The Black Sheep, Part 2: Greed (The Seven Deadly Kins #4)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Little Boy with a Gun

W hen I was a little boy, my daddy found me outside in the dark of night, holding a gun. His gun. I had it pointed at nothing but a canopy of trees and brush in the middle of the country. I receded into the darkness, but my need to purge my pain was bright and blinking. A neon sign hanging off the edge of my heart. Deep inside, I wanted to shoot something. Make something move. Jump. Cry. Hurt. Make some shit bleed.

I think when Daddy came out that front door and found me, he could see that in my eyes, even in his drunken and high state. I could smell the booze on him, seeping out of his pores, and see the derangement in his eyes. Pupils dilated to the max. Fidgety movements. I was used to it. I was just a little boy, didn’t know much about the world, but I knew a lot about what drugs could do to a man. I knew that he and Mama were salt and pepper shakers. Cracked and broken to bits. Dumping their pain all over one another until the recipe of matrimony tasted like shit. A marriage flavored with trauma. I knew I couldn’t save my older or younger brother from some invisible monster called fear, and I understood that I was too small to make much of a difference in this world. Or at least, that is what it seemed.

But that gun, well, it could change things alright. I was never afraid of guns like some kids first learning to hunt. Weapons in general. I liked messing around with Daddy’s guns, even though he and Mama told me and my brothers not to. I don’t believe he ever had them loaded with bullets when they weren’t locked up. But at that moment, I hoped he’d slipped up and left one in by mistake. I had life and death in my hands. In that dark moment, I was God. Daddy came to the front of me, and I looked up at him. He was tall and willowy. Tattoos all over his body. Long, wild, dark hair. Gun still raised. He didn’t yell at me or hit the roof. He just gently took it from my grasp, calmly told me it was dangerous, and marched me in the house. We sat down in the living room. A little yellow nightlight was on, and the soft glow from the kitchen ebbed through. I could see the toaster, and a box of cereal on the counter. As I turned back towards Daddy, I figured I’d be getting my spanking soon, but only after a good talkin’ to.

It was quiet in the house… everyone else was asleep. Daddy didn’t say anything for a long while. Instead, he went to the kitchen, poured me a glass of milk, and we sat on the big brown couch in the living room. The one that smelled like cigarettes, dog hair, and bubblegum. He cracked open a can of beer, chugged it, and sat back, leaning into the cushions. Almost disappearing like some phantom.

We stared at one another. Shadow to shadow. Light to light. Sun to sun. Sheep to sheep.

“Boy, outta all three of my kids, you the one that looks and acts just like me. You’re a curse and a blessing, and I love the hell out of you.” I had no idea what he meant by that last part, but I took it as a compliment all the same. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up, Roman? You’re good with impressions. Maybe you can do somethin’ like that.”

“I don’t know. People who do impressions I don’t think make much money, daddy.” I did these silly impressions mostly for attention, because I was damn good at throwing my voice, and to get a laugh out of folks. I like making people laugh. I could do parodies of cartoon characters like Scooby Doo, Batman, Ren and Stimpy, and I did impersonations of my father all the time, the president of the United States, and famous actors, too.

“Daddy, maybe I could be a race car driver, but only if they’re rich.”

He laughed at that.

“You sound like your grandfather now. All that old bastard cares about is money… he’s greedy.”

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, son?”

“Why does Grandpa hate you?”

Daddy gave me an odd look. I suppose in retrospect, he wanted to know why’d I’d ask such a thing, and on top of that, he probably wasn’t even sure how to answer.

‘I ’magine it’s for a lot of reasons, Roman. One is, I’m not who he wants me to be. Every parent, I figure, has hopes and dreams for their children.” Daddy shrugged. “Want you to go to college, the military, or trade school, somethin’ like that. Most parents I figure want their children to think just like they think, too. Be little carbon copies of themselves. No mind of their own. Same religion. Same beliefs. Same feelings. That’s what Grandpa wanted. To just duplicate himself like some Xerox machine. I would do the opposite of what my father wanted me to—not because I was trying to ruffle his feathers. I just wasn’t him is all. I thought differently. Saw the world in a different way. I also look like my mother.”

