Chapter Eleven #3
You might as well surgically remove my balls right now.
Not that any of the guys are my type, anyway, so all of this just makes for a perpetually boring existence. Which is why I recently decided to broach the subject of leaving the island on occasion with the Warden.
I’d mentioned it once or twice in passing, after our first six months or so of operation, when we finally had enough staff that I could start reducing my own shifts to ten-hour days. He didn’t seem thrilled with the idea at first, but I’ve been slowly wearing him down.
Dealing with stubborn people is an art form, one I consider myself pretty damn good at.
Living with an addict for most of your life, you pick up a few things.
It’s like parenting, in a way. A healthy combination of subtle relentless badgering and convincing them that what you want will somehow benefit them.
I wonder if The Ivory knows I’m using some of his own tactics on him?
I’m sure he does. That’s the thing about Manuel Blanco… He’s smarter than almost everyone, but he worships chaos.
I finally got him to agree to stationing a lookout in the guard tower, which he wasn’t too keen on when we first started. I’m confident I can get him to agree to the occasional mainland field trip for us guards.
Today was a long one. With only eleven inmates, you wouldn’t think it would be so strenuous, but these aren’t your run-of-the-mill prisoners.
We don’t get drug dealers, burglars, or miscellaneous crimes of passion type murderers.
These men are sent here because they’re sick in the head, and good enough at it that the higher-ups want them permanently erased, and simply making these assholes dead is letting them off too easy.
Because of that, our job is to guard them, but do so in a way that makes them wish they were dead.
This is what I’m talking about. I have no choice but to switch it off.
Become a robot; his robot. Programmed to act without worrying about those pesky little conscience things.
The dayshift just got back to the mansion for the night, and I’m restless.
I think a workout is in order, so I head down to the gym where I train hard.
I do arms and shoulders, then hit the bags for a bit.
By the time I’m done, my vein-game is poppin’, and I decide to skip cardio and just head upstairs for a shower.
I’m just getting out, wrapping a towel around my waist when I hear a rapping on my bedroom door. My forehead lines.
That’s far too gentle a knock to be most of the people on this island…
Pulling open the door, my suspicions are confirmed when I find Joy standing there, still in her uniform. Black leather gauntlets and a high ponytail…
She looks like Lara Croft. It awakens the thirteen-year-old in me, who was totally into Tomb Raider for all the other stuff, definitely not the hot girl with perky tits and a booty that jiggled just enough when she was running and climbing.
Clearing my throat, I blink away those completely unprofessional thoughts and greet her with a casual, “Sup?”
Her mouth barely quirks. But then her eyes fall over my mostly-nakedness and she frowns. “Shit… I was gonna see if you wanted to work out, but I’m guessing you already did?”
I smirk. “Your assumptions are correct. I mean, look at these veins, girl! It’s like a map of the American Highway System.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yea, congrats, you fuckin meat-head.” I faux-pout, and she grins. “No, seriously, I’m impressed.”
We high-five as I rumble in amusement. “Thanks.”
But then it occurs to both of us that our hands are still joined, and this contact is going on way longer than normal for a high-five.
I clear my throat again as our fingers slide apart gradually. “Anyway… yea. I already worked out, so…”
Joy bites her lip. Something weird is happening here.
I’m suddenly very warm. And highly attuned to the fact that there’s nothing more than some terrycloth covering my junk.
“You skip cardio again…?” She asks softly.
Sultry… I think. Right??
Am I just way too hard up, or is she… flirting?
“I… did,” I grunt, chest jumping a bit faster.
Her head slants, eyes falling once more over my frame. Slower this time. Almost brazen. Eyebrow cocked and everything.
“It’s just as important, you know,” she purrs. “Sweat it out…”
Fuck me.
“Definitely,” I croak, throat dry and scratchy as I attempt to swallow down this tension.
But then her amber eyes meet mine, and I see it… The opening.
Peering out into the hall, I look left, then right, making sure there’s no one around. Not that it necessarily matters. I just feel like I’m supposed to remain professional here.
As her superior officer and all… I think.
