“For Christ’s sake, put the papers down. You can clean that shit later. Look at me when I talk to you, so I know you understand what I am telling you,” I demand.
He jumps, dropping the pile of garbage he is collecting from his desk. He is about to retrieve it when I bend down, meeting him at eye level.
“Leave it,” I stop him, placing my rough, calloused hand over his clammy trembling one.
“S–s–sorry, Carmine,” he stammers.
Now that I have his attention, and more importantly, his fear, I hold his arm down so he can’t get back up.
“So,” I continue. “Since tomorrow is gala night, I shouldn’t have to remind you what happens behind the scenes while everyone is dressed up and schmoozing one another. You know how important it is to be on top of your game, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I expect that whoever I send to you the next day, you will be able to properly take care of them, so they are not only unrecognizable but untraceable this time,” I remind him, gripping his arm tighter with my one hand and raising my other, drawing attention to my fingers.
“See these fingerprints?” I ask him as I direct his attention to my hands.
“Yes, Carmine.”
“What’s so special about them, huh?” I ask sarcastically.
“Um,” Christian thinks. “Umm,” he continues to just stare at my hands, without forming a coherent response.
I remove my hand from his arm and bring both my fists to the collar of his lab coat, lifting him slightly. My jaw tenses as I lean in, as I am but inches away from his now profusely sweating face.
“I’ll ask you one more time. What makes these hands that I can easily strangle the life out of you with in mere seconds so special?”
His lips begin to quiver as panic sets in.Absolutely pathetic.
I release him from my grip, making him lose his balance, which forces him to fall to the cold tile floor.
“I will remind you, since your memory seems to be a bit hazy,” I say, lifting both palms up and toward me. The callouses that run all through them are a product of the hours of work I have put into the gym, chiseling my once slender, lanky physique. “These hands—these fingers—are untraceable. You can run my fingers in any police database, and you will come up with nothing.”
“Yes, I know,” he says in a defeated tone.
“Good, so then you also remember part of your job is not only to alter but to erase,” I remind him. “Don’t forget that second part.”
Christian used to be able to nip and tuck the flesh like no one else in the business. His role in the underground aspects of Marked Inc. need to be executed with precision. There is no room for mistakes, not at this point in the game. But if push comes to shove, I have no issue reminding him that his altering of flesh doesn’t come close to my ability toseverthe life out of it.
I adjust my suit jacket and crack my neck to the side, giving him one last look before leaving. “I trust that this will be the last time I have to remind you why you are here, yes?”
“Yes, Carmine.”
“Excellent. Do carry on,” I say as I exit, leaving him trembling, just as I intended.
* * *
My head pounds as I exit Christian’s floor and head back into the elevator. I try to take a deep breath, to center myself as I run a mental checklist of what needs to be taken care of before tomorrow.
I got a new hybrid blend in that is supposed to offer a super clean high. Even better, it is practically untraceable by drug dogs, sensors, pretty much anything that should pick it up. That’s why I coined itfantasma. “Ghost,” in my mother’s native language, which is the only thing I have left of her, thanks to my fucking father.
It's imperative that I set up the proper distribution channels so I can start collecting remittance before I fuel any of these detectives’ suspicions more than I already have. I need to make sure every chess piece is in place, every soldier who has sworn their loyalty to me is ready for the war ahead. And now that I hopefully set Christian straight, that will be one less thing I have to worry about, because his lack of craftsmanship isn’t helping the matter. He is practically leading the damn cops right to us.
Even with the annual Halloween Gala right around the corner, my father remains a thorn in my side. Knowing the money that we will make because of my hard work, both in the company and in pushing our new product, he still insists on giving me a hard time.
How I wish I felt for him the way most sons feel for their fathers. Full of admiration, love, respect. None of that exists in my heart for my father. The only love I have pertaining to my father comes from the desire to make him pay for the crimes he has committed. Not against society, I could give a fuck about that. He has a long rap sheet of heinous crimes, but his worst crimes committed are not against others but against his own flesh and blood.
My father prides himself in thinking he is the King of Midtown. He has always been a delusional man, assuming the long lineage of made men he derives from automatically makes him a god. Unlike my grandfather and his father before him, who were true mafiosos, he is weak and impulsive. To thrive in our line of work, you must play all parts, while still being ten steps ahead. I have been fifteen steps ahead of my father, just waiting for the opportune moment to take what is rightfully mine, and this time, he will have no fucking say in the matter.
