Braden Flynn sat in the backseat, uncertain where he was being taken.  Nervously, he fidgeted. The car, a comfortable black sedan, stopped. This location wasn't a new hotel.  It was some sort of hole in the wall establishment, it almost had the look of a bar? Braden narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the driver as he exited his seat to come around & open the passenger side door.

"Where are we?"  Braden questioned.  "I was told we were being taken to a new hotel."  

"Just this way Mr. Flynn."  The driver, carrying what little of Braden's things he'd managed to grab on his way out of his room, ushered him towards the door to the bar.  Braden took a quick look around and noticed his fellow musicians arriving. Like him they were headed towards the entrance and, feeling relief at the sight of his companions, he didn't put up any more fuss.  

The bar was empty save for the bartender and a couple sitting at the back of the room.  The young man and woman were dressed as if they were prepared to go out for a night on the town.  The woman was Italian and beautiful beyond belief. She was dressed in a red sequin dress that had a slit clean up to her thigh.  The man wasn't hard on the eyes either, Braden was sure that women would consider him handsome. He wore an expensive looking suit that appeared to have been tailor-made to fit him perfectly.  The two were drinking and sharing a laugh as the group of sleep-deprived and shell-shocked musicians came into the bar. It had been a very long day, indeed, and this odd scene was not helping Braden's mood at all.

The man and woman turn to look at the group of musicians entering and both raise their glasses, as if in celebration.  "Ladies & Gentlemen," The woman began, "Welcome to Troubadour Records."

Stunned the musicians each looked to one another and then back to the couple toasting them.  The man and the woman drank from their glasses, looking smug as fuck. Braden couldn't take it a moment longer.

"What the hell is going on here?!?"  He demanded.

"Joey," the man called out to the bartender.  "Please get our friends some drinks. Folks, I'm sorry for the long night you've endured, but if you will have a seat, enjoy a drink or two on us, we'll be happy to explain how you've ended up here with all of us and then, if you are still willing, we can get down to business."

One by one the musicians found a seat and accepted the alcohol they were being offered.

The woman nodded to the man and said, "My name is Isabella Luciano and this is Arturo Strigliori.  And we are the architects of your somewhat rocky liberation from NOMA. Arturo, why don't you begin?"

With a nod, Arturo stood up and walked out of the booth.  Pacing the floor between all the musicians he began telling his part of the story where all good stories should start… at the beginning.

The meeting was to be in a neutral location. Agent Daley was a slime ball, but he wasn't an idiot. Arturo chose a nice family-owned restaurant, up on a hill with a view of the Delaware river. The crowd was steady enough for Daley to stop constantly looking around after they had finished a couple drinks. Arturo wasn't going to shoot an FBN agent in the middle of the day in a nice establishment like this one. The small talk hadn't lasted, Arturo was never one for it. He sighed and looked out the window. A ferry was chugging down the river, with a plume of hearty, gray smoke leaving its smoke stacks. "That's not going to work, Ross."

Arturo looked across the table and locked eyes with the FBN agent. "Smoke?" Arturo took out a cigarette and offered it to Agent Daley, who accepted it. Arturo took out a lighter and watched as the paper caught, the red warmth of the tip glowing. A steady breeze carried the cigarette smoke outside, where it was lost in the mid-day sun. "I don't smoke personally, but to many of us it is an acceptable vice."

Agent Daley ignored Arturo's innocuous comments and returned back to the point at hand. "Mr. Strigliori, what you're asking me to do, I can't do. I don't have the authority. The FBN has no regulation over what ships come into port, who gets searched or not." Arturo took his comment and frowned. He appeared like he was going to say something but visibly restrained himself before continuing. 

"Ross, I don't have a problem with you not being able to do what you can't do. I have a problem with you lying to me. You've been taking some dough off the top of that heroin operation you're running for us. I'm not a big supporter of liars in this business. A deceitful man is no better than a liar. And do you know what happens to liars?" 

Agent Daley was visibly taken aback, "No, sir. I haven't been doing anything like that! You've got the wrong guy." His panic shone. 

Arturo continued: "Ross, The Race Street Company does not tolerate liars. We can't have that happening, your wife can't raise your kids by herself. It would be a damn shame."

Agent Daley was silent. He quietly gulped, as if swallowing down the possibility of that fate. A waitress appeared, bringing the two their sandwiches. Arturo smiled to the waitress, taking her attention off of Daley. "Thank you, Miss..." craning his neck to look at her name tag, she helped him out. "Miss Hollands, but my name's Annabelle." Arturo returned her smile, "Thank you Annabelle." She left, looking back once more to shoot Arturo another smile, which he reciprocated.

