Chapter 4 – Elias
I stare at the piece of paper for what must be the millionth time.
Had to leave. Thanks for all the orgasms.
- Sage
Five orgasms, and she ghosts me?
It’s been three weeks.
Thanksgiving has come and gone, and the worst time of year is approaching. The holidays remind me how lonely I am. How much I miss my mother. How I miss my brother even though I’m the one who constantly pushes him away.
I twirl the pen Sage left between my fingers. It’s all I have of her. The note and a goddamn pen.
No phone number. No address.
I have her name that was logged when the bouncer scanned her ID at the door .
Sage Manilow.
My contact at the NYPD ran the information but came up empty-handed.
Sage Manilow doesn’t exist.
The address on the ID is to a laundromat in Harlem.
Searching Sage Manilow on the Internet pulls up pages upon pages of Barry Manilow results. Even my tech guy found nothing on the woman when delving into the depths of the dark web.
I scoured my security camera footage from that night, trying to find a good shot of her face for Phil to use in his searches.
I found plenty of her on the dance floor, including the moment that man sexually assaulted her, but none of it was usable.
Her face was either too blurry from dancing or too dark and pixelated in the club’s dim lighting.
Even when she was brought upstairs, she kept her head low and out of view of the cameras.
I have a camera in my office, too, but I turned it off before she walked inside, knowing we were about to have a less than legal conversation.
I also don’t film women in private settings without their consent.
I questioned if she was real. If my men hadn’t seen her, hadn’t escorted her to my office after that fucker touched her, I would have thought I was going mad.
A knock on the door pulls me to the present.
“What?” I bark out.
My underboss, Martin, pops his head inside. He’s my uncle on my mother’s side and looks nothing like me. He’s short, maybe five six with light brown hair and brown eyes. He likely weighs half of me.
I’m a big guy. Six foot six and over three hundred pounds if I had to guess. I have no idea because I don’t give a shit about my weight. I take after my late father who was just as big with black hair and blue eyes. Anytime I look in the mirror, I see his ghost and it fills me with rage.
I will never be my father, the abusive prick.
Martin holds up an envelope. “This was just delivered.”
He enters my office and hands it over.
The envelope is opened already, which isn’t unusual since I have someone who checks all mail and packages delivered to any of my businesses.
I own a few nightclubs in Queens and Brooklyn. Underground Park Slope was my first business, and it’s now a front for my criminal empire—one that was left to me when my father died.
He began preparing me for the role since my teens, and I took over at age twenty-two, which means I have a long list of enemies who’ve tried to kill me more than once by sending poisons through letters and packages.
I extract a thick piece of paper from the envelope. It has beautifully written script on the front in gold with a Christmas-themed border of holly and mistletoe in silver .
It’s an invitation to Gio Lenetti’s Annual Christmas Party this weekend, held at the Wyndock Hotel in Midtown, Manhattan.
Gio Lenetti is the Don of the Empire Mafia. My rival. Why would he be inviting me to his party?
I’d understand if the invite was addressed to one of my aliases that I use for my businesses, but it’s not. It’s addressed to Elias Carter.
People know my name. They know I lead the Queensboro Mob but not many know my face. I tend to stay in the shadows during business deals. I’ll act as security and let one of my soldiers who has a similar build and appearance as me act in my place. Or even my uncle, Martin, leads meetings sometimes.
It’s worked well for me so far.
The invite alludes to a neutral night of festivities which could be the perfect opportunity to make connections, maybe try to lure some of Lenetti’s power players over to the QBM.
I don’t trust Gio, but he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to start a mafia war at a luxury hotel in Midtown, Manhattan.
What will happen if I show up and give them my name?
I guess I’ll find out.
F ucking Christmas.
Fucking Lenetti.
Why did I think it’d be a good idea to show up to his Christmas party?
I tried talking myself out of coming a million times because I hate both Christmas and Lenetti, but I’m too curious as to why I was invited.
Two Empire soldiers nod as I enter the hotel’s entrance.
They don’t stop me or four of my men who walk in behind me.
Either these Empire dickheads are new and don’t recognize me or were told not to do shit.
As we walk through the lobby, I point out spots where my soldiers can station, ready to move in if needed. I leave them behind and turn into a hallway outside of the ballroom where the party is taking place.
