Chapter Twenty-Six #2
It was reminiscent of the way I reacted occupying the same oxygen as—
Okay, we’re not going there.
This is about Kellan fucking Kemper and the fact that he just quit. After ten years on this island. After everything I’ve done for him… He just quits??
Nobody quits. It doesn’t happen.
Working for me isn’t like working at Staples or fucking Burger King. You don’t just walk in and tell The Ivory that you’re quitting.
Alabaster Pen quits you, you don’t quit it.
Seriously, the only times guards have left this island was when I needed to repurpose them to other positions. And no, that’s not code for killing them. Not always…
Even so, it’s always my call. But that gorgeous, burly pain in my ass just stormed out of here to go pack his things, and I’m honestly baffled by his audacity right now. More than that, though, I’m confused as to why he’d want to leave the second Dascha arrived…
Unless it’s deeper than what the eye can see.
Kellan Kemper is battling some demons. It’d be pretty hard not to notice it, especially with his whole marital situation.
The guy does sort of need a vacation…
What was that resort in Mexico Alexander was rambling about? Something Ojos?
He had a brochure for it the last time I saw him in Vegas.
He was talking about how he wished Dascha would quit the robberies before something went terribly wrong—talk about irony—mentioning this resort in Tulum where he knew his son could lay low.
He even had the brochure for it sent to the house after he left, in hopes that Dascha would see it and choose to go there.
That man is persistent as hell for someone who skipped out on his son at fifteen.
He’s been badgering me for years to have my connections in the Brooklyn PD lose any evidence that could convict his son.
He even gave me that damn brochure, like there’s anything I could fucking do with it.
Pretty sure I left it in the break room somewhere.
Look, I’m all for keeping my Vegas deal copacetic, but I’m not sure how I feel about being Uncle Ivory. I’ve got enough on my plate with this prison, the Board, and these goddamn guards, all of whom are vexing me more and more each day.
Watching the camera feed on my laptop screen, I follow Kemper’s movements inside the prison he better be leaving immediately. It appears he’s saying goodbye to Officer Jameson, and I unmute the microphone to listen.
“Can you make sure he’s okay? Please?”
Joy’s face radiates confusion. “Do you… know him?”
“Not really… No.” Kemper covers his face with his hands.
He looks distressed, and it seems clear he’s unsure of this decision, which can only mean he’s talking about Dash.
“I just… I need your help, Joy. Please, just do me this favor. Make sure he has whatever he needs. I’ll send money for it.
For anything. Get him the best stuff and I’ll pay for it. Please, Joy…”
“Kel, that’s… Okay. Yes. I’ll do it. Whatever you need.”
Slumping back in my chair, I roll my eyes to the heavens.
Dios, what is happening right now?
“No Velle.” I hear Kemper murmur, and stiffen.
“Of course.” She nods.
Wow… I wonder what else young Joy Jameson has been hiding from her partner in crime.
I know there’s a lot Jonathan hasn’t told her.
So maybe they’re not as close as everyone thinks they are…
I shouldn’t still be so pleased by this, but I am, and it’s rather annoying.
Just as I’m preparing to call Kent and instruct him to escort Kellan Kemper’s deserting ass off this island before I change my mind and chain his ass up somewhere for defying me, my phone rings.
It’s the call I’ve been expecting since I got word from Russo that Dascha would be on his way shortly.
“Zdravstvuyte?” I answer, grinning.
“I just heard,” the grumbly, joyless tone slinks through the phone, and I roll my eyes again.
“Heard what?” I sigh for show. “And zdravstvuyte to you too, Alexander.”
“Cut the shit, Blanco,” he growls. “Dascha… He is there, yes?”
“Yes, he’s here.” I go for the bottle of scotch in my drawer. It’s already feeling like a buzz before dinner type of day.
“He is my son, Ivory…”
“So what? I have lots of people’s sons here. Yours is no different.” I take out a glass and pour brown liquor into it.
“I think Magnus might not agree,” he grunts. Now my blood is boiling. “He has sons too… A family man. So, if you want your business with him to keep running smoothly—”
“You know, I can’t remember a time when you weren’t passive-aggressively threatening me.” I toss back the glass and pour another.
Alexander Reznikov exhales audibly in my ear. “I am worried about him. We have all heard what that facility of yours is like…”
I shrug and nod. Because, yea… It’s truly an awful place.
