Chapter Twenty-Nine
Then…
Uncertainty is a weakness.
When you’re unsure, it tells the world that you lack confidence. People want a leader who makes hard and fast decisions, yes. But they still have to be the right ones, which can obviously be difficult.
Be absolutely sure, but hurry up about it. That sort of thing.
I spent my formative years uncertain, to an extent. Adolescence is when it’s acceptable to be unsure. But even after I began my pursuit of cartel domination, I wouldn’t say I was ever truly certain of myself and what I was doing.
That’s when you get really good at faking it.
Just keep up appearances. Pretend.
And maybe one day, you’ll finally feel whole.
Or you’ll realize that you were never really faking to begin with.
This was you all along.
Regardless of how effortlessly I operate this role, there are still fragments of it that have never been easy to understand. And they usually tend to revolve around the people who have made me the most uncertain.
Those unreadable anomalies of the human condition.
As it would appear, my pajarito may have migrated down to Atlanta. It’s unclear whether it’s actually him. For some reason, my contacts are having a hard time getting confirmation.
The only thing we know for sure is that they’re Colombian fraternal twins with the last name Alvarez. Around the same age, I believe. The first names are off, but then that could just be an alias thing.
Although at Edge, Angel wasn’t stupid enough to use his real last name…
I’ll find the truth. Like, who is this Trevel Fenwick character?
My new doctor friend should be able to shed some light on the mysterious Brit.
Dr. Love’s work, so far, has been truly spot on. Exactly what I had in mind when I hired him. He’s a true artist, the way he’s been able to hijack the mind of Felix Darcey.
Cards on the table, I think the little psycho has a crush on him.
Let’s just say I get it. I passed Lemuel in the halls of the mansion the other day. On his way back from the gym, I presume, being that he was wearing only joggers and a tank top… Visibly sweaty.
And yea… God damn. Dr. Lemuel Love is a beast.
Regardless of that, though, I’m fearing Yari may have been right. Not about my needing a friend, or anything asinine like that. I’m not eight.
But hypothetically, if I were to befriend someone, I could see them being like Dr. Love.
I should invite him to dinner. I’ve been meaning to since he arrived, it’s just been nonstop.
Plus, I could use a night out, myself.
Things have been hectic as hell on the island as of late.
We had some brutal storms a few weeks back, and the server issues were a constant threat.
I’m glad we have an inmate capable of handling such things.
Regardless, I’m still getting migraines damn near every day over the state of affairs here on my boisterous sanctuary.
I’m home for the night, preparing to go for a workout myself when my phone pings. Mateo is finally getting back to me. He says it’s done, and I’m relieved.
Just the other day, Jonathan stormed into my office all bent out of shape about his mother using. I assured him that my men weren’t selling to his mother anymore, but that was a lie. I knew they were.
So I brought it to Mateo, and casually reminded him that this is his responsibility, and if anyone sells to Tammy Chevelle again, I will beat him until he’s unidentifiable.
Jonathan will be pleased when I tell him. And the thought of him being pleased pleases me, oddly enough.
Given that normally, it pleases me most when he’s on the floor of my office dressed up like an obedient puppy…
Swallowing, I set my phone down and begin undressing, only for it to start ringing the moment it leaves my hand.
Ugh, Dios… I can’t catch a fucking break.
Noting the name on the screen, I sigh and answer, “This better be good, Doctor… I’m at home.”
“Y-yes, sir. Mr. Blanco, um…” Johansson stutters in my ear, and my patience is nonexistent.
“Spit it out,” I bark.
“Kieran O’Malley is… dead, sir.”
I freeze. “Dead…”
“Yes, sir. He’s been… killed.”
My spine stiffens, jaw tight. “By whom?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Johansson is panicking in my ear. “But it did appear that he’d been… carved.”
Laughter coughs out of me.
Hijo de puta… He found a way.
“Who found him… O’Malley?” I ask, pacing out onto the balcony.
“I did, sir.”
“Johansson, I hate to say this, but this is your responsibility…”
“Sir, I assure you, we put O’Malley back in his cell. He was locked up tight.”
Here we go… Time for the finger-pointing game.
“You know, I wasn’t done with that Irish prick,” I snarl. “Now I’m left cleaning up your mess.”
Hanging up on Johansson’s blathering, I close my eyes and take a breath before I lose my goddamn shit. When I reopen them, I stalk back inside, pulling up the camera feed on my phone.