Arturo brought his attention back to Agent Daley, who was using his napkin to wipe away a couple beads of sweat. "So, Ross. You haven't left me with many options here, buddy. What am I to do with you?" 

Agent Daley tried to reason with Arturo. "C'mon, Mr. Strigliori, I've been good. I've kept my head down, money flowing into the coffers of your operation-" 

Arturo interrupted him, "Ross. I don't give a damn what you've done in the past for us. You do not bite the hand that feeds you. This is not up for debate, you have decided your own fate here, Ross." 

Agent Daley pleaded with Arturo, "Mr. Strigliori, please. I'll do whatever you want, just I can't oversee the port authority." This comment caused Arturo to sit back once again, and he picked up his sandwich to indulge. He gestured for Agent Daley to join him. A few minutes passed in which the pair finished their meals. 

Arturo wiped off his mouth with his napkin and continued the conversation. "Ross, I'll tell you what. I've got a job that needs being done. It's within your reaches, but it's important. I can't have somebody messing it up. You're a smart kid, okay? But if you mess this up you're gone."

Agent Daley responded well to Arturo's change of demeanor, his eyes filled with hope. "What do you need, Mr. Strigliori?"

Arturo took out a tiny of paper and started scribbling down an address. "How would you like to be a hero, Agent Daley?"

Feet pounding the pavement echoed loudly down the dark alleyway between Oxford Street and Lakeshore Drive.  Percy knew if he could reach the bustling nightlife of Lakeshore he could lose the large black man chasing him.  If only his legs didn't feel like they were made of trembling gelatin dessert! He gasped for air, and as he felt the man's fingers swipe at his jacket once and again, he cried out.  It was no use. The third time, as they say, was the charm.

Percy hit the pavement hard, skinning his hands as he tried to break his fall, the black man driving him mercilessly into the ground and then punching him twice for good measure.

"Enough, Linval!"  A female's voice with a hint of a New York accent snapped like a whip.

Percy dared to open his eyes and saw the man's fist held up above his head, but not yet descending.  

"Let our friend up."  Isabella walked calmly down the alleyway towards them.

"Ms. Luciano!  If I had known this guy was yours, I would have stopped.  Don Mezz..."

"Godfather."  She corrected him.

"Yeah, yeah, Godfather Mezzo... of course, I meant Godfather Mezzo is a good friend of mine and I'm always happy to chat with the nice folks from the Race Street Company."

Isabella smirked and nodded to the man she called Linval.  As if her head was connected to the man's arm, Linval's fist cracked into Percy's face and then he was dragged up to his feet violently.

"Percy Miller.  Age 22. Convicted of arson twice and already served six months in the Philadelphia State Penitentiary.  Scheduled for trial for your recent burning bender on December 10th. On that date, your shyster state-appointed lawyer will instruct you to plead guilty and you will go away for no less than three years.”

“It’s bullshit.  I didn’t do nothing!”  He insisted.

“Of course you didn’t, Percy.”  Isabella purred, walking towards him with one foot placed directly in front of the previous one so that her thighs made a noise as they rubbed against one another.  “And it seems very wrong, to me at least, that you’re not only going away for all that time but that you’ll have nothing to show for all this when you get out.”

“What do you mean?”

Isabella nodded again and this time Linval released him.  “How would you feel about having enough cash to get out of Philly when you finally set foot outside the big house?  In fact, what if you had enough money to hop on any plane you wanted and were able to go anywhere in the world and live a nice quiet and very comfortable life from there on out?”

Percy narrowed his eyes, “And what would I have to do in order to make that happen?”

“Well, they pinned a fire on you… seems to me that if you’re going to serve time for burning something to the ground, you should at least do what they accused you of.”

“You … you want me to burn something?”

Isabella smiled.  “All you need to do is go be the demented son of a bitch they say you are… burn something, forget that we had this conversation, and then when you’ve served your time there will be a little token of my appreciation for your lost time on the inside waiting for you.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”  She said with a smile.

“Will anyone die?”

Isabella shook her head, ‘no.’  “Does that disappoint you?” She asked.

“No.  I’m not a murderer.  I just… burn things sometimes, but not that one. I didn’t burn that schoolhouse.  I wouldn’t. Not a schoolhouse.”

Isabella nodded.  “Everyone has a line they won’t cross.  I respect that Percy… but I need someone who can burn something and since you’re going away no matter what you do at this point… I figure 3 years or 5 is all the same to you at this point.  And, I got one million reasons for you to do this favor for me.”

