Chapter One
Now…
People assume being evil is easy. It’s not.
On the contrary, it’s actually quite the chore at times.
The overwhelming assumption of our society—who perceive themselves as this sort of Captain America chin-dimpled, Colgate-white smiling hero, swooping down to save babies and the elderly, compass of morality—is that the villains of the world have chosen corruption because it’s simpler to pull off than the rigorous toll of doing what’s right.
Being bad is lazy, and the wicked love shortcuts.
Honestly, it’s pathetic. And completely false.
If these do-gooders only knew the sacrifices that have to be made. The sheer volume, and complexity, of work that goes into being a true agent of destruction…
They have no fucking clue.
As it stands, this is one of my biggest pet peeves. Assumption.
You know what they say, when you assume… Ass out of you and me, si?
Side note: I don’t find that saying entirely accurate either. Assuming makes an ass out of you more than it does me. But hey, what do I know?
I’m just someone who has made it a point to step on the neck of every single assumption a person has ever made about me in my life. Furthermore, I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually assumed something, at least in my adult life.
For as much as I relish the unpredictable, I also prefer to stay one step ahead of everyone else. I don’t need to assume anything, because I take my sweet time and use my ample resources to figure things—people—out. Research is imperative, especially when it comes to human beings.
I like to know what I’m getting into.
That said, every once in a while, someone will come along and catch me off-guard. And despite the wrench it can throw into my plans, there’s something to be said for being pleasantly surprised by a person…
So while I am vastly annoyed by uninformed assumptions, I tend to anticipate them. Hell, maybe I even look forward to it.
Because I, too, love surprising people.
Regardless, the point is that anyone who thinks being the villain is easy is estúpido, and if you’re a villain and it’s easy for you, well, you’re not doing it right.
To be clear, this has nothing to do with empathy. Even the most narcissistic of sociopaths can still technically be empathetic. I know I can.
Sometimes… It’s happened once or twice.
But being wicked means shrugging off such things, effortlessly. Remaining unaffected by the pain, duress, and most importantly, the expectations of others.
I’m not talking about how it feels to be bad—we all know it feels fucking great. This is about the work that goes into being an honest to God evil motherfucker. Like, for a living.
Mis amigos, it’s a lifestyle, being this vile. A full-time job you never clock out of.
Twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five, living and breathing depravity, in sovereignty.
The all-consuming power is more intoxicating than the strongest vices, and it takes a special kind of monster to ingest all of this without getting sloppy. I suppose that’s why so many great villains are inevitably defeated… It’s certainly a commitment, and the pressure can crush you if you let it.
If you’re weak, that is.
Yes, it’s hard, but that’s not to say it’s a thankless job. The perks of wielding control over thousands of people and billions of dollars and miles and miles of territory are endless, naturally.
But then it’s not all luxury and lechery either—though, there is a lot of that. At the end of the day, this nefarious empire I’m running is still a business, and business revolves around two things:
Numbers… and people.
The numbers are simple. Two-dimensional.
People are always where complications arise. Because people are… a lot.
Wrangling them is no easy task. I’m not a serial killer or anything—not technically—but after dealing with so many people on a regular basis for so many years, I’ll admit… I see the appeal.
The hardest part of being evil is not killing everyone.
Jot that quote down for my memoir.
All jesting aside, it is most certainly a skill to own corruption and weaponize information the way I do. To convince people that what I want is also what they want, even if that thing is most definitely not what they want.
It’s an art form. A performance, like a Vegas magic show. And the illusion depends on the ability to read and control the audience. To anticipate, then manipulate.
I’m the goddamn David Copperfield of organized crime.
And yet, like any good stage performer, I have to be able to adapt on the fly. Because as much as I wish like hell this was a one-man show, it’s not.
Lately, it’s been one thing after another, more specifically, in the business of Alabaster Penitentiary… My once dark mistress, now my beautiful burden.
But it’s not her fault. I don’t blame her one bit. Would you like to guess who’s at fault?
I’ll give you a hint… It’s not the numbers that are ruining everything.
The last year has been ridiculous as it is, but after the nonstop strife of this past month, I’ll be shocked if I come away from this without ulcers, or a clot in my brain.
All stress inflicted by the fucking people around me.