It’s almost too easy to locate the exact moment when Felix Darcey uses a set of keys to get into O’Malley’s cell, followed by his emerging minutes later, soaked in blood and high as a kite. It’s actually beyond fascinating to witness.
I mean, wow… The Carver in action.
He truly is one of the greats.
Dr. Love will have a field day with this.
That said, this seems almost too convenient. That he could kill while Love is here, studying him. And so soon after the doctor’s arrival.
How did he get the keys?
I suppose he could have swiped them from one of the guards…
Or not.
It’s then that I notice something much more disturbing than The Carver murdering a fellow psychopath. The footage shows him opening a different cell and stepping inside. Then, a moment later, out strides Dascha Reznikov.
What in the fuck?!
After that, 101 disappears. He didn’t appear to have wandered the halls for long. Where did he go??
God dammit, this was over an hour ago!
Checking the live feeds, I search the building high and low for Jonathan. But I don’t see him anywhere. Rushing to grab my spare walkie, I listen for any indication that my employees are aware of an escaped prisoner.
But there’s nothing. Just the usual chatter about moving inmates and tedious nonsense.
And no Velle. He’s missing in action. Just like Dascha.
A fleeting thought flutters through my mind…
What if he and Dash ran away together?
No, that wouldn’t make sense. Jonathan is too loyal. To me, yes, but also to this island.
To his partner. And his… Harley.
I’m buttoning my shirt back up as I saunter across the hall to my office.
When I get there, I call Kent. “My office. Now, please.”
I hang up, pacing for just a few seconds.
If Dash escaped the prison, he would likely head directly for the ferries.
Stow away on one, use it to get him back to New York.
It’s the only logical plan, and go fucking figure, one just so happened to be leaving right around the time he got out.
Meaning he could be anywhere in New York right now.
The reason I’m not freaking out right now—if anything, I might be buzzing with anticipation—is because this calamity could be just the thing that gets me what I want…
My pet back.
While I wait for Kent, I call Mateo, and instruct him to go to Dascha’s house and look for him. Not five minutes later, Kent stomps in.
I’m draining a glass of scotch while I tell him, “Dascha Reznikov is gone.”
Kent’s eyes widen. “Do we know where…?”
“Not yet,” I rumble, pouring another drink. “But we will. In the meantime… when Officer Chevelle finally decides to grace me with his presence, let him right in. And I want no interruptions under any circumstances. Got it?”
I actually witness Kent gulp. It’s as rare a subtle display of emotion as it is a sign of empathy. That even he knows what my pet is in for.
The punishment of a lifetime. Enough to ensure that he never leaves my side again.
This is exactly what I needed. Something to bring him back to me.
The sun is setting to the sounds of a motorcycle engine. I sip, and I wait, listening to the whirring engine, imagining him riding that beautiful piece of machinery all over this island. Delaying the inevitable.
And while I wait, patiently brimming with restless need, I think back to when I got it for him…
A prisoner had attempted escape on his watch. Dove off the cliffs and impaled himself. Naturally, I was furious, and there was one person I knew could bear the burden of blame.
Flashes of the memory come in and out…
His uneasy blue gaze is dropped. I grab him hard by the face, forcing him to look at me. Our eyes connect, and I can see all of it. Every moment that’s led us to right here and now.
“I failed you,” Jonathan stammers. “I know I did. So badly, and I want to say sorry because I am, not because I have to. I’m sorry, sir. Will you please forgive me…?”
I am purely captivated by the way he’s looking at me right now. Like I could slit his fucking throat, and he might actually thank me for it. Apologize for bleeding on the rug.
It makes me feel like a fucking god.
My heart is pumping faster than usual as I remove the collar from my desk drawer and command, “Everything off.”
He hesitates, because I usually leave him in his pants, or boxers, at least in the beginning. But this time I want him bared.
Jonathan strips out of his clothes hastily, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Standing before me, naked and nervous, but not attempting to cover himself up.
He is baring himself to me. I have no choice but to appreciate the way he looks.
I’ve always found him physically enticing, but now that he’s older, and bigger, it’s even more hypnotic. The muscles, the tattoos, the piercings… a few days of stubble on his sharp jawline that really makes him look like a giant hunk of alpha male.
So different in appearance from my…
Shaking it away, I focus on my pet. Dominant everywhere else…
But right here, with me, he’s not.
He’s still mine. Despite everything… John Chevelle kneels for only me.