Percy’s smile grew wide and touched the corners of his eyes.  “Name the place… and it’s ashes already. You got my word.”

The Continental Hotel, on the corner Ninth and Chestnut Streets was known for their main dining room. Generations of the elite had always stayed there when they found themselves in Philadelphia, so it was no surprise a group of new-money immigrants finding their wealth based on the American dream had chosen to stay there. They were living as lavishly as possible. Flaunting their wealth, they were constantly dressed as though they were attending a wedding when they left their rooms. They would take the elevator down to the lobby and enter their taxis which looked a lot more like limousines, to be whisked off to some new party every night. 

But that night they were careful. There were to be no parties, no drugs. God forbid if the press found out about the drugs. The group of five musicians sat in the stateroom smoking. They were half-drunk, eyes itchy from the smoke coating all their lungs and everything in the room. At some point, one of them had announced to the group, in a pronounced sense of revelation, how lucky they were to be there that night. Colin Driscoll, one of the piano players, started a toast: "Tonight is the last night we sit relatively unknown in the music industry. Tomorrow we will take it by storm, on the backs of the greatest label this era has seen." A son of Irish immigrants, he had escaped the clutches of dock work early in his life, able to gain employment in various clubs and dance halls as part of the entertainment. The group all gulped down the burning sensation and they continued to look around in a tired and intoxicated stupor. 

They had been successful. Much more so than many of their peers. The duo of Hungarian immigrants, Cecelia Driscar and Martin Garbor had showcased their talents in bars from Las Vegas to Detroit, much more recently moving back to the city which they had previously immigrated through. The pair of their voices filled any hall with benevolent sound. Amilia McCreery was less successful, but her talents had turned her into a rising star. She was young, and yet she could play guitar, violin, and double bass extraordinarily. Dan Rayne. Wow, Dan. He had played hundreds of gigs for The Murray Hill band out of Manhattan. They had traveled the country for about three years before the band broke up. The lead singer decided to go solo, and Dan decided to get out of the band before it all fell apart. He was typically seen on the drum set but could jam on any type of instrument where hitting was involved. Whenever he'd walk around with the group, some fan- usually a teenage girl- would come up and ask for an autograph. That type of attention brought the envy of his colleagues, but they had all swallowed it, much like the alcohol they had consumed, to the point where it was little issue. 

It was around 11:30 when they all headed back to their rooms, finally ending a long day. They had been attending the Troubadour Records listening party earlier, finding out who their competition was in the label. The prospects of their busy next day had all of them sleeping almost immediately. 

A couple hours passed when they were all rudely awakened by loud shouting. The group had all thrown on their clothes and converged in the hall at roughly the same time, despite being in different rooms- save for Cecelia and Martin. The smell of something burning slowly permeated their nostrils. The realization dawned upon them rather rapidly afterward. "Fire!" someone a floor below shouted again. Colin ran back into his room and grabbed all his musical compositions, Amilia following suit and grabbing the violin her grandmother had gifted her. All five made sure to fill a small bag with their valuables and quickly ran downstairs, waving their hands so the smoke wouldn't impact their vision too much. A man in a suit quickly and bravely guided them down the stairs and to the front of the building. They exited the building coughing and joined the already-amassed group of hotel patrons. Several firetrucks drove up to the building, and other native Philadelphians pitched in to stop the entire building from burning down. The police arrived on scene and cordoned off the area. The hotel customers were taken to another one of Philadelphia's best hotels free of charge.

The man in the suit later introduced himself to the press as Agent Daley of the FBN. He led a suspect in handcuffs into a Philadelphia's finest police car. "You're going away for a long time. I hope you say your prayers, mister." 

Agent Daley spoke for the FBN as part of the investigation in the press conference afterward: "We have custody of a current suspect. We regret the loss of property that has occurred here tonight, but fortunately no individuals were harmed. The FBN and the city of Philadelphia will prosecute the perpetrator of this crime to the full extent of the law. Any questions?"

A reporter raised her hand, “The Global Philadelphian, Agent Daley. Is it true you left your post at the Troubadour Records after party to help save the hotel residents once the executives were safe?”

Agent Daley smiled and answered: “Miss, It’s just my duty. Stop trying to make me blush.” The crowd laughed.

Braden had been sitting quietly all day.  He’d been promised a career in music, a profitable and enjoyable one… instead, he was a prisoner.  NOMA hadn’t been anything at all like he had been told to expect.

Sure they were powerful, influential, and … well, totalitarian.  He wasn’t given much freedom to do music the way he wanted, or where and when he wanted, and now he wasn’t even fucking allowed to leave the damned hotel room! 

