Chapter 8 Florian
Florian
Three Weeks Later…
She’s all I want.
She’s not just someone to spend my days and nights with, sweaty and wrapped in tangled sheets to help slay the demons wreaking havoc in my mind. I just want her. If I can have the one person I need, I know everything in my life will be worth living.
However, I’ve tried to forget her. After leaving that flower and note inside her apartment, I realized I may have gone too far.
She’s too innocent, too pure to taint with my wickedness, but no one else will do.
To strip her of everything she is and make her into what she deserves to be will be my greatest reward.
If I have the chance to be with her, it will be unreal. But it’s not to be.
With a tightening grip on my whiskey, a stream of images showcasing her beauty fills my mind as the sun rises.
While she doesn’t know I exist, she’s become my obsession.
She’s the one thing I can’t live without but have been forced to.
To keep from destroying her, I’ve hidden in the shadows for months, wishing she wasn’t my unattainable beauty.
As a reminder of my devotion to her, I send her roses because they’re her favorite, and still, nothing has changed since I first laid eyes on her.
She’s still my unattainable beauty because I will always be Beast. Her light will always shine, while my hands will always be stained with blood.
Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows in my office on the sixtieth floor of Larsson Industries, I gaze at an impressive view of the beautiful New York skyline.
The sky is filled with shades of pink, purple, and orange rising above the city’s skyscrapers.
The morning dew covering the windows sparkles like diamonds as the sun filters through the large panes of glass as the city below comes to life.
It seems like a different world looking down on everything below.
In this perfect world, I’m not the man I am, and I have the woman I’ve always wanted.
But nothing’s ever truly perfect, is it?
I sigh and take a sip of whiskey, wishing some things in my life were different. But I should know by now that wishing is only for fools. And I’m no fool. My life is what it is, and there’s nothing I can do to change things.
A little after seven in the morning may be too early to have a drink, but the need to remove her from my thoughts is more intense today, and I’m not sure why or if it even matters.
Nothing good comes from obsessing over the impossible, and for this next meeting, my anger needs to be in check, so I don’t give in to my rage and kill him.
Five years ago, at twenty-six, I acquired Larsson Industries and many other businesses, expanding my reach into the business world and the criminal underworld outside my hometown of Uppsala, Sweden. My network in both worlds is now extensive and is only getting larger.
After emigrating to America and becoming a US citizen, I worked tirelessly to achieve what my father never could, taking Larsson Industries places he only dreamed of.
His bastard took over his company and his criminal organization, expanding both beyond anything he could ever do.
And he absolutely hates me for it. His legitimate sons hate me for it.
On many occasions, they have all wished for my death, but it’s hard to kill the Beast. I should know. Many have tried.
And I still live.
I’m ruthless, merciless, and some say cruel, but no one can deny that I’m fair.
Stories of the Beast being unable to die circulate throughout the criminal underworld—an exaggeration, of course, because I bleed like any other man.
However, the stories, I don’t deny. They strike fear in my enemies.
Fear that fuels me. Fear that I relish in.
Fear that allows me to remain at the top even though many have tried to topple me.
Heavy is the head who wears the crown, so they say. Now I’m the one sitting on the throne while my father withers away. I manage the weight of my crown well, and my reach is far, much farther than my father’s.
Olan Larsson should look at me as his enemy since that’s what he has forced me to be.
He never gives me credit for what I accomplish, or what I’ll gladly take from him because, in his eyes, I’m nothing more than a weakling.
The bastard son of a whore, not worthy to have the Larsson name or wear the Larsson crown.
But I’m always the predator and never the prey.
He will do well to remember that with the little time he has left on this Earth.
I glance down at my watch, downing the last of my whiskey when there’s a knock at the door.
Right on time.
The large mahogany door swings open. However, I keep my back to him. Every time he’s in my presence, it takes everything in me not to kill him with my bare hands, forcing his last breaths from his body.
“Son.”