“I never met her. Was I too young to remember her?”

“No, Roman. She died when I was young. When your grandfather looks at me like I’m lookin’ at you, instead of being happy and lovin’ on me, he resents me. He saw her in me, I think. He was angry with her. I have no idea why. He’s never said. She died and left him alone, though. That may have had something to do with it. Your grandfather hates being alone for long periods of time. Not ’cause he missed her, but because he wasn’t done with her quite yet.”

“So… Grandpa hates you ’cause you look like a lady?”

Daddy laughed at that, his body shaking with mirth.

“You’re so funny, kid… Nah, not that. It’s complicated, Roman.” He crushed his beer can and tossed it on the floor. “It’s hard to explain to a child.”

“It might be hard to explain to me, Daddy, but it’s easy for me to see it hurts you…”

Bold and brazen as fuck…

That was the best way to describe it. What Grandpa said he was determined to do, he put in provisions to do just that. Grandpa was a gun that shot bullets on its own. He was a knife that cut in mid-air. A bomb that ignited without provocation. Roman turned off the malachite light he’d been using while in the large meeting room, all by himself. The place smelled of burnt leaves, wood, and leather. He stood straight and played with his specially picked out gold and diamond cufflinks. Wearing his Belvedere Chapo Genuine Crocodile Men’s Oxfords and looking spectacular, just as he’d planned. He’d prepared himself for this moment, but that didn’t stop the moisture from gathering around his brow, and the faint fibers of frenzy gumming up the back of his throat.

He caught his reflection in the silver frame of a huge painting of John D. Rockefeller. Standing there looking into that brave and savvy man’s eyes, he bowed, then brushed his hand along his black tresses, smoothing them out. He left the room with his briefcase in hand, dripping with determination. As he walked the long corridor on the third floor, he spotted his boss, Eric Dearborn, out of the corner of his eye. The man offered a subtle nod and wave. To his right, he met eyes with one of many security guards, all armed to the hilt. He gave a slight gesture of acknowledgement. Roman made his way to the elevator to head to his office, allowing a cleaning lady to get on first.

The older woman with warm light brown eyes and salt and pepper shoulder-length hair smiled wearily as she pushed her overloaded cart onto the elevator with a hard shove and sigh. Her tawny, worn skin had been in too much sun, and her wrinkled hands had seen far more labor than she probably ever intended.

“Good mornin’. It’s a great day to be alive,” he greeted with a smile. “How are you today?”

The woman responded in broken English. Something about being tired and needing coffee. He caught the gist of it.

“I enjoy a good cup of coffee myself. What floor would you like, ma’am?” he asked after pushing the button to the tenth floor, all the way up to the top.

“Seven.” She groaned. He shot a side glance to her legs. They were covered in thick umber stockings that led to black work shoes. This woman and her crew kept the building in tip top shape. She was always there bright and early and didn’t leave until around six in the evening. He stood there, thinking about her… even with all of his own troubles to contend with.

She reminds me of my mother for some reason. My mama ain’t Mexican, and she doesn’t have a Spanish accent. She ain’t ever worked as a cleanin’ lady from my recollection, but it’s this lady’s essence. She has resilience. A quiet fight in her. She needs to make ends meet, even to her own detriment. Probably helping to take care of others in the family.

The seventh floor button lit up like a beacon, and the woman offered him a gentle goodbye before wrapping her hands around the handle of the bustling cart.

“Ma’am, hold on. Would you mind followin’ me to the tenth floor lounge? I would like to show you something.”

The woman looked rather confused.

“ Mi nombre es Roman Wilde. Necesito tu ayuda. Por favor sígueme .”

The woman’s eyes ignited with interest. “ Hola , Sr. Wilde. ?Hables espanol? ”

“Well, I know enough Spanish to get by. I have clients that speak it as a first language, and it makes things a bit easier.”

