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I cough out a laugh, clenching my jaws tighter as I punch his face. “Bullshit.”
He grunts and fixes his eyes on the ground. The other does the same.
My phone starts to ring on the bar table.
“You both owe me 50 grand for this shit.” I walk over to the bar table and pick up my phone.
Daniel’s name pops up on the screen. I slide the icon to answer his call. “Now’s not a good time, Daniel,” I say, reaching for the pack of my Cuban cigars on the table.
“The delivery?” he asks.
I place the cigar in my mouth and click my fingers. The man in the leather jacket walks to me with a lighter in his hands and flicks it on. I take a quick drag as he lights the cigar.
“Gone. The fucking cops.” I take another drag and reach for the bottle of vodka.
“Shit.”
Pouring some into a glass, I take a sip. “How’s the shipment? Father needs an update about it tonight.”
“I have it all sorted out. They are moving it to the warehouse in East Harlem.”
I turn to look at the men in my living room. “At least someone knows how to get the fucking job done around here.”
I take another shot, downing the whole content in a gulp. “Clean that up and leave,” I say to them, pointing a finger at the mess on the floor.
“How about the money?”
“I’ll have to cover for it. Father wouldn’t want to hear any excuses.” I kill the cigar on the ashtray and pour myself another shot.
“I’ll meet you at the warehouse.”
“Hurry,” Daniel responds before ending the call.
Gulping down the shot, I slide my phone into my pocket. The liquid stings the back of my throat.
The wet stain from the mess I made earlier is on the wall right underneath a picture frame of an artwork I bought some years ago. My living room is filled with those. It’s what I enjoy—collecting expensive art.
I set the glass down on the table and stroll to the staircase.
The master bedroom is upstairs, with one other room and two downstairs. This house was the gift my father gave me when I turned 20.
The white walls and chandelier dangling from the center of the room create a magnificent view.
I rarely spend a lot of time in this place. But when I do, the bar is my favorite spot.
I walk up the stairs to my room and make my way to the bathroom.
The image of myself as I stare in the large mirror above the sink shows how badly I need a shave. I run my fingers over my beard as I stare at my knuckles. They have already turned white from the punch.
I spot a tiny blood stain on my fingers. It must be from the cut he had on his face.
Cold water gushes out from the faucet as I turn it on.
My locket dangles freely as I wash my hands thoroughly, splashing a bit of water on my face.
My eyes are swollen from lack of sleep. Filling in for my father while he is away in Brazil has taken a toll on me. But I shrug the pain off—I’ve been groomed all my life for this moment.
Father has been priming me for as long as I can remember to take over his legacy—the Malgeri empire.
