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𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙀 𝙎𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙉 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙇𝙔 𝙎𝙄𝙉𝙎 (1934) AU

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, named faceless m/c, prostitution, language & basically some shady shittt!

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Total WC: 3k

a/n: michael is loosely based on louis de pointe du lac, season 1 amc iwtv. i did so much research PLEASE enjoy! and do not spam like pls! i just got my shadow ban lifted ! be mindful

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GREED

Dolly stood with her arms pressed tight to her sides, her dark bag clutched close to the pin stripes of her corset as if she wasn't a criminal of her own accord. She wouldn't dare lean against the créme coloured wall of the brothel—only God knew what had all happened within and on the walls.

Well, that was exactly it.

She was a criminal of her own accord, one with morals.

These hookers would do anything for a dollar, for Michael's dollar. Some were here to repay debt, and others were young, näive, and unaware that they'd spend the rest of the lives selling their bodies within the confines of this place.

"Mr. Jackson's an awfully selfish man," The young woman—no older than nineteen— to her left whispered.

"Well he's not exactly a person of the people, Lynn, look at us?" The woman murmured back—settled into the maroon leather of the armchair— so similar in look as if to be her older sister.

A plump woman rushed by, her hair a mess of tangled waves. "You two lower your voices.. the missus is over there."

Dolly's eyes narrowed into tiny brown slits, fighting the smirk crawling its way onto her plump lips. She glanced down at her ring—a beautiful emerald cut diamond that complemented the red almond shape of her nails—then back up.

"Don't spout out the mouth." She made sharp eye-contact with the young girl, red lips prepared to tell her off, but immediately set quiet, just like the rest of the building.

A tall large white man came stomping down the spiraled staircase, his eyebrows raised and lips balled.

"I can't believe you'd ever accuse me of such a thing!"

The stiff sound of Santini Oxford's followed, clamping against the hardwood floor in hard long strides.

"It ain't no accusation, I saw you! You gave me the sourdough, and kept the real deal for yourself!"

Michael spat, fedora tucked beneath the arm of his crisp striped suit, wrinkled slightly from all the movement.

"You work for me Mr. Jenkins, the least you could do is give me all my dollars! I treat you real good, you know."

"I should've known better than to work for a boy such as yourself. Williams across the water has better buisness than you'll ever have." Jenkins clenched his jaw, stepping up to stand with Michael chest to chest.

Michael's jaw worked for a long moment, his eyes sharp, and voice low in a poisonous tone that left no room for arguement.

"Ain't no boys here in this room. And the only thing Williams has on me in this town is a lighter skin tone and some privilege." The two men stared for a long moment, and if the room wasn't silent before, it sure was now.

Jenkins shook his head, reaching into his front pocket and reluctantly holding the money out to Michael, who kissed his teeth.

He didn't have to hold the money or even count it. One glance and he knew. "I'm still short."

"I get paid fourty bi-weekly, if you don't recall, sir."

Michael scoffed a laugh. "So now it's sir again? Few minutes ago you were one scream away from calling me a negro."

"But you must've forgotten. I'm a negro that manages your checks. Gimme that forty, you get paid next week."

The pale man clenched his jaw. They both knew he actually got paid this week, but after his behavior, what was a paycheck to a pimp?

Jenkins stormed out, shaking his head. And Michael just yelled after him, the tension easing from his shoulders and a velvety chuckle on his lips. "Let your pot-bellied ass try to steal from me again, I know somethin'!"

Michael turned the corner, nearly bumping his shoulder against the wall, and his girl, Dolly.

Everyone around her froze, worried that they would to be the next victim of his anger, she simply giggled, the sound enough to pull Michael from his daze.

His gaze softens, glove-clad fingers smoothing the frizz of Dolly's slicked curls, pulled tight into a small coily bun. "Hi, babydoll."

"Hi, hun'." Dolly's southern drawl called out as she greeted him with a chaste kiss and pulled back, suddenly aware of the dead silence of the establishment, both workers and customers fear-stricken.

"Back to buisness!" Michael yelled, the sound echoing throughout the walls, and as if a remote control had unpaused a television, the live chatter resumed, those three words enough to school everyone after an outburst. The short phrase was basically used to check Michael's temperature after an altercation. If he was really mad, he'd only shout 'BTB' voice tight and letters enunciated.

"You've gotta meet me faster! Y'know I hate lingering around here. The girls are mouthy and theres.. sex everywhere."

Usually Michael would laugh and say something like "'Course there's sex everywhere, it's a whorehouse, baby, not a catholic temple." But instead, it was his turn to squint, eyebrow arching. He held her hands, squeezing them for a moment as if to say "where are your gloves?"

He insisted that they consistently wear a set of black gloves, being that it was the easiest way to prevent being set up for crimes they didn't commit or being caught for the ones they you did. "𝓓𝓙" was carefully stitched inside of the gloves, Michael's subtle attempt at keeping Dolly's gloves safe from being stolen.

"Which girls?" His eyes slowly lifted from your connected hands.

She sighs, eyes rolling. "Cut 'm some slack, Mik-"

"You know I will, I don't like hurting my girls.. but.."

