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Something no government can withstand, especially one that’s one fuckup away from another recession.
Laundering is a skill set. A calling.
One that brings about danger—a danger that I welcome. It’s a rush that satiates a need within. To these criminals, I’m their best friend until something goes wrong, and I’ve proven more than once just how dangerous I can be. How I am the one they should fear.
Taking a man’s life doesn’t keep me up at night. Instead, it feeds the darker part of my soul.
Swiveling around in my chair, I face the lit-up Chicago skyline from my office. The chair creaks, the leather protesting as I sit back and admire the city below through my floor-to-ceiling windows. This metropolis never sleeps. Never stops.
A never-ending chess game that I move at my discretion.
The phone atop my desk beeps, and I drum my fingers on the chair’s armrest. Two hours until my appointment, and the darkness within me vibrates with need. With a depraved hunger—a different kind of yearning—that hasn’t been fully satiated in a long time.
“Hey, Malcolm?” my cousin Mariah calls through the door, waiting to be acknowledged before entering. No one enters this room without permission. They know better.
Other than myself and our security, she’s the only person left inside the building, my cleaning crew and other employees having left an hour ago.
For a few beats I don’t answer. Instead, I stare at the city below. It’s ten p.m. and while the working class celebrates the end of another long week, I plot. Think. While the lights shine bright on this September night and bars fill up, I prepare.
Most people never realize that they walk past a killer several times in their life. That evil resides next door. No one cares. Most ignore the danger that lurks as long as the darkness never reaches their door. A common mistake.
Instead, the passersby below stop to admire the facade of my building.
Of the details carved in stone. Of the gold name stamped onto its front.
The Asher building is synonymous with money and decadence. All they see is sixty floors of opulence, and their greed blinds them from reality. Not a single person below would ever suspect the city’s most eligible bachelor of being anything but perfect. That good looks and charms mean shit when you sit beside the devil and play in his backyard.
Just how I like it. This concrete jungle is unlike any other, and I own it. Every fucking single square inch of Chicago is mine. Run by me.
Not the mafia. Nor those that come from money.
No. Every move in this motherfucking city is made with my approval.
Mariah knocks this time; three quick raps against the wooden door. “Are you in here?”
Once more, I don’t answer. Instead, I rise from my seat and take off my suit jacket. I lay it over the back of my chair and then undo the cuff links, tossing them next to a Montblanc pen my mother gave me on my last birthday.
My eyes survey the room, and a smirk crosses my lips. This office is so unassuming. So normal, and what you come to expect from a financial institution’s CEO. Lavish, sleek, and nothing compared to the rooms just a few floors down.
Rolling the sleeves up to my elbows, I grab my phone and keys. My steps are slow as I make my way around my desk and to the door, pulling it open before she can try once more. “How can I help you?”
She rolls her eyes at my gruff acknowledgement, sliding the strap of her purse up her shoulder. “I’m heading out, boss. Do you need anything before I go?”
“Has the package been delivered?” I ask instead, ignoring the childish gesture. It’s been a long day for everyone, and she’s been on the clock since eight this morning. We’re all tired—wound tight—and snapping at my little cousin won’t help us get out of here any quicker.
“Dropped off an hour ago and is being treated by his father’s private physician as we speak.”
“Good.” Giving her a gentle shove, I close the door behind me. “Any issues?”
“Other than Henry calling nonstop?” Annoyance crosses her features. “No, but the old degenerate has been at it every ten minutes for the last hour.”
“What the fuck does he want?” At once, my ire returns in full force. Today, they were blessed by me—should consider themselves beyond lucky that Michael is still breathing. Something that I could still reconsider. A quick drive and a bullet from my gun could remedy that.
“Easy, cousin.” Mariah lets out a giggle, her top lip curving up at the end. “He’s just trying to kiss your ass?”
At that, I bark out a harsh laugh. “More like afraid of how many zeroes that bottom dollar will include.”
“Do you need me to come in tomorrow? I will if you do, Malcolm.” She pulls her cell from a pocket in her skirt and types something before hitting send. I’m not surprised by her offer. Both Javier and Mariah are always willing to step up when I need something taken care of in a rush.