Armed guards kept him and several others as if they were hostages and so far as he could tell they all shared one thing in common… a desire to defect from NOMA to Troubadour Records.  How long did they intend to keep them here?  No one was saying. No one was saying shit! Earlier in the day a few of his fellow musicians had tried to insist on their loyalty and lied saying they wouldn’t sign with Troubadour, but the guards wouldn’t budge.  No one was letting them go.

Braden paced and looked at the clock.  It was 3 am. He knew he should go to sleep, but how could he with these armed goons watching his every single move?  If he took a shit they’d probably know what color it was! 

A pounding on the door caused Braden to jump out of his skin, his fellow prisoners startled as a male voice in the hall called out, “OPEN UP, FBN!”  The men with guns, clearly not expecting this any more than the musicians, didn’t immediately open the door.  The Feds, of course, responded by kicking in the door and rushing in. Braden and the other musicians went to the floor in submission, not knowing what the hell was happening or why.

“You!”  One of the officers snapped at Braden.  “Get your shit… come on, hurry up!"

"You too!”  The officer snapped at another musician.

Against the wall, the NOMA gunmen were being disarmed and read their rights as Braden and his fellow musicians scurried around the room gathering up their belongings hurriedly.

“What’s happening?”  he heard one of the musicians asking an officer.  

“We’ve got some questions for you folks then we’ll be taking you to another hotel for the night, so if we need you again tomorrow we know where to find you.  Come on now, hurry up.”

As Braden walked downstairs with his fellow musicians, he could see the men from NOMA being forced into police cars.  He was thankful to be free, but still unsure why the hell the police needed to question him and the other musicians. After all, they were the prisoners, they were the victims in this mess!

Keeping his mouth shut he road in the car downtown and spent a half-hour explaining how he had no idea there had been a fire at another hotel, nor that he believed any of the NOMA people did either… though he wouldn’t have put it past them.  He was exhausted, annoyed, and confused. Everything about this day was utter madness and all he wanted now was a good night’s sleep and the ability to call Troubadour Records in the morning and never look back.

And so, he got into yet another car, this one supposedly bound for another hotel and ideally a good night’s sleep.  He hoped that this was the case but some small part of him suspected the night wasn’t yet over.

After Arturo concluded, he stepped back briefly to let the musicians take it in. Then he cleared his throat and spoke steadily: "The events of last night and today have shone incredibly poorly on the New Orleans Music Association. Any activities they are associated with- especially shady ones- will have increased attention as the federal investigation commences. As you may know, NOMA has a large legal team, so there won't be any significant repercussions on their part. That is not to say they won't be spending thousands on their litigation defense." Arturo picked up a glass of water and briefly took a sip. He started slowly walked among the group of sitting musicians. 

"Now, we understand that NOMA's deal appeared very good to you all. They were offering the big bucks. Heck, I'd take a deal like that if I were in your shoes. But. If you read the fine print, you're entitled to barely any control of your life after you sign that contract. They'll dress you up like dolls, sure, to go to their events and all that. But when you're not going to their events. Oh boy. You've got twelve-hour mandatory work days. They'll burn you until they're done and throw you aside like a cigarette."

Arturo paused and locked eyes with one of the ladies, giving her a slight wink and smile, before continuing to walk around. "Now I know that probably ruins your day, rains on your parade, and all that. So, I'll follow up with a counteroffer. Troubadour Records has got space for talented stars like you lot. They've got a heck-of-a-lot better contract which I'll have some of my lawyers go over with you. And I've heard from a little birdie that Troubadour Records have got a very generous signing bonus, today only." Arturo motioned for one of his bodyguards to bring up a medium-sized suitcase that had been sitting slyly behind a table. The bodyguard opened it and exposed the neat rows of hundred-dollar bills. "You can count it all later." The crisp greenness of the bills suddenly exposed to the light had the musicians seeing dollar signs, and they were pleasantly surprised. There was some talking between a pair of them, who had visible smiles, before they fell silent once more. 

Arturo walked squarely into the middle of the five and asked the group with the most businessman-like voice you'd ever hear him speak in, "Who's in?" Arturo pointed over to where the contracts were. The musicians seemed hesitant, but they walked over to where the five piles of documents were sitting on a rather long table. Arturo gestured for a handful of suit-clad people to come over, the lawyers. They started to go through the contracts with the musicians. After roughly an hour and a half of discussion, the lawyers backed up to behind Arturo. 

All five of the musicians stood up and brought the contracts to Arturo. Every contract had been signed on the dotted line. "Welcome to Troubadour Records." Arturo and Isabella shook hands with every one of them.