My body stiffens. I hate it when he calls me his son. I am not and will never be Olan’s son. He made sure of it a long time ago.
I’ve learned every facet of my father while I plotted against him. When he uses the term of endearment, it means he wants something from me.
“Florian,” he calls out when I don’t respond.
I break free from my thoughts, make my way to the desk, and sit down, placing the tumbler on top of a coaster. With a glare, he stares at the empty glass, narrowing his eyes. His judgmental glower, I ignore. It doesn’t matter to me if the motherfucker doesn’t approve of my choice of drink.
Olan’s beliefs are strange when it comes to certain indulgences, such as alcohol, drugs, and sex. He believes they are vices, weaknesses for his children even if he partakes in them, which he does often, and so do my brothers.
The prostitute whom he’s fucking and sniffing coke from her cunt tells me all his secrets—for a price, of course. While it’s disgusting to hear all the vile things he’s into, I’ll listen to it as long as I learn how to destroy him.
Such a fucking hypocrite.
This meeting needs to end as soon as possible. Today, I’ve been on edge more than usual, barely hanging on to the little sanity I have left. Many think I lost it a long time ago. Sometimes, I can’t disagree with that assessment.
He’s standing, flanked by Asva and Alrick Persson, twin brothers who have been with me since I took over the Larsson Syndicate, to Olan’s disgust. He doesn’t like anyone not associated with the families of Uppsala to be a part of the Syndicate.
However, I’ve learned that the people from Uppsala, my people, can’t be trusted, especially if they’re going to be close to me.
Most remain loyal to Olan, which is why I recruit from outside Uppsala’s borders.
I grab the bottle of high-end whiskey from the drawer, pour two fingers into the glass, and then slip the bottle back into the drawer. Olan’s scowl only deepens when I take a sip, enjoying the burn of the smooth amber liquid sliding down my throat.
“You’re drinking this early in the morning?” He doesn’t hide his disgust for my choice of an early morning beverage. “You should know better than to do that.”
I ignore his judgmental attitude. I haven’t cared what Olan thinks about my decisions for a long time.
“I have a busy day, Olan.” I sigh. “Why did you need to meet with me this morning?”
I ignore his question and ask one of my own, although I know the answer. His old friend Arthur Williamson has been in touch with him to see if he can stop the inevitable—the takeover of Williamson Holdings, a shipping company I’ve been after for a very long time.
It isn’t going to happen, no matter what Olan says.
“You know why I’m here, Florian. Don’t play stupid. As my son, it’s beneath you,” he growls. “Why are you trying to destroy everything I’ve built? I’ve formed many relationships over the course of my lifetime. These men trust me, and you would steal from them?”
I don’t steal. In fact, I can’t stand a thief and have killed many throughout the years for stealing from me.
But what I am is a savvy and shrewd businessman who provides struggling individuals with capital with the promise of repayment of the loan in full plus interest. If payment isn’t made in full by the time determined within the contract, I confiscate their companies or whatever I deem worthy as payment.
Sometimes, I’ve used less-than-honorable means to get what is owed to me.
I’ve broken a few bones, maimed a few men, and taken a few lives, but I always get what’s owed to me, no matter the means of compensation, whether it’s by blood or money.
It’s not thieving. It’s called good business.
“Everything you’ve built?” I scowl, steepling my hands and leaning back in my chair. I take offense at his statement.
When I assumed control, Larsson Industries was in a state of complete chaos.
Complaints of sexual harassment, mainly about him, grievances about wages, and employees were jumping ship as fast as they could.
Larsson Industries was hanging on by a thread.
Now, things have changed. My employees are happy, and work production has multiplied tenfold under my leadership. So, he hasn’t done shit.
“You haven’t built shit, Olan. What you see around you,” I motion around the room with outstretched arms, “I’ve built with my blood, sweat, and tears.
If it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be a Larsson Industries.
Remember, you came to me just like Arthur and the rest of your friends because you needed my help. Not the other way around.”