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We head to the manager’s office on the top floor and the casino security turn the other way as we pass through them. They know who really calls the shots around here and work for me. My loyal soldiers follow me and, as we reach the office, take up their positions guarding every exit and without a cursory knock, I slam the door open, much to the surprise of my manager who is currently balls deep in a woman who is barely legal.
She screams as I growl, “Get the fuck out of here!”
Sylvester stutters, “Mr. Ortega, I’m…”
“Fucked, Sylvester. You’re fucked, which is ironically what we interrupted.”
The girl grabs her cheap clothes, telling me she’s something that blew in off the street and without a glance back, she heads out of the office to the walk of shame outside.
“Please…” Sylvester stutters as he zips his now flaccid cock back into his pants. “I can explain.”
I kick out the chair opposite his desk and sit astride it as my men move behind him and force him back in his chair.
“Explain what Sylvester?”
“The money.” His eyes scan the room as if he’s possessed and he whispers, “My wife cleaned me out. She’s demanding more and the only way I can keep her off my back is to pay up. You see…” He licks his lips nervously. “She knows all the dirt on your empire and is blackmailing me. Said she’d go to the cops and bring us all down. I did what I could to protect you. I didn’t involve the casino. I used other establishments to try to keep her happy.”
He is flailing around for excuses, which is all they are, and I exhale sharply. “So, the fact she’s now replaced you with a doctor isn’t enough.”
Sylvester turns ashen.
“The new life she has in Miami in a modest home with her kids at the local school isn’t good enough?”
I lean forward and glare at him fiercely. “You’re treating me as a fool, Sylvester, and we both know how much I hate that.”
He turns another interesting shade and clutches his chest.
“Please, help me, I’m…”
“Having a heart attack. Go ahead, I’ll watch.”
I lean back and fold my arms, and the wild glint in his eyes is not new to me. They all wear that look when their time’s up and to add more drama to the occasion, I take out my gun and spin the barrel in my hands.
“Two hundred thousand pounds, Sylvester. That is the cost of your life.”
“Please, no.”
He looks as if he’s about to faint and I drive the knife in deeper. “No? Perhaps you’d rather I waste your wife instead of you. Your kids perhaps?” I lean forward and snarl. “Or the whole fucking family.”
“No, please, not my family. I’m begging you.”
I glance up and catch Pasquale’s eye and he grins, obviously enjoying the show, as he always does.
I turn my attention back to the manager and growl, “On your knees.”
He hesitates, and that’s all it takes for my men to reach out and force him down on the floor before me and I take the gun and hold it to his temple. “Any last words, Sylvester? An apology perhaps?”
He begins to shake. “I have information.”
“I’m listening.” I press the barrel in deeper and he shouts, “Word on the street is you’re being framed for murder.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I yawn loudly. “Keep going.”
“It’s true. I’ve got evidence on the cameras.”
I pull the gun away and snap, “Show me.”
He rushes to his feet and heads to his computer, frantically pressing the keyboard until he says with relief, “Here. It was last week.”
