Chapter Ten
Then…
Building an empire is a marathon, not a sprint.
It is no day-cruise, but rather a voyage of the goddamn seven seas. One that rarely follows the predetermined course.
Case in point, this new facet of my business.
Operating a prison wasn’t something I ever expected I’d add to my resume. And I sure as shit never saw myself as a Warden…
When I think of Wardens, I think of rumpled old grumps—or the guy from The Shawshank Redemption.
Actually, I could probably take some pointers from that one…
Nevertheless, I’m impatient to get the ball rolling on this place. I want to see what Alabaster Penitentiary can become. But, as it tends to, the red tape is holding me up. More specifically, Human Resources. My least favorite thing.
People are a resource. I get that. Empires can’t run without them, and I’m skilled in using up every drop of what they can do for me. But I’m also used to dealing with an infrastructure that’s already been established.
While I brought my own flare to my organization, I didn’t invent the cartel, nor did I design how it operates. Organized crime has a way of doing things that you don’t fuck with, because it works.
But when it comes to this prison… I’m expected to come up with an entire body of staff, and I’m not afraid to admit, it’s proving slightly challenging.
After weeks of living and breathing Alabaster Isle, I’ve just touched down in Manhattan. It’s my first time leaving my new home since I moved in, and I can’t believe how much I miss it already. Still, I had to come into the city to do other work.
Hopefully straighten some things—and some people—out.
From the helipad, I go directly to the uptown office where I’m meeting with one of my lawyers, Fabian, to talk logistics.
“Equino is good,” he says while literally flipping through a binder chock full of files on cartel men who could potentially be repurposed as correctional officers. “Smart. Shrewd head about him.”
I’m nodding. “Says here he’s married… With a newborn.” I frown.
That could be a problem. In certain situations, a family can be good leverage. But this particular job requires a full dedication of time, especially now, in the early stages.
“A few of them are,” Fabian hums. “You think it’ll be a problem?”
I shrug. “We’re just getting this thing off the ground… I’d prefer them to be unattached. At least for the first year or so.” I flip to the next page. Then the next. “It’s one thing if they’re looking for an excuse to get away, but I doubt that’s the case for someone with a new baby at home.”
“I can find out.” Fabian jots down some notes. “Pedroia is our best. Max says he’s risen in the ranks quickly due to his ruthlessness. Not a fan of nonsense, that one…”
“So I’ve heard,” I mutter, checking out his file.
“His connections are great. Family history goes back in Medellin, and Bogota…”
His words are sort of fading out. Because I already know all of this, and this process is already tedious. And we just fucking started.
Page after page of faces, names, and bios… Viable candidates, all of them. I know these guys. They’re all mid-level lieutenants working for me in Medellin. And yes, they’re great at what they do.
But in this particular case, I need more than just good at running for the cartel and not getting caught. It’s a fine skill set, just… not quite right for this job.
Could these men be correctional officers?
Aspects of it are similar, sure. Overseeing port activity, managing dealers… Intimidation and such.
But being a prison guard is more hands-on than they’re used to. On the island, I’ll require much more than just full-time work… This is a lifestyle change. A residency.
The term that comes to mind is blind subservience. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week… you get the idea.
“Here’s my concern…” I slap the binder shut with a huff. “This could be considered a demotion for a lot of these guys. Even if the pay were the same, which it won’t be, it’s going to be more work. Like, a lot more. And different.”
Fabian nods. “Could we go to the guys a level down?”
I shake my head vehemently. “I need to trust them fully. I need to know without a shred of doubt that they’ll keep their mouths shut.” I pause. “Or that even if they wanted to open them, it wouldn’t matter…”
He stares at me for a second. “What if we made sure they’re properly… motivated?”
I purse my lips. Because that’s not a bad idea…
But I shake it off. “They’re just too unpredictable.
Half of them are wild cards as it is. Plus, these guards will be working directly under me.
Not only do they need to stay motivated, but they need to be self-sufficient.
And smart. Jesus, if I were stuck dealing with the capos every day, I’d blow my brains out. ”
Puffing out a breath, I stand up, pacing over to the window. I watch the city bustling below me, considering what I need. What it is I’m looking for…
The perfect guard dog.
Loyal. Hungry, but chained.
“Sounds to me like you need someone to help you out with that part,” Fabian speaks from behind me.