The rest went without saying. 'But it happens,' 'But I have to keep 'em in order', 'It's the only way their head will stay straight.'

"Marilynn and Elle. And I already lectured Marilynn. No need to go in a double down."

Michael released her hands, "I need them to know how precious this is.. Bentley's out front, baby. I'll be right out.."

LUST

Casanova was Michael's nickname. A self explanatory thing really. It wasn't something only his brothers would tease him about either. A genuine issue for Michael was his lust driven tendencies. And his profession sure didn't help.

He was a salacious man, full of longing and he carried ignorance towards where to place it, so it lay within women.

Some would still call him Casanova jokingly trying to put him in the doghouse in Dolly's presence.

Michael would immediatly shoot them a glare, a warning on his lips.

Whether they were being funny, or serious, she'd never know.

Well, she would know.

She always knew.

Dolly stood, arms crossed over her chest. "Why were you up in that bimbo's face at our bordello."

"It's really my bordello, its called M.J.'s for a reason.." Michael mumbled, the cigar hung between the pink flesh of his two lips, muffling his slick speech.

She stepped closer, slippers scuffing the hardwood of their bedroom floor. "Speak up." Her voice was in a warning, a dare to even attempt to make a fool of her.

Michael sensed her tone and retreated like a soldier who already knew his fate. "Baby, why are you picking this fight tonight out of all nights.." His fingers threaded carefully through the work sheets, paperwork he had filled out for new property he owned. It was a rare evening, one where Michael was home and not working his tail off—though glancing at his mess of a desk in his workspace, he technically was still working, just not at the whorehouse.

"Because I saw you up under her, today of all days."

He sighed, running one large hand over his face, rubbing the sleep from his expression.

"Let me find out, Michael." She chuckled, watching as he pulled her near. "Let me."

Unbeknownst to Dolly —or maybe she was aware—she scared him just as much as he scared everyone else. The fear she left in his heart was inexplicable. And he loved every moment. He knew she wasn't playing, not at all. Dolly settled onto his pajama covered knee, taking the cigar from between his lips and letting it rest against her own. Michael's eyes fluttered a few times, taking in the sudden proximity change and inhaling her perfume, swallowing down his words. The sight was enough to make Dolly laugh. God, he looked terrified with his black eyes wide and eyebrows knitted. The same way he did the first—and only time—he cheated on her.

"Stop fawning. You're innocent right?"

Michael nodded rapidly, blubbering on about how much he loved her and would kiss the ground she walked on if it meant she'd stop the line of questioning.

One good time was all it took. He cheated while they were still dating, unaware of Dolly's true capabilities as a woman.

The air was thick with black fog, flames engulfing the gray and black English Tudor styled estate.

While neighbhors began calling officers and reporting the burning house before them, Michael scrambled within, pulling on a pair of black slacks and glancing around for valuable items before collecting his briefcase full of documents and evidence. The woman that lay in the sheets with him a mere ten minutes ago had long scrambled, blonde curls frayed from panic. Whoever did this knew how to get through his wrought iron gate and speakeasy door.

And the whoever was Dolly, parked just across the street playing with the lid of the with a newly released Zippo lighter, the light brass scrapping against her palm.

Michael ran out of the house, the grass of the estate drenched in gasoline, now beginning to catch fire as well. When he escaped the clutches of the iron gate in coughing fits, he leaned bare back against the cool steel of his black Mercedes.

When he and Dolly made eye contact, his breath caught, blinking out his tears and walking towards her, skin black with soot and scratches.

He told the police that day that it was an accidental kitchen fire, despite the fact that there was no evidence of the crime beginning in his kitchen.

SLOTH

One of the only sins that didn't inhabit Michael was sloth.

Michael was up before the sun rose every morning and came home most nights by late evening, many of his days becoming twelve hour shifts.

He opened the brothel and closed it, managing many of his affairs with ease as he lacked the trust of anyone else to do so. Unless that anyone else was Dolly.

He couldn't say the same about her though. She loved her rest, maintenance days, and relaxation. She was a woman— a powerful one and his utmost equal, but a woman nonetheless.

"Dahlia." Michael would call, voice tight in a way that meant she'd done something wrong. He'd never fuss, just calmly call her out by her real name. Nickname of Dolly—created from her love of dolls as an adolescent, and ironically also a short version of her real name—disappearing beneath the cooled anger simmering beneath the surface.

Dolly shifted against the covers, body stiffening beneath the sheets, not with fear, but realization.

"What kind of track Madam are you if you aren't trackin' or managin' the girls?"

"Barb said she's got 'em today."

"Dahlia." Michael said again, this time less serious as he was fighting back a laugh. Barbara, the headmaster of the dames at the brothel, had died a few years prior and from there on Dahlia became the Madam of the workers. Michael knew how delirious his wife could get when exhausted, so he let her sleep in, just this once (and he'd let her do it again and again, if it meant more laughs along the way).

"Be up by 12, darlin'."

ENVY

"That damned Williams!" Michael's jaw worked back and forth, flipping through a million papers sprawled along his desk. He scooped them all to the floor in a fit of anger, stomping the sole of his shoes against them and ripping some sheets. Somehow, and someway, Michael had gained access to his oppositions revenue and records, seething at the knowledge that William's had made a heap more money than Michael had made in two years combined.

