Chapter 32
Alfonse Giuseppe leaned forward, his sharp, calculating eyes narrowing as he stared across the desk at Paul Grishom. The air in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating. He had no time for weakness—no tolerance for failure. “What are you doing to get my property back?” His voice was low, a barely controlled storm simmering beneath the surface.
Alfonse studied Paul carefully, watching the man struggle to maintain composure. The tension was thick, palpable, and Alfonse couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of Paul’s nervousness. He saw the beads of sweat forming on Paul’s forehead, the subtle twitch of his hands. Good , Alfonse thought, let him feel the pressure . Paul was trying to mask his fear, but Alfonse had been in this game for far too long to be fooled by such things. He knew exactly what he was dealing with. Paul was just another man scrambling to stay afloat in a sea of his own mistakes.
Alfonse leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze unwavering as he studied Paul’s every move. He knew that Paul, for all his bluster and calculated charm, was a man who had never fully grasped the gravity of their world. And now, with the weapons missing, it was clear that Paul was starting to feel the weight of his own failure. He could almost hear the man’s thoughts racing—trying to figure out how to fix this, how to pull himself back from the brink. But Alfonse was under no illusion. Paul was a small player in a much larger game, and when someone like Alfonse Giuseppe was involved, mistakes didn’t go unpunished.
“We’ll get it back immediately,” Paul said, his voice strained, laced with a feigned confidence that Alfonse found almost amusing. The man was trying to convince him, but the effort was pitiful. Alfonse could see right through him. This wasn’t about trust—it was about control. Paul had been trying to curry favor with Alfonse, offering favors, promising loyalty, but the truth was simple: Paul had messed up, and now he was desperate to keep his position intact. But desperation was something Alfonse thrived on. He relished the power it gave him. And right now, Paul had no idea just how much Alfonse was enjoying watching him squirm.
“You mentioned that you had the case in a secure location,” Alfonse observed coolly, his eyes never leaving Paul’s face. He watched every movement, every flicker of emotion, and Paul could feel his unease becoming more and more apparent. The sweat on the man’s upper lip wasn’t helping either.
“It is!” Paul’s voice came out too quickly, almost pleading, as he wiped his hands under the desk in an attempt to hide the dampness that had begun to cling to his palms. But it wasn’t secure. Paul knew it, Alfonse knew it, and the way Alfonse watched him only made him feel smaller.
Alfonse’s eyes remained fixed on him, the silence stretching between them like a heavy weight. Paul knew that Alfonse was a man who didn’t tolerate incompetence. Everyone in this room suspected that the weapons weren’t just missing; they were gone. And they were in the hands of people who were about to make Paul’s entire world crumble.
“I know the case is missing, Paul,” Alfonse said, his voice cold now, cutting through Paul’s defenses. He knew. Alfonse always knew. "Hell, I know exactly where it is." Alfonse watched the impact of his words on the slimy, weak bastard and almost smiled.
Paul’s eyes widened in disbelief. "What do you mean?" His voice cracked slightly, but he quickly masked it with a nervous chuckle. “That can’t be right.”
Alfonse gave a faint, amused smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Prince Raj Al-Sintra had the weapons delivered to the police two days ago. The pistols were dusted for prints.” He paused, letting that information sink in. “Now tell me—why do I know that, but you don’t?" His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying menace that made Paul’s stomach churn. "I suppose it doesn’t matter that the weapons have already been identified, traced back to Micky Riaggio’s men. In less than twenty-four hours, Micky and his crew will be arrested."
Alfonse could see the younger man’s panic. His worst nightmare had just come true. The weapons had been used in a crime, and now, Alfonse knew everything. He shifted his gaze to the older man and wondered if Paul was about to pass out. The man was only in his sixties, but Paul Grishom looked as if he’d just aged twenty years in the past ten minutes.
“Do you understand the consequences of this?” Alfonse continued, his tone growing colder with every word. "You’ve messed with my plans. Those arrests were supposed to happen months from now. This was meant to be a controlled operation, but now?” He lowered his voice. “Now, Micky’s going to be all over this. And it’s your fault." He leaned forward, his hands resting on the desk as he fixed Paul with a piercing glare. "You’ve screwed this up, Grishom.” Another long pause, then he relented, leaning back once again and pretending to flick a speck of dust off of his knee. He shrugged, tilting his head slightly. “But I’ll let you try to fix it."
Alfonse watched the younger man carefully. The hope in Paul’s eyes was immediate. Alfonse knew that the idiot couldn’t fix this. The police had the weapons! Alfonse had sources inside the police department. Arrests were imminent and both the district attorney as well as the chief of police were preparing for a press conference.
Still, it amused him to watch the two men wiggle. Besides, if Paul or Nathan could fix this, then great. If not, Alfonse had a backup plan in place.
Standing, he gestured to the two men who were both looking like they’d been given a stay of execution. They hadn’t. Alfonse was simply being polite in allowing the men to try and fix the problem. "I trust that everything will work out properly," Alfonse said, his voice taking on an almost mockingly calm tone. He stood, his movements deliberate, the power in his posture undeniable. “I want that case returned to me.” He paused, watching Paul squirm just a little more. "Personally," he added, stressing the word with an edge that sent a chill down Paul’s spine.
Paul nodded quickly, his hands shaking as he stood, his legs almost giving out beneath him. He could barely meet Alfonse’s eyes. "Of course, sir. I’ll get it back, I swear."
Alfonse turned to leave, straightening his jacket with a satisfied smile. But just as he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder, a slow, deliberate look that lingered just a little too long on Paul’s son, Nathan, who was standing by the doorway, tense and watching.
“Let me remind you of something,” Alfonse said, his voice carrying a warning that only Paul could hear. “You’ve been trusted, Paul. But trust is a fragile thing. Don’t make me regret it.” With that, he strode out of the office.
As Alfonse stepped into the hallway, his eyes caught sight of a young woman walking towards him. Her beauty struck him immediately, but it was her sharp gaze, her intelligence, that made him pause. She was more than just another pretty face, he realized. And that intrigued him.
For a brief moment, Alfonse allowed himself to appreciate her poise. Pity , he thought with a smirk. She would have been a lovely distraction, but he had more pressing matters to deal with today. As he continued toward the elevators, the weight of the missing case and the chaos it had caused still burned in his gut, but he was already calculating his next steps. He’d handle this—he always did. And Paul Grishom? The man would learn that there were consequences for failure.