She nodded in understanding as she stepped back into the elevator. He pushed the button to close the doors, and they continued going up, up, up.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Roman gripped her large cart and began pushing it out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened. Her eyes widened in surprise. Some of his colleagues paused in confusion, their conversations coming to a halt as they observed him pushing that big, heavy thing down the marble hallway, the woman at his side. When they’d reached the tenth floor lounge, a place for only upper management and top earners, he scanned his card, and the glass door unlocked.

Inside were tables filled with bowls of fresh fruit, pastries, large clear refrigerators displaying imported juices, dairy and vegan milk, cold teas, yogurts, cheeses, and assorted waters, as well as an area offering over ten different types of coffee and creamers. That was not including the K-cups.

“? Cómo te llamas ?” he questioned as he parked her cart off to the side.

“Sofia.” The woman nervously ran her hand along her uniform jacket. Roman grabbed a to-go cup and waved for her to come closer.

“Ms. Sofia, take this cup and fill it with whatever coffee you want.” She smiled wide as she took it from his hand. “I know y’all have coffee downstairs, but not nearly as many choices. When you’re finished, put it down because you’ll need your hands free to take one of those bags,” he pointed to a stash of ornamental clear carriers, “and put whatever croissants, donuts or what have you that you like in it. If you want some yogurt and juice,” he pointed to the refrigerators, “take those, too. Don’t be shy.”

“Generous! Thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Wilde.”

“ De nada .”

The woman practically floated as she poured a cup of coffee, set it down, then moved about the room. A coworker came in, stopped and stared, but he ignored him. She picked up a couple of apples, a banana, a strawberry yogurt along with a spoon, a cheese Danish, and then her coffee. He had a sneaking suspicion that the fruit and yogurt may serve later as her lunch. The coworker cast him a questioning glance, then exited with a fresh coffee in hand.

“ Gracias, esto es bueno. Tomaré mi café y mi desayuno y te dejaré volver al trabajo .”

“Again, you’re welcome. Now, one more thing, Ms. Sofia. If I may be so blunt, ma’am, do you get paid vacation time?”

She placed her loot in her cart, then stood there for a moment, as if trying to recall if she did or not.

“No, but uh, for Christmas, yes… and Thanksgiving, yes… I do get uh, you say, days off. Yes. Five.” She held up her hand and wiggled five fingers, smiling as she took a sip of her coffee.

“Just so you know, I’ve seen you many times before. How long have you worked here?” He took a glance at the time, ensuring he wasn’t running late for his important meeting.

“ Seis anos .”

“Six years? That’s too long to not have more vacation days than that. It’s not my department, but I will be bringing this up in a future meeting. That’s reprehensible.”

She smiled at him appreciatively, then took another sip of her coffee.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilde. You are a kind man.” Her eyes smiled so much; they looked like upside down crescent moons.

“I’m not, but I’m shootin’ for progress.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and removed four twenty-dollar bills.

“Ohhhh, noooo! Noooo!” She turned red and waved him off as she realized what was happening.

“Yes, yes, yes. Come on now, Ms. Sofia. This is nothin’. I don’t keep a lotta cash on me or I’d give you more.” He walked up to her and gently tucked it into the top pocket of her smock. The woman’s eyes teared up.

“No cryin’. Be happy. I’m going to talk to my boss about your health insurance, too.”

The woman suddenly wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. She told him God bless him in Spanish.

He didn’t need proof. That tight hug told him all he needed to know. Ms. Sofia needed money for so many things in her life. Something she was too prideful to discuss with some stranger. She needed that money like a dying man in the desert needed water. He knew how that felt. To need something so badly, your life literally depended on it. Moments later, she was gone and he was left with the lemony scent of cleaning supplies and hot coffee floating in the air. After a few moments of deliberation over the whole matter, he left and made the short trek to his office. He entered, locked the door, then looked around.

For the first time, he felt a certain coldness in there, as if it had been violated in some way. Haunted by an evil ghost, neglected in an invisible but real fashion. He made his way to his desk and sank into the seat, melting into the leather. He rested his hands along the clawed arms and allowed the faint classical music pouring through the speakers to take him away. Somewhere safe, some place he trusted.

He counted sheep in his head.

One black sheep, two black sheep, three black sheep, up to no good—

Four black sheep, five black sheep, six black sheep, lost in the woods.

