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Prologue
Dimitri Stankovich's villa by the beach was one of the most talked about places on Palm Island. There was as much speech flying concerning its splendor and uniqueness as there was a notable fear for the place. The building was magnificent. It was a white wonder, with golden pillars, perfectly reflective of Dimitri's largesse.
Dimitri himself wasn't so much to look at. He stood at 5 foot 9, and had a prominent stomach for all the beer he'd guzzled over his forty years. Aside from his thinning blonde hair, which he always liked to slick back, his bulbous nose, papery thin lips, and almost white face, there was nothing else that tied him to his Russian heritage. His accent was purely American, a result of his father's copulation with an American stripper.
More than his eccentric tastes, Dimitri had a love for the beachside. And that's why he'd moved here from his father's mansion.
He sat on one of his porches, in a rocking armchair beside a round table with a bottle of tequila and a glass on it. He wore colorful athletic shorts and a matching vintage shirt, which he left unbuttoned so his hairy chest and protuberant stomach could bask in the sunlight. This was his favorite spot because it overlooked the sandy beach and the ocean lapping at the land.
A shadow fell over Dimitri. A bulky bald man in denim trousers and a white tank top walked in and bent to whisper in Dimitri's ear.
"My God, can't somebody just enjoy a little peace with the lovely ocean?" he groaned.
Of course, there was no response. Dimitri's speeches were mostly monologues and soliloquies. It was better to listen in silence than commit to the conversation and say something unpleasant. Much of Dimitri's staff knew this. They'd learned it the hard way.
He took the bottle of tequila and refilled his glass.
"Lead the way, Simon," he told the huge man.
Dimitri followed casually, taking sips from his glass as he walked. They got to a brown door, which Simon pushed open, and waited for Dimitri to walk in. The study room had a huge executive desk at the end, and the walls were lined with shelves filled with books. Dimitri wasn’t too much of a reader, and he’s never touched any of the books, except one. Simon walked to one of the shelves, selected a book, and pulled it halfway out. There was a click, and then the shelf slid apart revealing an entrance into another room.
Dimitri walked in. The lighting in this room was dim. There was only one bulb, hanging right at the center. Right under the light was a man on a chair. His entire body was covered in blood, and he was leaning forward with all his body's weight. Were he not tied to the chair, he would've fallen off.
"Well, well, well," Dimitri said, holding his glass out to the side.
Another man, almost as huge as Simon, materialized from the dark and took the glass away. However, Dimitri didn't withdraw his hand until the big man placed a wicked 12-inch dagger in it.
Dimitri knelt down in front of the captive, holding the dagger right between their eyes.
"Please," he pleaded. His words came out in a drag. He could barely inhale deeply enough to speak a few words. "I had a deal with your father. Don't do this."
Dimitri smiled a smile ripe with malice. He hated it when people brought his father up. He had mad love for his old man, but his regime was gone. It was Dimitri’s time now, and he ruled however he deemed fit.
Is it too damn much to ask people to see and do things my way?
"Oh, Mike," Dimitri said. "My father's dead. He's been dead for five years now."
"But I had a deal with him. He assured me the deal would stand."
Dimitri sighed, and gazed upon the tired man. He could see that the man's life was slowly seeping out of himt. He couldn't let him die that way. It would deprive him the satisfaction of doing things himself.
"My dear Mike. I gave you opportunities. So, many chances, and you didn't take them."
"Your father—"
Dimitri struck like a cobra. He drove the dagger into Mike's head, up from under his jaw. He had a scowl on his face to compliment the strength of the strike.
"Wrong word," he scoffed.
He sniffed loudly, and released the dagger, still buried in Mike.
"Clean this up," he ordered as he turned to walk out.
"But boss, where?" Simon asked.
"What kind of question is that?" Dimitri shouted, turning around.
"I’m sorry,” Simon quickly apologized. “It’s just that the usual place is full, and it’s beginning to attract attention.”
“I don’t care how you do it. Get rid of the body, and clean this place up.”
Simon nodded swiftly, and began to bark orders to the rest of the men in the room.
Dimitri walked out of the room with the hint of a smile on his face. He was living the life he deserved. The life of royalty. He owned Palm Island, and could do with it as he pleased. He pushed open the double doors of his bedroom, revealing a handful of scantily clad girls on his bed.
“Who’s ready, girls?” he announced with glee.
The girls crawled towards him like machines. There was suppressed fear and shame, which they kept perfectly hidden. They showed no enthusiasm, but neither did they betray any hesitation.
“Someone get me some crack,” Dimitri said. He grabbed one of the girls by the hair and mashed his lips against hers.
