the imminent demise of the man beside him. The demise of the man currently blathering about his newest car and even newer 'girlfriend'.
"You are dismissed," Mr Vera stated brusquely, adjusting his silk tie before turning to the other man in the room, "I have brought my own barman for the evening, I do hope you do not mind?" He cocked an eyebrow in question to the politician, taking a sip of the expensive whiskey in front of him, expression of distaste clear across his features. "I'm sorry, but this just won't cut it. You may want to go home now" he declared coldly, staring down the now quivering young man behind the bar. The boy was gone in a flash. Ram smirked to himself, relieved to know that even his mild displeasure was enough to make men fall to their knees in fear. The man to his side scoffed haughtily. Prick. At least if the man Ram had hired was as good as his file made him out to be, he was sure that the night would be... eventful.
"I am sorry for your wait sirs, your head of staff was very thorough and needed to be sure I was up to their standard. May I come in?" The slightly flustered, disembodied middle-class voice chimed. Upon the man's entrance, Ram was himself entranced. He deeply regretted not asking for a photograph of this man alongside the file information as a man, for whom the only adequate description would be his personal wet dream with a flick of eyeliner and a subtle hint of lipstick, crossed the threshold to stand in front of him, smirking. Ram suddenly felt like he was on the back foot. If the task at hand had been any less important, or had he had less self-control, he may have made a surreptitious, yet hasty, retreat to the bathroom with his 'bartender' in tow to test just how structurally sound the walls in the place were. If this was how all professors looked, he resigned himself to having to sign up for a course, or two.
"Ah! Sir, I see your glass is empty. May I fix you another? I know the most mouth-wateringly delicious whisky cocktail! I learned it from a friend from New Orleans," the man asked the target, " I even brought a couple of my own ingredients for it... Peychaud's bitters are rather difficult to get here under current circumstances. I must say it's a difficult drink to come by in these parts Sir, but I am more than capable of mixing it for you." Appealing to the mark's inflated ego, huh? Nice move. Mr Tutjarit nodded his ascent barely looking at either person as Mr King put on some bartenders gloves with excruciating care, smirking. This guy's god complex was starting to raise Ram’s hackles. He drew a calming breath because he knew he had to; the plan depended on it.
Ram massaged his temples in exasperation before shifting his focus to the other man in the room. He was mesmerised by the practised efficiency and showmanship with which Mr King fixed the drink; his moves so fluid and confident it was as if the bar was his. He found his thoughts flowing much darker, wondering idly if the man in front of him could command himself in a bedroom as well as he evidently could a bar or, if the files were correct, a lecture hall. He watched as the preparation of the drink was finished and the man lifted his head to address Mr Tutjarit. "Now here's where I deviate from the recipe slightly. Rather than paring this with more sour cherries, I'll use this newer sweet breed called a Black Tartarian sir. It's an import from Russia, very rare... I was just so lucky to get only one of these." Mr King's attention shifted to Ram himself, "I hope you don't mind if I use a more easily sourced cherry for you, sir, should you wish to try my speciality. I would quite like to ingratiate myself to the owner of this establishment so as maybe I could serve here again," King's eyes bored deeply into Ram's own, holding his gaze like a moth's to a flame. The 'VIP' of the evening started chuckling with self-satisfaction, looking down upon Ram; he indulged him of course, as any gentleman worth their salt would do for any dying man's last actions.
"A Vieux Carré, Sir. I hope you enjoy it." King announced snapping Ram out of his reverie. He placed the drink upon the bar before walking over to Ram himself. "Mr...Vera was it? May I offer you a drink also Sir? I would recommend you the same beverage if you think you can handle the heat?” A lick of heat leapt up Ram’s spine at the smirk across the barman’s face and the hidden intent behind his words. Maybe he could still hope to have company in his room that evening; maybe his feelings may be mutual if the pure fire in Mr King’s eyes was anything to go by. Ram nodded his assent, trying his best to seem unaffected by the atmosphere between them. “Very well, Sir,” King lilted seductively as he prepared the drink, not allowing the eye contact between them to drop.
“Cheers to a fruitful partnership?” Tutjarit raised his tumbler towards Ram’s own. Ram nodded as he acquiesced. Who was he to ignore the wishes of a dying man after all.