Seven black sheep, eight black sheep, nine black sheep, shaking with fright—

Ten black sheep, eleven black sheep, twelve black sheep, hiding in plain sight.

On and on he went, until he heard a soft ringtone chime.

He looked at his cellphone:

HE’S HERE.

He responded:

Send him up.

Roman sat at his desk for a few seconds, breathing in… then out… Pushing away all negative thoughts, he fell into the moment. Soon, a hard knock sounded at his door. He pushed his buzzer and unlocked it. There, standing with his black sports coat on, and a partially unbuttoned white shirt that allowed a peek at his old tattoos and silver and dark brown hair, was a real live grenade. Grandpa donned an expensive black cowboy hat, below which he sported a wide grin as he entered, smelling like Dior Sauvage. He’s solo? It was rare to see him in public without his hired muscle. The man closed the door behind him and Roman got to his feet. The two men glared at one another as Grandpa drew closer. When Grandpa was standing before him, he stretched out his big hand.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement, Grandson,” he stated gravely as he waited for him to shake it.

The two men shook hands, and the older man took his seat. He then removed his hat, showcasing a sleek, silver ponytail that flowed down his back. He placed his hat on the chair beside him.

“I’m surprised you arrived alone,” Roman stated with a smirk as he leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen.

“I’m not alone. Trust me,” Grandpa stated with dark, evil, hooded eyes. “Oh, and before we get started, let me make something perfectly fucking clear. You tell that whale of a woman, that big mama of yours, that I know it was her who sent me a razorblade pie.” The sides of Grandpa’s mouth twitched, as if he weren’t certain whether to laugh or yell. “Now, under normal circumstances, I’d make her eat a slice, but since you’ve moved in the right direction, I’ll spare her the misery.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your White trash womb shooter threatened me, son. She sent a dessert, but it wasn’t sweet.”

“I don’t know a damn thing ’bout no fuckin’ pie.”

Grandpa leaned back in his chair, too, matching his stance. He placed one leg over the other and rested his hand along his ankle, bringing focus to his large diamond rings, and black snakeskin boots.

“You may. You may not.” Grandpa shrugged. “Makes me not a damn bit of difference. I have to give it to her though—it was a shock comin’ from her .” He chuckled, seemingly impressed. “…A shock that she could resist eating that shit herself. Razor blades ’nd all. Greedy bitch.” He turned serious. Cold. He became enraged. He turned to lightning and hard rain.

…But I am the tree.

Grandpa waited for a response. A reaction of sorts. It was clear as day, written all over his face. Roman gave him nothing but a fallen, withered leaf and the shade.

Grandpa shifted in his seat and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a pen and a folded piece of paper. The contract. The old man unfolded it and slid it across Roman’s desk. Roman put Grandpa’s pen aside, and picked up the papers.

“What if I have second thoughts?”

“Now you listen here, you slimy, twenty-first century Elvis impersonator lookin’ fucker. This is how this is going to go down. You’re going to sign and date that contract.” He pointed to it with one long bejeweled finger. “Then, you are going to move some currency from one of the accounts that we previously discussed into yours, and after that, into my own. And you’re going to do that shit right in front of me. If you do not, I will walk right the fuck out of here, hunt down your boss, Mr. Eric Dearborn, and tell him every fucking thing. Even the shit you don’t think that I know.”

“And what would that be?”

“That he hired a whole damn thief to help run this financial operation. It would be all over the news, and once it hits your lengthy big time client list, well, you can kiss your narrow ass goodbye!” Grandpa chuckled and threw up his hands. “I will let them know that you’ve been stealin’ since you were a grubby-faced baby. Toys. Candy. Anything you could get your greedy hands on. You’ve always been a kleptomaniac. I’ll talk about how you stole shit from fellow Marines, including their girlfriends, and got kicked out. Dishonorable discharge. Mr. Sticky Fingers.”

“I already know that you’re fully aware of that. Where’s the surprise element that you promised?”

“Oh, I’m gettin’ there, you devious fucker. I’ll let them know about your brief stint in foster care—you got hauled off by the mall security guy for doin’ what? Stealing! Again!”