Two large men stand beside a woman with a clipboard, checking invitations while she verifies names.
She doesn’t react when I give her my name, however, the two security guards make sure to give me a thorough pat down.
They also inspect my invitation closer than anyone else in line ahead of me.
With a curt, but somewhat suspicious nod of approval, they let me through .
Interesting. I at least expected some pushback at the security checkpoint.
Maybe all of Gio’s guards hate him as much as I do and don’t give a fuck about letting his rival in. Or maybe this really is a ‘neutral night of festivities’ as the invitation stated.
Or this is a trap, and they don’t expect me to leave this place alive. I don’t doubt Lenetti’s already been alerted of my arrival.
The party is well underway when I enter the grand ballroom.
The decor is tacky as hell. Reds, greens, and golds everywhere as if Santa and his elves got drunk and threw up all over the walls.
The tree is nearly as tall as the room. Bows are wrapped around columns, and gold streamers hang from the ceiling.
A string quartet plays an instrumental version of a popular Christmas song, and the cheerful music almost makes me turn around and leave.
I don’t celebrate Christmas. Not since my mother was killed the night before, twenty years ago.
I was the one who found her. I was only sixteen.
That’s the main reason why I decided to show up.
Tonight is a chance to listen. To overhear drunk conversations for any information that might accidentally slip from loose lips.
My brother and I are convinced Gio is the one who ordered the hit on our mother all those years ago. We’ve been trying to gather enough proof to bring him, and the Empire, down. If we’re going to start a mafia war against the most powerful man in New York City, we have to be sure.
Someone here at this party must know something—especially the powerful fucks at Lenetti’s side. I’ve got dirt on plenty of them. If I can’t get them to squeal on Lenetti, then I can at least blackmail them into aligning with the QBM.
I stop at the open bar and grab a whiskey before weaving through the crowd. People stand around chatting while drinking and eating, fake laughing at horrible jokes, and slapping on charm that’s just as fake as their smiles and bodies.
I hate it all.
The corrupt gravitating to the powerful.
Gio Lenetti is the king of corrupt and powerful. He has blood on his hands.
Not that I don’t, but the blood I spill is from the veins of living monsters. Pedophiles, scam artists, human traffickers.
The list could go on.
It’s what I’ve been doing since taking over the QBM. I’ve been working to clean up the streets and bust dealers who target kids and teenagers. My father really fucked things up twenty years ago. He’s the reason New York City has a drug epidemic. Percy Carter dealt dirty and dangerous drugs.
There will always be drugs in this city. I just make sure to regulate them the best that I can.
I snatch an hors d’oeuvre from a passing server but pause before putting it in my mouth. The woman has walked on, but she’s not far because of the crowded space. I tap her on the shoulder, and she turns, lifting her head because of my height.
Her cheeks blush, and she sucks in a breath.
I get that a lot. I’m a giant. People always ask if I’m a wrestler.
If I hadn’t been born into a life of crime, I would have loved to be a wrestler.
My brother, Lance, and I would watch it on television as kids.
Then we’d clear a space in the living room to create a makeshift ring and body slam each other.
I always won.
“Does this have nuts in it?”
“Oh, um, no. I don’t think so. It’s smoked trout croquettes. Mashed potatoes, smoked trout, mozzarella, parmesan, and chives. Would you like me to double check?”
I shake my head. I have my EpiPen, and cross contamination won’t incapacitate me like eating a whole fucking nut.
I pop the food into my mouth and groan. Fuck, that’s good .
While I chew, I scan the crowd. No one seems to be paying attention to me, which is fine. I like to be invisible. Though, I do appear to be one of the taller and bigger men in the room.
Wait one damn second.
My eyes land on a head of hair belonging to a man who looks like a slimmer version of me.
My brother.
“Lance?”
He startles and whips around, snatching the wrist of the woman standing next to him. He shoves her behind him.
“Del, why are you trying to hide me?” she scoffs and peels out of his grip.
Del? That’s cute. His name is Delancy, but I call him Lance. He hates being called Lance, and now this woman has shortened his name to Del. Like the fucking computer.
I stifle a laugh.
“Hi. I’m Noah,” the woman says, holding out her hand.