“Wanna help me?” I hum, sort of hovering over her. “Get some cardio in…”
Her eyes sparkle, lips curving wickedly.
And then, like a timer, she leaps into my arms, and I catch her.
Legs around my waist as fast as our lips are crashing together.
Instantly ravenous, panting and growling, eating each other alive while I spin and carry her inside my bedroom, kicking the door shut behind me.
Lifting my arm, I bring it down with all my strength.
Slapping his face so hard, he’s bleeding from the ear.
Growling, I deliver another, then another, sort of blacking out. I’m barely conscious right now. Everything around me is rippling, and I’m just… unleashing.
The kid sniffles and cries, and I shush him.
“Shh… there there, querido. Callate.” I grab him by the face and he winces. “You lost the right to cry like a puta pequena when you knowingly came around here… slangin’. Like you don’t know exactly what happens to people who try to sell on my land.”
He’s trying to articulate over the broken jaw and blood just pouring from his mouth.
“Basta.” I tap him gently on the cheek, straightening and peeking at Kent. “Let’s drop our friend here off at Miguel’s, si? Right inside the main dining room. The ninos will be there for dinner by seven. I want them to see this.”
Kent nods, hustling over to collect the sack of shit.
I bend to look him in the eye one last time. “Tell your boss next time he pulls this shit, I’ll lock them all inside that goddamn restaurant and burn it to the ground.”
Pacing out of the room, I exhale a sigh of mild perturbance, heading for the sink to wash the blood off my hands.
No rest for the wicked.
Especially not when the wicked owns everything, and everyone else always wants a fucking piece.
Cartel business never wavers, but I just cannot wrap my head around these idiotas who continue to test me.
Truth be told, Sinaloa falcons constantly attempting to skirt around treaties that were put into place before they were born isn’t even what has me all bunched up with stress right now.
I should be enjoying my trip into Manhattan, this rare break from being the Warden—a job that’s taken up a majority of my time over the last couple of years.
And yet all I can think about is getting back to the island… To keep an eye on things.
It’s extremely vexing. I have a second in command handling business while I’m away…
But who makes sure he’s properly handled?
And what if the part that’s bunching me up the most is not business-related…?
My jaw is so tight, it might snap in half.
Beating runners to a pulp to send a message is well beneath me. Mateo or Alejo should be handling this stuff. But I wanted to do it… I needed some rage therapy, to distract me from what’s been going on in my castle lately.
A… relationship.
Ugh, gag me twice.
For six months, I’ve had to sit back and watch this purest of utter nonsense unfold, while Jonathan and that girl spend every waking moment flaunting whatever it is they’re doing. And no, it doesn’t affect their work one bit. In fact, it doesn’t leave the mansion.
For a while, it was contained to their bedrooms, and I could deal with that.
But then, slowly, they began venturing out.
Into their living spaces, and eventually downstairs too.
And now, they act like a couple all over my home, and it’s just disgusting.
I’m physically repulsed by it, every time I scour the video feeds from the various surveillance cameras I have set up across every inch of the mansion, because of course, I have that.
Who do I look like?
And sure, I could just not look at it. But why would I do that when they should be the ones… not doing it??
Honestly, what does he need with a girlfriend anyway?? It seems completely unnecessary and ridiculous.
I refuse to accept how clearly salty I am. I’m not the problem here. It’s them.
Something must be done. I can’t deal with this for one more second. I’ve been on the verge of a killing spree for months now, and something’s got to give.
I’m not jealous, okay?? I don’t get jealous, especially of sexy little daughters of Irish mob bosses.
Finn Jameson has been under my thumb since I blackmailed his daughter into working for me, but he’s still getting his licks in, isn’t he? Having his girl wave her vagina in my officer’s face…
No. Fuck that.
We’re done here.
I’m on a mission to get back to the island so that I can resolve this issue. It’s what I do, after all. Like with Sinaloa, like with the Irish in Boston, or the Russians in Brighton Beach…
When people need a spanking, I give it to them. And when they need to be redirected to something else, some vices to keep their minds nice and fuzzy and more susceptible to my control… Well, baby, that is where I thrive.