Chapter Sixteen #2
From day one, when I set foot in Arturo Alvarez’s organization, I dressed to the nines. I was always in a three-piece suit and designer accessories. Sure, at the time, most of it was stolen—Ocho taught me how to rip off the dry cleaners who were terrified of Arturo, so they’d never say a thing.
But that didn’t matter. I made an impression, and it became something of a calling card for me. El Marfil, with his white hair and fancy attire. Slaughtering rooms full of people in Valentino while he cackles like an unhinged madman.
It was part of what got me on Arturo’s radar. And the rest, as they say, is history.
But that first step inside Louis Vuitton is one I’ll never forget.
Downstairs, I walk through the foyer, my patent leather Versace’s making that clack clack clack I love so much on the marble floors. A few members of the staff scatter when they see me, which I also love.
They don’t have to make themselves look busy. I know they are. There’s a permanent shortage of bodies on this island for the amount of work we have.
Kent’s grievances aren’t his alone. Everyone wants more help. From the chefs, to the cleaning crew, to the ferry captains, shipping and receiving… And, of course, the prison guards.
Jonathan never stops harping about needing more officers. But my answer is always the same.
It’s not in the budget.
I’m not lying when I say this. My Alabaster budget is pennies considering what it costs to operate this island.
The part that frustrates everyone—myself included—is that there are ways of getting more money.
I mean… I have more money than I could spend in five lifetimes. But it’s a matter of principle.
I refuse to spend my own hard-earned money on a prison that has taken over my life, which was supposed to be a gift, but has somehow become just a massive pain in the ass.
Like when you decide to rent out your basement to make a few extra bucks, but the tenant never pays you a dime, then ends up squatting in your house, and you can’t get them out and they throw wild sex parties, eat all your food, and ultimately ruin your life until you lose your house to the bank and die, penniless and miserable.
Like that.
Look, my relationship with Alabaster Pen is complicated—clearly. I love it, because it’s dreary and beautiful and definitely haunted, which appeals to me on many levels.
But I also hate it, and I wish it would burn down. Does that make sense?
Sigh. Welcome to the life of The Ivory. Where you want the things you hate and resent the things you love.
Outside, my chauffeur pulls the car around, and I get in, nestling into the sheer luxury for the five-minute drive to the prison.
I traded in the Maybach for a Rolls-Royce two years ago—sort of just to rub it in Jonathan’s face a little, though I would never admit that out loud because it’s childish.
It’s fine. He got his own anniversary gift…
I have a meeting with the board next month, wherein I’ll plead my case for more funding. They’ll say no, and I’ll threaten them. They’ll complain, but eventually cave and give me, like, ten thousand more dollars, stingy pricks that they are.
Just another part of this job that vexes me on a regular basis. The nonstop complaints.
People always wanting more, expecting more. The endless disputes over turf…
It never stops. Everyone wants to feel like they own something. Desperate to stake their claim, but mostly, they want to reap the benefits that come with territory.
I can’t say I don’t get it. Controlling space is lucrative, and there’s something to be said for belonging somewhere. Sticking your flagpole into unoccupied land and saying, “This is mine.” It’s an extremely legitimate and reasonable desire.
The ongoing problem is, as we know, some people always want what they can’t have. Why would they go find their own territory when they could steal someone else’s? It’s a premise I’m not unfamiliar with, but as unbelievable as it might sound, I don’t technically steal.
Everything that I have, I’ve earned, through hard work, or right—sangre por sangre. The means through which I’ve acquired aspects of my business could be questionable, though. Blackmail is just so fun.
Anyway, all of these squabbles over province really just have me appreciating this island even more. The prison is a huge pain in my ass, sure, but the Isle itself is special, and I would die before I let someone take it from me, especially after everything I’ve put into it.
Outside of Alabaster Penitentiary, I take a deep breath, gazing up at the concrete behemoth before me.
Daddy’s home, you big hunk of shit.
Miss me?
Inside, I go straight to my office. Interestingly enough, the west wing of the prison is technically at the southeast end of the island.
The setup of the building amuses me. My favorite thing is watching new employees try to find their way around.
There are a total of five signs in the entire building, and I’ve kept it that way over the years, despite how much easier it’d be to navigate the place if we added a few more.
