Volatile Obsessions by Dee Garcia (5)

The King has arrived.

Stepping out onto the pavement in the infernal Miami heat, I slammed shut the door of my rental Mercedes and quickly adjusted my off-centered obsidian tie. Through the Ray-bans aiding me from going blind under the oppressive rays, my gaze shot around the palm-riddled lot, then over the ordinary factory.

Dingy, white paint, and eroded vents, likely from the salt water nearby.

This is it?

I chuckled. Even the cloudless blue sky and lush view of the marina didn’t help. Of all the places he could’ve chosen to start an empire, why here? This place was a shit hole. Literal hell.

Truth is, I didn’t really want to be here. That alone was enough for me to nit-pick and dissect every aspect of my visit. But Vic needed my help, so despite my plethora of opinions, here I was—being a good-fucking-friend and all that shit.

With a resigned huff, I straightened my jacked, refastening the first of two buttons as I squared my shoulders and started for the only set of doors in plain sight. From what I could see, they were as dingy and eroded as the rest of the exterior.

I shook my head in disdain. Clearly, Vic needed a proper lesson in business. Not that I was a businessman—per se—but even I knew the importance of aesthetics and appearance.

And this place screamed nothing short of filthy and unsanitary.

If he was hoping to get me on board of whatever this was, we were going to have to make some serious changes. No way in hell I was slapping my name on something so putrid.

Once at the mass double doors, I came to an abrupt halt, staring at the handles in revolt. My lip curled offensively. They looked like a tetanus breeding ground, layer upon layer of rust accumulated at the curves. I wouldn’t even consider touching them, and I wondered how the hell Vic could possibly touch them on the daily, too, considering his obsessive habits.

What sounded like a zooming sound whirred somewhere on my left, shifting my attention away from my long time friend and the offending entry to his fairly new stab at success. I snapped my head in its direction, noting the security camera at the top of the doorway zeroing in on me, a small red light blinking every other second or so.

“It’s about time you showed, King.” Vic’s voice erupted from some hidden source. He sounded both amused and a little shocked.

“Blame it on your beloved city. How is there traffic at ten in the morning? Do people here not work?” I asked irately.

“Yes, they work”—he laughed—“but you’re in Miami, Rome. Lots of retirees, college kids, tourists, and immigrants. Get used to it.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that. Open up, will ‘ya? It’s hot as balls out here.”

A low buzz met my ears, followed by what sounded like the lock mechanism coming undone. I laughed sarcastically, motioning toward the door. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, right? I’m not touching that shit.”

Vic went on to laugh too, his more entertained than sarcastic. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a prissy bitch since I last saw you, bro.”

“Says the man who spends a fortune on hand sanitizer each month,” I fired back.

“Touché, touché.” He laughed again. “I was joking by the way. Wouldn’t touch that door with a ten foot pole either. Roscoe’s on his way. He should be there any sec—”

The door flew open, a hulking bastard of a man with leather-gloved hands stepping aside to allow me entry. I stared at him with much of the same disgust in which I’d stared at those detestable handles. I wasn’t a small man by any means, but this dude made me look like a teacup puppy in comparison. A shoe-in for Jack the giant, he was more beefy than anything else, and not in the defined way women liked to see. He was balding, too, with a scraggly beard and an obvious beer gut, none of which helped deter from the slimy vibe oozing off his person. Other than the grunted directions muttered under his breath, Roscoe didn’t move, standing stock-still with crossed-arms.

Taking care not to come within three centimeters of his body, I slipped in past him and followed the given route to the singular elevator bank, pulling off my sunglasses in the process. I tucked them into the breast pocket of my jacket and jammed my thumb into the call button promptly thereafter. The doors slid open almost immediately with a loud ding, leaving me absolutely no time to assess the conditions of the first floor. At a quick glance, it was nothing more than an emptied factory, but a full perusal would have to wait until later, that is, if I decided to actually lend my buddy a helping hand.

Otherwise, not my business. Not my fucking problem.

When I arrived on the second floor, the only route optional was that of a suspended, metal pathway that led to a large office situated dead-center of the vast space on the other side. Wrapped in entirety with floor to ceiling windows, it looked like something straight out of a mafia film, one where the mob boss could overlook his empire from any and every accessible point possible.

Typical Vic, I thought to myself as I trudged over the bridge, idly speculating whether this thing would collapse under my weight or not. Rickety shit looked about ready to do just that; all oxidized and unkempt like everything else around here.

Regardless, I kept on, and from my vantage point up here, I could just barely make out a set of stairs the led up to the office from the first floor, along with several gargantuan machines and dusty conveyer belts. The rest was shrouded by darkness. Given the scarcity of people, I assumed what laid down there was of no working use or value.

Piqued my interest as to why he’d keep it in the first place.

Guess we’re about to find out…

Just as I set out to rap my knuckles on the door, it swung open, revealing a grinning Vic. Clad in a black suit—strikingly similar to mine—with an olive green tie in place of my raven one, he was seemingly the picture of success.

“It’s been a while, man,” he said, offering me a welcoming hand.

It had been a while, for reasons I didn’t care to relive in that moment, earning him a hiccup of reticence on my part. I eyed him steadily, mentally time traveling through years of unwanted memories, which in turn furrowed his brows in confusion. The simple action sprung me into action. I stuffed down those images and extended my hand in return.

“How’s it going?” I offered, falling into that typical one-sided, slap on the back man-hug.