“I doubt that a stint in foster care will be blamed on the child, dear Grandfather. If anything, it’ll garner sympathy points.”

“I’ll say it to show how fucked up your family life was—unstable. Just like you. Fruit not fallin’ too far from the tree. I’ll talk about you stealin’ for your father so that he could get high and stop takin’ money out of your pig-faced mama’s purse. You’d take shit from stores and boost it, then give your no-good druggy daddy the money to shoot up his veins. I’ll tell ’em how you stole from your best friend, Tony… stole his damn sister and fucked her good. Yeah… a recent event.” Roman picked up his own pen and twirled it around. “Pretty thing she is. One thing is for sure, my grandsons always choose gorgeous women. Some women should be off limits though…” He sneered.

“You have no morals. You ain’t no kind of friend. You couldn’t even control yourself around your so-called brother’s sexy little siren of a sister! Greedy. Greedy. Greedy. Since you’ve gone and done it and helped that same friend get his business off the ground, I suppose he owed you. A small price to pay, right?” Grandpa stroked his beard. Roman remained the tree… “I wouldn’t mind a little nibble, a lil’ taste. Maybe if she’s too sweet, she’ll rot my teeth out and I’ll have to go to her place of business, get my teeth removed and suck on her pussy with just my gums. Do you think she’d like that?”

“Today is her day off. Try tomorrow,” Roman stated dryly. That seemed to make Grandpa even more aggravated.

“So, do you share your woman, boy? Just like you’re about to share this money? Say something! DO SOMETHING!”

“What would you like me to say, Grandpa?” Roman questioned calmly.

“Whatever you want to say. In fact, why don’t you call that lil’ girl after we’re through here, and ask if your dear ol’ Grandpa can have a bit of her time? Slide into that warm as apple pie slit between her legs, razor blades and all, and fuck the gold, diamonds and jewels right out of her with a one-two pelvic punch.” Grandpa grinned real evil like, his eyes lit up like dancing black flames. Hoping. Praying. Dying for a reaction. Roman sat there. Stone. Rock. A frozen pond. Lightning splitting his back made of bark. Like the tree. “Since she likes making jewelry, I can make her some jewelry, too… leave a pearl necklace on her titties, or maybe drippin’ down the crack of her big, bubble ass.”

Roman clasped his hands, cleared his throat, and leaned forward. “Coffee? Water?”

Grandpa was visibly vexed. Certainly, of all his grandchildren, the one with the vicious tongue and smartass mouth would not be able to resist getting into a nasty quarrel and sparring match with him after such taunting, bellicose, and abrasive words? Roman used all of his resolve, all of his mental strength and emotional fortitude to remain calm. To not attack. To stand tall and remain unmoved, like the tree. His father’s, Kage’s, Genesis’ and Phoenix’s words played over and over in his mind, helping him to stay on track. It was then, at that moment, that Roman realized something…

Grandpa didn’t want him angry for the hell of it. He wanted power over him so that he could control him, break him down to his core—and he wanted all of this far more than he wanted the money. To be able to control another person’s emotions, gives them domain over your day, your week, perhaps even your life. This was a feud between three people: The father, the son, and the unholy ghost of a demonic man.

Grandpa wanted to hurt him, destroy him from the inside out, and in turn, Roman wished to do the same. Grandpa was laying his burdens down—punishing the child that refused to conform. Beating the boy that didn’t wish to murder a stranger in the forest—through the blood. If he couldn’t have Reeves, Roman would do. His father’s twin…

Reeves was the son who’d turned into a destitute, raging drug addict, seeing meth and crack as better alternatives than walking in Grandpa Wilde’s hoofed footsteps. The one who was motherless and coldhearted. The man who found a good woman and tried to make a family but simply could not. His demons were too strong, his trauma too dark. His mind too gone. His heart too broken.

Reeves loved his sons beyond prison bars… Grandpa hated that even at Daddy’s lowest, he tried to keep his head above water and show care and concern. He hated how his mother, even with all that had happened to her as a child and in her marriage, the trust she’d broken with her children, she still wanted to be his mother—and stand up for her boys. Razor blade pies and regrets. Perhaps she ate her feelings, but nothing could chew at her love and self-worth. Bonnie was a motherfucking queen.