I peer over my shoulder, lifting a brow. “Yea, no shit.”
He chuckles. “I mean, maybe you should find your head of operations first. Then have him help you keep the others in line. Basically the same infrastructure as Medellin, but guys who are designed for this.”
That’s a thought…
“Bringing in strangers?” I make a face. “That never works out.”
“I say again… If they’re properly motivated…” He shrugs, making a face that would be impossible not to read.
I’m mulling this over as one of my three phones buzzes in my pocket; a message from one of the guys in Brooklyn. Eyes scanning the text, my jaw strains and I fight not to roll them.
“Speak of the shit for brains.” I tuck the phone away with a huff, stomping toward the door. Fabian chuckles. “Precisely why we will not be using falcons for this job,” I grumble. “Being trained by the best doesn’t make you second best. Apparently, neither does fucking nepotism.”
Fabian huffs, “So… should I keep researching?”
“I’ll be in touch,” I grunt an ambiguous response at him, because I’m frustrated and one more question or glaring incompetence could earn the nearest body a bullet to the kneecap.
Everyone thinks being el jefe grande means you just sit back and reap the benefits. Suck back fancy liquor, smoke cigars, and get lots of head, while the money just rolls in.
Sure, all of that happens. But it doesn’t just happen.
I’m expected to handle every problem when they can’t figure it out, which is often, mind you.
I can intimidate them all I want, but at the end of the day, they’re like children.
No matter how scared they are of you, they’ll still come to you crying when they scrape their knees, expecting you to kiss their boo boos…
Then tear to shreds whatever hurt them.
Once in the car, I make a call.
“Jefe…” Josué Goncalves—we call him G—answers on half a ring.
“Cuál es el problema?” I growl into the phone. Not trying to hide my irritation in the slightest.
If anything, I’m laying it on thicker than I’m feeling it.
“So… it’s Jo and D,” his voice shakes. “They went off the grid like twenty minutes ago, and I have no idea what they’re doing.” My head falls back as I rub my eyes. “I tried calling Mateo but he’s ignoring me now too.”
“Brooklyn,” I mutter to the driver, who nods in the rearview. “Where were they supposed to be?”
“They were covering Staten Island, but last I checked they were at the drop in Red Hook. Near the Ikea… That’s Prince’s turf. He’s gonna be pissed if he finds out they’re encroaching—”
“G, G, G… relax, por favor,” I sigh. “Let me worry about all that. Right now, what I need from you is to understand why this is something you felt the need to bother me with… Being that handling them is supposed to be your job.”
“Jefe, I swear, I didn’t want to bring this to you!” He’s panicking. It’s kind of cute. “I’ve been telling Mateo they were fuck ups since he brought them on, but Prince knows them or some shit, and he won’t listen. I don’t think he’s telling you about all their issues…”
I blink hard at all of this meaningless childish schoolyard bullshit.
“You understand who I am, don’t you?” I growl, and he goes quiet.
“Tu sabes? This is like calling Steve Jobs when your iPhone stops working… May he fucking rest.” I’m seething, and I’m sure he can hear it, because he’s been effectively shut up.
“Spanking dealers is beneath me, darling, so let me ask again…
Why are you really calling me about this?
“I… I, um…” He stutters.
“You can do it, precious. Whatever you think I want you to say is correct.”
The line goes silent once more, until he finally mumbles, “I was hoping you would… encárgate.”
Handle it.
“There you go.” I grin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I hear a breath of relief. It’s premature.
“Their blood will be on your hands, chico,” I hum. “As will be the Prince’s reaction to all this, so I hope for your sake that your conscience, as well as your body, can withstand the repercussions of going over their heads.”
Hanging up on him, I grumble to the driver. “Ikea in Red Hook.”
Then I shoot off a few texts. First, to Mateo, my man in Medellin, who’s supposed to have all of this shit under control.
Then to Mateo’s brother, Alejandro—we call him Prince—to let him know his coworker has grievances he’ll want to work out.
And finally, one to Max, whom I would consider my best lieutenant, letting him know that the Prince brothers are driving me insane and it’s his fault.
All of whom are responsible for babysitting these idiotas, so they need to know that I’m on my way to go do their jobs for them.
This will have many people shitting their pants tonight, globally.
Good. They deserve to sit in shit for bringing me out to goddamn Red Hook.