“Pretty damn good, not much to complain about,” he replied, easing back and motioning for me to enter his office. “Come in, come in. Have a seat.”

Vic’s workspace was a stark contrast to the majority of the building. Not one thing was out of place, much less dilapidated or run down. Everything appeared new and quite costly if I’m being completely honest. A massive inky desk with one hell of a throne sat at the very end of the room, all the other pieces of furniture, including the wrap-around bookcases and wingback chairs facing his desk the same dark shade, too. Decorative accent pieces and various abstract paintings in different shades of green were strewn about in strategic places, and yet, somehow were still in perfect symmetry.

None of this was unusual, really. In fact, it all but hollered Vic’s style. But what I couldn’t for the life of me figure out was what he could possibly need my help with.

I took the seat on the left as he shut the door behind us and ambled toward the liquor cabinet nearby, holding up a decanter of what I assumed was whiskey.

It’s all he drank.

“Care for a drink?” he questioned.

Despite knowing the time, I glanced at the steel face of my Movado. “A little early don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, but it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

He has a point…

“Two fingers. I’m driving,” I stated simply.

Vic poured our drinks without spilling a drop and shuffled toward me, holding out the amber liquid.

“What’s with the inquisitive brow?”

“I’m confused,” I said, taking the proffered glass from his hand.

He slipped around his desk and dropped into his chair, setting an ankle to his knee. “About?” he quizzed.

“I thought you needed my help,” I clarified.

“I do.”

“With?” My eyes danced around the pristinely furnished room as I twirled a finger through the air. “You look pretty damn set to me, bro. Granted, the outside is an absolute dump, but I know you didn’t call me all the way down here to restore a fucking building.”

Chuckling, Vic took a generous sip of his whiskey and went on to arrange the glass on his desk, dead-center on the coaster. Not an inch to the right or on the left side of his desk; dead-center on the cork coaster, approximately five inches from the top right corner his laptop. Fucker had the worse case of OCD I know. Hell, if I hung out with him too long, shit started to affect me, too. I hated it. Made me feel crazier than I already was.

“I do need your help,” he affirmed, steepling his fingers.

I waited for him to continue, even nodding to confirm I’d heard him, but, of course, Vic was always one who enjoyed dragging shit out.

“Again...with?” I waved impatiently, which in turn spread a Cheshire cat grin across his face.

“Rising to the top,” he stated evenly.

My head reared back just slightly, unamused confusion cinching my expression. “To the top of what?”

“Of this city, Rome. The top of this city.” He leaned back in his seat. “You see, I don’t just want to be a member of society. I want power. Money. Respect. I want to run these streets.”

I sighed with purpose at his concession, my line of sight trained on his form as I took a long and much needed sip from my glass.

A whole thing kind of sip.

Drained in entirety, the ice clinked against the tumbler, louder still when I set it on his desk.

“This again?” I questioned, leaning back into my seat to mirror his posture.

Vic assessed me, twitching at the sight of my disposed glass, and shrugged after a beat. “It’s in my blood, King, and this right here is it. The opportunity is mine to seize.”

“So seize it then,” I deadpanned. “Why do you need me?”

He came forward, stabbing a finger on the polished, ebony wood before him. “Because this isn’t a one-man job. It’s a mass operation and I need your expertise, your diabolical mastermind.”

Now it was me who had a good chuckle, offering him nothing more than a shake of my head as I rose onto my feet and perused the contents of his office. Vic remained silent throughout, probably because he knew better than to rush me.

“Let me ask you something,” I started, leaning against the liquor cabinet, arms crossed over my chest. “What makes this different from all your other genius ideas? You seem to have a...tendency to drag me right to the forefront of your shit shows, and I’m not particularly too keen on finding myself in another. I’ve got my own circus to deal with.”

“Because the idea is already in motion and it’s full-proof,” he replied simply, snatching my emptied tumbler off the desk.

“Full-proof, huh? What makes it so?”

Nothing with Vic was ever full-proof.

“I’ll tell you, once you agree.”

“The fuck? You expect me to agree to something I have zero knowledge of?” My retort came with an angered rear of my head and harsh bite in my tone.

“Yes, because as much as it benefits me, it’ll benefit you as well,” he countered.

“How so?”

“Again, I’ll tell you, when you agree.”

The fuck you will.

“Then I guess you’re shit out of luck, Kane,” I snapped, pushing off the cabinet. “If you need me as badly as you claim, then you’ll call me with every last detail by tonight. Otherwise, I’ll be on a plane to New York tomorrow morning, and I can assure you, I won’t be coming back.”

“Respect, Rome,” Vic blurted out, just as I reached the door of his office. When I stilled and glanced over my shoulder, he went on. “That’s whats in it for you. Power, money, and well-deserved respect. A new and better life.”

None of that truly answered my questions, and yet, I found myself rooted in place, mulling over the possibilities. His promise held all the things I’d once had, luxuries I’d been robbed of by fear and jealousy. For a long time afterward, I’d been on a mission to reclaim what was mine, and in the end, all my depraved actions forced me to do was lay low. And when keeping to the shadows was no longer effective, I ran.

I ran from London to New York, and then I ran here.

Vic requesting my assistance was merely a perfectly orchestrated coincidence and all the more reason to leave New York behind.

My life depended on it.

So, as much as I didn’t want to dive in headfirst to what could possibly be another fail of epic proportions, could blindly aiding Vic with the vow of retribution really be so bad?