"He must be doin' somethin' illegal on the side." He hummed nodding slowly at his revelation.

"Yes. That's it." It takes one to know one, and Michael undoubtedly was a businessman who delved in many illegal activities. Much like the one he was scheming now.

Dolly leaned against the doorframe, watching his thought process visually play out, from his intial frustration to determination. "Uh-oh. I know that look."

Michael looked up from the sheet he was scribbling on. "What look?" His brows were pressed tight together and he was squinting, much like he was trying to see his solution vividly trying to make out the details.

"The 'I'm about to plot something stupid and ask my wife to stop preparing dinner so we can commit crime' look." She kissed her teeth.

He chuckled. "Very specific. Yet, very true."

"Baby, I'm calling The Guys, get ready for a heist.."

The Guys consisted of Michael's five other brothers, the manager of the brothel, and a few other men that Michael had blackmailed long ago into working for him.

And now it was all hands on deck.

WRATH

"I don't know about this.." Randy murmured, glancing between his other brothers and Dolly, standing near the exit of Henry Williams brothel, hesitantly fidgeting.

Jackie tilted his head, picking the lock to his door. "You got out of bed at two am, drove to Michael's house, discussed this plan there, drove to this man's place of buisness, almost inside, and now you're reconsidering?"

"Don't shy out now. We aren't taking much, we're stealing from his safe, that's it. Everyone gloved up, ain't it?" Michael squints, scanning everyone's hands and stopping as his eyes landed on Jermaine's.

"You know I don't need gloves. I never leave a trace."

"You were the one who taught me about gloves!" Michael rolled his eyes, nudging his brother.

"For your protection, not mine." Jermaine winked, ears perking up when Jackie the lock clinked open.

Michael slowly stepped over the threshold first. He'd never been inside of his oppositions place of buisness, and he couldn't help but feel a tinge of jealousy.

Not that he would ever admit it out loud.

The brothel was indeed a well put together place, hidden beneath the exterior of a classy pink and white hotel, unlike Michael's which was disguised as a private high status club.

Both were two different settings with entirely different aesthetics, and he did not want to linger.

Tito was already moving towards Henry's office, flipping through papers and documents and pausing with a grin. "Michael, you might want to see this."

Michael took the document from his hand and cackled, almost forgetting he was supposed to be silent. "His liquor license is expired. Fuck a robbery, we can incriminate him with this."

"How long has it been expired?" Dolly asked, the leather of her pants crinkling with each movement in the office.

Jackie arched a brow, shaking his head. "He's a jackass. This has been going on for months. And it seems there's some tax evasion paired with it.."

"I did not get out of bed for a ten minute false robbery." Marlon groaned, wandering around the office. "I'm takin' somethin'."

Everyone was thanked and they parted ways. Marlon left with three-hundred-dollars and a wide smile, already planning how to spend it and what it would go to.

Michael had Dolly annonomously report the crime on a payphone—careful to not call from their house phone so that the call wasn't traceable—the crime known as bootlegging, to the authorities who came banging at Henry's front door within that next hour.

PRIDE

Pride was one thing Michael was still working on. His problem wasn't the excessiveness, but rather the lack of.

Manifestations lived on his bathroom mirror, plastered with neatly cut heart shaped paper (Dahlia's doing), sticky tape, and his own motivating words, plans for his future and hers.

He spoke these things into existence, over and over again.

"You will build an empire"

"Your name will be on every sign and become a household name."

He was already notorious, despite his own belief.

Dolly would constantly boost his head up, peppering him with love so healthy he didn't know how to react.

Not because he didn't expect this from her. No. She was a wonderful woman and he knew he was lucky to have her.

But because she was one of the first people he'd recieved this from, romantically at least. And he cherished this with every waking moment they had together.

But this is why he was a glutton.

GLUTTONY

He was not a glutton in the traditional sense.

One glance and you could tell he physically wasn't a glutton for food. The muscles of his back wouldn't dare take that accusation, squeezing tight against the fabric of most of his silk shirts with every single movement he made.

But Michael was a glutton for other things.

Money (that was a given, considering his greed).

Love. Dahlia made him softer than he'd ever like to admit, and he loooved being in her presence. He would live in her skin if he didn't consider himself to be such a high risk individual. Michael wouldn't live past seventy with his lifestyle, and seventy was an overshot.

But back on topic.

Drugs. He would consistently find himself with a cigar or a cigarette between his lips. He never really smoked cigarettes until Dolly, who had them between her red lips at least once a day. If he were to hit the all-Black jazz club down the street, he would also smoke cannabis, enjoying the lingering taste and the high that followed, bobbing his head and tapping his foot along to the music, especially Reefer Man.

Sex. Like most people, he enjoyed the addictive feeling of pleasure. Especially with others. Though Dahlia wasn't his first, she was special. She felt like his only. Something about her body had him coming back time and time again, feigning for the feeling of that sweet release. And even if he didn't get to release himself (which wasn't often), watching her fall apart was more than enough.

@bawdylanguageee