Roman knew nothing of a pie being sent, but he wasn’t doubtful that she’d done it. Mama always had a quiet madness in her … and he was mad, too. Despite it all, THE BLACK SHEEP WAS LOVED. He had brothers who were fucked up as much or worse than him, but they all loved each other.

Grandpa never had that. Love in the midst of dysfunction and bad times. Shit. Now I see what he said was true. Kage was right.

Kage’s words crashed into his head…

He’s jealous of you…

The hairs along his arms stood on end.

Grandpa jammed his hand into his pocket once more to pull out a cigar—a long dark brown one, shaped like a submarine. Or turd. Eat shit and die.

“You can’t smoke in here,” Roman stated as he looked over the contract, his favorite pen in hand.

“What’ll happen if I do?” Grandpa questioned.

“The sprinklers will go off. You’ll ruin your boots ’nd hat.” Roman flipped a page of the contract nonchalantly, burying his face in the minutia. But of course, you being a demon and all, water—unless it is holy water—can’t do shit to you, now can it?

He turned to the last page of the contract, read it, signed and dated it, then handed it back to Grandpa. The old man looked it over, folded it, then slipped it back into his pocket. Then, he rose to his feet, grabbed his pen, and walked around the desk.

“Roman,” he patted his shoulder, “we will work well together. You have nothing else to worry about. I’ll make money. You’ll make money. My grandson is finally a team member and employee of Wilde Enterprises.” Grandpa extended his hand, a wide smile across his face.

Roman shook his hand as they stared at one another.

“Now, time for the first transfer.” Grandpa leaned against the desk.

“Right now?” Roman asked. “But you said we’d do it later in the week! You said that I’d have time to—”

“Yes, right now. Boy, I don’t trust you! This way I know that it’s for real, and that you’re on the up and up. I can’t trust a black sheep. Do it. NOW.”

Resentment pulsed through him like an electric current. His arms, legs and brain felt heavy. Fingers pounding the keys, he logged into his computer. Grandpa loomed, looking over his shoulder as he signed in. Roman navigated to his accounts, as instructed by the old man, and allowed him to see various clients’ account totals, profits over the last six months, and more.

“That one. Bengal Co.” Grandpa selected an account that Roman had had for years. A large company that manufactured prescription pain medication. One of his first accounts. $18,002,111.53 was listed as the net worth from smart investments over the past two years alone. “I want a sizable sum, but not enough to trigger an alarm, you know? Let’s take it slow.” Grandpa stated, as if he gave a damn about being fair and having decorum. “You’re a gambling man. What do you bet that would be? One percent? Maybe two?”

“Two percent would be a little over thirty-six grand.”

“To a company worth that amount in investments alone, thirty-six grand shouldn’t be a big deal.” Grandpa shrugged as he orchestrated a felony in the making. “I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with a good explanation should they ask you about the dip. Mark me down for two percent.” Grandpa watched like a hawk as Roman removed the money from the Bengal Co. and transferred it into his own account. “Now, take that $36,042.00 and transfer it from your account into mine, in three separate deposits. Space ’em apart, and use these three bank routing numbers.”

Grandpa pulled out his paperwork and rattled off his offshore bank account information, one by one. Roman typed it all in as needed. When he was finished with the deed, Grandpa waited until he got notification that the money was being deposited into his accounts, from Roman’s accounts. The old man grinned with satisfaction. He went back around the desk, picked up his hat, and placed it gingerly atop his head.

“This was a good first day of work, Roman. In a week or two, I will contact you about the latest reports. I want that information before you give it to anyone else. I also still want an update on the Bierman Corporation’s assets. Don’t think that I forgot.”

More prohibited dirty work. More shit to get him on the hook. Grandpa’s bank accounts for this deceitful operation were almost untraceable. Roman didn’t need the old man to tell him that for him to know it. Grandpa had planned this down to the letter, and Roman was forced to sign off in blood…