Call it a tribute to the architect—that loco acid-tripping hijo de puta. He seemed like a good time.
I could probably navigate this place with my eyes closed at this point. As could Officer Chevelle.
Speaking of my guard dog… I wonder if he missed me.
Opening my laptop, I pull up the live feed from the cameras. It reminds me of the live feed I have of Club Edge security, which then reminds me of watching Angel prowl around those halls…
I shake it off and observe, from general population, the cellblocks, cafeteria, showers, solitary, the Box, the East… So much is happening, I often wonder what it must be like for our control room operators to do this day in and day out.
Admittedly, using humans to monitor and control security isn’t the most cost effective, or efficient way of doing things.
But I don’t care about that. I prefer a human touch to technology.
Plus, I can never have too many shuffling zombies under my helm.
It reminds me of the opening scene of Joe Versus the Volcano.
Checking my watch, I find that it’s almost time for the shift change. That means Officer Kemper will be showing up soon to report to his little slice of hell in the dungeon.
Poor Kellan…
The guy hasn’t been able to catch a break. He just got married earlier this year. To a woman.
That on its own was surprising to me, but hey… I’m not here to rain on anyone’s straight pride parade. The even more ludicrous part is that he somehow convinced me to let him go home to Long Island for half the week to be with his wife.
He’s on a rotating schedule and works doubles, sometimes triples, to make up for the time he’s away. It’s mucho loco.
In the past, the married ones have just done long distance. I believe it’s ended in divorce one hundred percent of the time… But again, in Kellan Kemper’s case, I’d think that might be a blessing in disguise.
Whatever. Chico necesita ayuda.
That boy needs help, but I’m no shrink. Regardless of what that degree over there says.
Knowing he’ll be leaving soon, I shoot a quick text to Jonathan, asking him to come by my office before he heads home. Well, not asking…
I’m answering emails and texts in between chuckling at the fight that just broke out in the hall outside the cafeteria between Humphrey and Jermaine.
Both are relatively new; Humphrey we got last year, and Jermaine three months ago.
This past year has been one of our busiest, and it’s only getting busier.
Great time to lose guards to conjugal fucking visits… No wonder Jonathan is so stressed.
Right on cue—he has a way of doing that—a knock at my door brings a boost in my mood that still perplexes me even eight years later.
“Come in.”
Officer Chevelle stalks into the room, looking surly and immediately impatient. I remember when he used to look forward to coming up here and just sitting with me…
He posts up in front of my desk, and I can’t help but smirk. “At ease.”
His gaze narrows slightly, but then he remembers himself. “How was the city?”
I stare at him for a moment before motioning for him to have a seat. “It was good. How have things been here? What did I miss?”
“Everything is… fine. The usual.” He goes quiet until he remembers who he’s dealing with. I will glare at him until he opens up. “One of the toilets in the downstairs locker room exploded while Jasper was taking a shit.”
His mouth twitches.
Mine does the same, both of us pursing down our grins until I eventually snort out a laugh. It lures out his own chuckles, broad shoulders moving with the soft, rumbly chortles.
Sighing, he relaxes a bit in his chair. “I called the plumber, and he fixed it.”
“Good.”
The familiarity in the room fades too fast, and I don’t like it. This discomfort I feel in his presence… The inability to gauge him, or understand why it’s so important to me to do so in the first place. It all bothers me, because I can’t control it.
I have no control over what happens inside me where he’s concerned, and it drives me nuts. And I end up taking it out on him, when I know it only pushes him further away…
Sound familiar?
Pajarito…
Clearing my throat, I murmur, “I was thinking…” going off-script, in an effort to regrow some of what’s been deteriorating for some time now, “the next time you purge, maybe we could—”
My phone ringing interrupts something I probably shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Still, irritation bubbles as I hold up my finger.
“Yes?”
“Sir…” It’s Dom. He’s coughing, hacking up a damn lung in my ear.
I pull the phone away and grimace. “What’s your deal?? Jesus…”
Jonathan’s brows lift.
“There’s, um… a problem. A big fucking problem!” Dom yelps, frantic and literally gasping for air. “The club… It’s on fire.”
My lashes flutter. Please tell me he just means the club is poppin’, or litty, or whatever the hell the kids say these days…
“Did you say… fire?” I croak.