Dios, te prometo que, I will make it my life’s mission to replace everyone in this organization with animals. Fuck AI and robots, or whatever… I would be just fine working amongst cats, and lizards and shit.
Birds running the drugs. Guard dogs… Hello.
It would be perfect. I’d never have to speak to another human again.
Bueno para mi estomago…
That’s it. I’m doing it. Call me evil Ace Ventura.
“Which animal do you think could do your job?” I mutter with the subtlest of grins resting on my lips while I imagine it. Not sure I could pull off the hair…
I don’t have to look at my assistant to know he’s gaping at me in confusion.
“I was going to say a gerbil, but I worry that might come off as sarcastic,” I go on, sort of rambling while Yari and I wait, impatiently, at the threshold of the mansion.
I don’t typically have this much trouble standing still. I have been known to deliver rambling monologues depicting my evil genius. I enjoy listening to myself talk. But in this moment, with so many hectic things going on around me, my brain is buzzing.
I have so much on my plate right now, like an all-you-can-eat buffet, it would take days to digest it all. And I’ll have no issue doing so.
Even so, I find myself much less concerned with any of that than this itch inside of me. It’s been there for weeks… And it’s growing stronger.
As bizarre as it is, I’m not tapping my shoe on the floor and checking my watch because I’m anxiously awaiting word from Kent or Paulino on whether they’ve located Kellan Kemper, or if Governor Russo is close… I don’t really even care much about either of those things right now.
I should. There’s a bevy of serious shit going on around me, much more important than the restless need currently holding my attention.
It seems so implausible… But I feel myself inching away subtly.
Maybe they won’t notice… if I just sneak off real quick.
“You’re awfully calm…” Yari rumbles, giving me a peculiar look that stops my shifting. “And chatty, all things considered.”
I roll my eyes. “Forgive me. Would you prefer it if I paced around in circles and pulled my hair out?” He makes a face that I can read as a Yea, kinda.
“I’ve been doing that for weeks, since my prison fell the fuck apart.
Russo is on his way, and there’s no stopping him.
And I have Dascha, so Kellan Kemper will be finding his way here eventually, I’m sure.
Retaining control means accepting when things are out of your hands. ”
Yari’s light eyes sparkle up at me—that expression of adulation he gives me often. It’s an ego-boost that I normally appreciate, but recently, I’ve found myself brushing it off.
The delight in having people look at me like that is… less satisfying now. It’s frustrating, confounding and quite vexing. Because it happened just as rampantly as I suppose I always knew it would.
From that night, in my suite at Club Edge—may she fucking rest—bathed in shadows and the glittering glow of an enticing familiarity, to the night of the storm… And each evening of illicit captivity that’s occurred since.
Warm, trembling flesh… Full lips and flushed cheeks.
My eyes wide open, that pleasant surprise I adore so much magnified as I stared in awe.
él me encontró…
He found me.
“Me extranaste… Didn’t you?”
“Si, Diablo.”
The subtle nod, and how palpably he hated the truth in it, engulfed me in ravenous flames.
Hand shaking as I ran cherishing fingers over soft skin and lace. “Are you… mi chiquita mala?”
It was inevitable… That it would lead to this. I never stood a chance.
Neither did mi pajarito.
“A monkey, I think,” Yari chirps, distracting me from the delicious nostalgia, and stormy regret in my head, breeding even more impatience in my extremities.
My head lolls in his direction. “That is so boring.”
His lips twitch. “Fine. How about a… dolphin? I could work my phone via Bluetooth.”
A small snort leaves me. “Right. You know dolphins are highly sexually aggressive towards humans… Are you sure you want to be associated with an animal that’s extra rapey for another species?”
His face scrunches in a disgusted grimace that has me smirking. “Ew. No.”
My gaze springs to Kent, who’s posted up in front of me, protective stance and gaze scanning the woods before us.
Always so serious.
Some gunfire pops. None of us are fazed at this point, but Kent radios Hector, checking to see if they located my fugitive former employee. My bet would be a frustrating no…
“Kent,” I rasp his name, and he peeks at me. “Which animal would you like to replace you?”
His gaze narrows only slightly, though he remains, for the most part, perpetually indifferent when it comes to my passive-aggressive threats. Like the emotionless lieutenant he is.
Good boy.