“I told you before, he is not well…”
“Yes, yes, I recall our conversation about your pretty, broken boy,” I hum, thinking back to about nine years ago…
When I met Alexander in Vegas, where he’s been living and working since he left Brooklyn and his son behind in order to spare him from the potential repercussions of his business dealings. At least, that’s what he said…
Maybe it worked, in a technical sense, but he couldn’t protect Dascha from the many other issues he’s now facing.
That was when Alexander first began regaling me with his family woes, over glasses of vodka in one of Magnus McDarling’s many casino bars, as if I could in any way sympathize with his fatherly tribulations.
Yea. Sure… He’d have had better luck confiding in the bartender.
“I have known for many years that my wife is sick,” he’d said to me, vulnerability in his gruff tone.
“And she passed those genes onto our son. He will suffer greatly from this. I only hope that one day he can move past it. Retire from his life of crime and go somewhere peaceful. Like I always dreamed, but never could…”
“He is not broken,” he barks at me now, and I chuckle. “He just needs some help.”
“Oh, well, that can be arranged.” I grin. “You know, we have a nice little area of our facility dedicated to—”
“If you lay a hand on him, I swear to God…”
“Keep going,” I snarl. “Please do, tell me about what you’ll do to me, Papa.”
He pauses, taking a breath to compose himself. “I am only asking for a simple favor, Mr. Blanco. Keep an eye out for him, and I will handle things here, with Magnus. Please?”
The mere fact that he sounds so broken up over this gives me an odd sensation in the empty socket where a heart is supposed to be.
Alexander Reznikov is not a good father. Even so, it’s clear that he loves his son.
It’s such an interesting concept to me… The unconditional love of parenthood.
It reminds me of…
Shaking it off, I sip more booze.
I suppose there’s validity to it. Causing someone pain doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t love them…
Sometimes we hurt the ones we love.
“It’s already being taken care of,” I sigh, irritated and not hiding it.
I’m not in the business of caring for prisoners, nor do I enjoy making exceptions. But I also don’t usually interfere with the process of inmate commissary, because I like to see how things play out. Let the chips fall where they may, and such.
If Joy Jameson wants to bring Dascha supplies on behalf of Kellan Kemper, it really doesn’t affect me. And if it keeps Alexander off my back as well, great.
Who are we kidding, anyway? He’s going to be miserable here regardless of whether he has a toothbrush and some panties to wear.
“Spasibo.” Alexander says.
“De nada,” I hum, smirking.
No, seriously. It’s literally nothing. I’m not doing anything.
“Get him wintergreen lifesavers. They were his favorite growing up.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, sending a petulant text to Kent about the goddamn mints. “Is there anything else I can get for your precious heir??”
“My son is strong. He can take care of himself, I know that. Just… whatever you can do.”
“Consider it done.” By someone else.
“Oh, and Ivory…?”
“What now?”
“Did Dascha… really kill that girl? Russo’s niece?”
I recall the file I received from my connections in Brooklyn. The body cam footage that Police Commissioner Levy ordered the officers to wipe.
“It would appear so.”
Sitting here like this, I do feel very much like the dark king I’ve made myself out to be.
In this large chair made of rich leather, worn over time, giving it that feel of weathered flesh. Fireplace flickering, making the normally still shadows dance.
The only thing missing… a pet at my feet.
I can hear the sounds of the party winding down upstairs. This place is big enough that you wouldn’t necessarily hear the raging parties that happen upstairs in the guards’ quarters all the way over here on my side… Unless you were listening.
Ten years ago, this home was much quieter. I hated it.
Quiet means things are happening that you aren’t privy to. Quiet means secrets.
Over time, it’s gotten progressively louder, the noises becoming more vulgar and vociferous.
It’s what is necessary, to keep them in line. Keep them hungry, while being their only source of food. Give them just enough to maintain their subdued subservience, always anxiously awaiting dinner scraps.
Understand the control in giving them what they think they want.
Tonight, I’m antsy. Buzzing. In need of vices myself, though nothing I have here and now is quite… enough.
I, too, am starved, and nothing ever seems to assuage this raging appetite.
Picking up my phone from the end table, I place a quick call.
“Sir?”
“Where is Officer Chevelle right now?” I ask Kent, foot wiggling rapidly, where my ankle is crossed over my knee.
“In his bedroom, with Soren,” he answers without hesitation.
Hmm… That could be something.
“As soon as he’s done, bring the Sinner to me,” I demand.
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean right away. The second he leaves Jonathan’s room, bring him right to me. Don’t let him go anywhere else.”
This time Kent pauses, but it’s only for a beat before he says, “Understood, sir.”
“Gracias.”