“Yea,” Dom grunts. “Edge is fucking burning down. As we speak.”
Welp, I’m back in Manhattan.
Less than twenty-four hours after I left.
Stepping into the charred remains of what was once my club.
That little fucking slutbunny, I swear to Christ…
I cannot believe he did this.
Okay, I can believe it. I could tell just from looking at him that he was a complete and utter psychopathic catastrophe waiting to happen.
I just figured he’d give me chlamydia or something.
But a burning sensation wasn’t enough for Warren Xavier! No no, that sexy little menace had to burn my fucking club to the ground!
Burn down your own house, kill your parents, that’s your prerogative. But then you torch my sex club?!
That’s a low blow. And the day after I fucked him to tears!
Jesus Christ, I’d hate to see what he does when he’s unsatisfied.
So, there you have it… Edge is no more.
The end of a fucking era.
Walking inside is like walking into a sewer channel, but instead of shit everywhere, it’s piles of charred rubble, sopping wet sheetrock and insulation. Looking around the dance floor, I cringe. Water is still dripping, the ceiling caved in…
The fire department said it was safe to come in, though they wanted me to wear a hardhat, and that doesn’t exactly go with my outfit.
“Fuck me…” I sigh.
This is a hit for sure. Say what you will about Club Edge, but I liked it. More specifically, I liked the money it brought in. Lots and lots of money.
Insurance companies don’t usually pay out for arson, but my insurance connections are top-notch. I’m sure my guy will work something out. Still, it’ll be chump change compared to what Edge brought in annually in membership fees.
Ugh. That pyro puta fucking ruined everything.
Four people died in the fire. He actually killed four people on my property! Not to mention his parents, whom he killed the night before by burning down his own home with them in it.
The kid is clearly a firebug. He probably would’ve burned down more shit if we hadn’t contained this one.
But unfortunately for him, I too like to burn people. Metaphorically, that is.
And now, he’s on his way to Alabaster Penitentiary, where he will spend the rest of his days wishing he’d had the good sense to swallow a bullet or something before they could rescue him from my burning building.
“Holy fuck…” A smooth voice snaps me out of my stewing, and I turn.
There’s a young light-skinned guy with short faded hair and a nose ring stepping into what used to be a room. He looks vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” I ask curtly, unable to pretend I’m not severely displeased with everyone in the world right now.
His eyes are wide, distracted gaze scanning what’s left of my fucking club. “Uh… Yari. My name is Yari Estevez. I work here… Worked, I guess.”
He sighs and rubs his eyes. My brows lift.
“I didn’t realize how bad it was…” he goes on, stepping around large pools of collected water. “I was inside when the fire started…”
“You were?” I balk, and he nods.
“Luckily I was near an exit so I got right out. Fuck, my friend… Jonah.” He sniffs. “I heard he didn’t… make it.”
The kid’s vibrant eyes are welling with sadness while I’m busy reeling.
The bartender… who put his dick in Angel’s mouth… died?
I have no normal responses to offer this person, who is clearly upset. Admittedly, I’m not great at consoling people. So instead, I go for an attempt at distraction from all these heaping piles of burnt bullshit.
“Wanna go get drunk?”
The kid stares at me for a few puzzled seconds, likely because I’m a stranger and all. But it doesn’t take him long to shrug and nod. “Okay.”
Wandering away, I can hear him following me. “My name is Manuel Blanco, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” Yari murmurs. “Were you a member, or…?”
“I’m the owner.”
His face goes still in shock and awe. It has me smirking as we leave, all memories of The Edge wafting away like smoke. The good, and the very bad.
That place is definitely going to be haunted. I feel bad for whatever office building or high-rise condo they put in its place.
I bring Yari to a bar up the block that makes good Manhattans, and we drink for a while. Heavily.
Probably a little too much, because the next thing I know, he’s in my hotel room with me and I’m fucking him in half.
An hour later, he’s out of the shower getting dressed, and I’m staring at the ceiling trying not to think about how the place where Angel found me is now gone. And he might not be able to track me down and attempt his revenge once more… Which is a good thing.
But for some reason, I feel only uneasy.
Burdened by so many things…
“Hey…” I rumble.
Yari peeks at me.
“You want a new job?”