Damien was late for the party. This much was true. He received the invitation some days ago from a contact he much less had talked to in years. Not only did he have little interest in festivities tonight, but he did not know how he felt about being in a room filled with
strangers. He hasnât seen most of them since his high school days, but he decided to leave his past behind him. It was the only way he had any intentions to grow into who he has become today; a multi-billionaire with a successful tech business. But, that was the role he used as a distraction to keep others from discovering his truth. Beneath the surface, he was a notorious capo of the most dangerous drug cartel harboring connections overseas. His covert operation included managing the production, management, and promotion of drug trafficking, establishing alliances, and waging war with adjacent cartels. Today was his two-and-a-half-year anniversary in business, and each day wasn't getting any easier, particularly because his cartel was gaining traction across the board. The more well-known the cartel, the more sought they were by law enforcement. The strategy was straightforward: go in, get out,
omertĂ . Even though Damien's name was kept hidden from the public, he still had some who put him to the test; they wanted what he had; they wanted
power. Damien was always cautious not to allow anybody close to him, shutting his emotions off against things that might be used as leverage at some time, which is why he chose to remove people from his life. He nearly got murdered for being irresponsible, particularly since Damien did not discover the perpetrator until today. He set his eyes on anybody who represented a danger to him or his business.
The lengthy corridor appeared to go on indefinitely. The overhead lights that flanked the walkway were dimly illuminated and did not provide enough illumination. Still, it was dark and silent. The only noises heard were Damien's oxford cushioning the concrete surface and his lieutenants, James Valdez and Dwight Johnson, echoing his footsteps from behind him. They were doing business at Damien's corporate office in Manhattan when they heard from one of Damien's falcons that the guy responsible for Damien's assassination attempt had emerged from hiding two years earlier. That was an hour ago, but Damien directed the falcon to keep a tight watch on their target until one of the sicarios could abduct him. The victim was taken to one of the Wolfe cartel's warehouses on the outskirts of New York, in the middle of nowhere.
The three in charge were marching down the hall, referring to their authority. They were getting closer to the distant screams of someone being tortured; the noises reverberated as they rebounded off the walls. Finally, the three guys came to a halt in front of the rolling steel door and faced each other.
âAre you sure that you want to do this, boss?" Dwight inquired, his face furrowed and his hands buried deep inside his tan business suit. Damien understood what Dwight meant. It was unusual for him to do the dirty job of sitting in on one of their prisoners being tortured, and no one ever saw Damien's face in their business unless they were about to die. Damien grabbed James' black vinyl gloves from his grasp and nodded, his jaw clenching as he slid his hands inside the gloves. Dwight took a breather, shifting his gaze from Damien to James, then back to Damien. He finally reached down to grasp the handle and pulled it over his head, causing the door to crash open. Three of their sicarios surrounded the man of the hour who sat on a chair slumped in the center of the room. His hands were tied, a cloth was around his mouth, and blood ran down the side of his head. His clothes were spattered with dried blood and filth. The prisoner squinted his eyes towards the direction of the light that peered through the stockroom's door. His gaze swept the three towering bodies before settling on Damien Wolfe. Damien was the proudest of them all; his hands clasped in front of him as he looked blankly at the prisoner. His eyes were dark and menacing, causing the guy to move in his chair and shake his head as he screamed a succession of 'no's.
"Hello, there." Damien's voice was scornful and evil as he said,
âWe meet again.â Damien entered the room with such elegance and assurance that two of his sicarios backed away hesitantly. He walked over to a corner and grabbed a chair, dragging it along the concrete floor towards his new friend.
âOnly this time,â he continued.
âI'm the hunter,â he said as he sat in the chair in front of the prisoner, adjusting it so that the back post faced him. As the two guys sat face to face, examining each other, there was quiet. Damien saw that he had been severely battered, that his right eye was swollen, and that the sicarios busted his lip. However, he expressed no remorse for the guy who almost murdered him outside the restaurant if James hadn't intervened. He would have died because of the obnoxious jerk in front of him. Damien moved forward and snatched the handkerchief from his lips before resuming his seat.
âNow,â Damien snapped his fingers at one of his sicarios, who quickly turned over the silencer in his hands.
âI trust I need no introduction. But who exactly are you?â Damien shifted his gaze away from the hefty metal in his palms, hoping for a response. When he never got one, Damien raised the gun above his head, pulling the trigger. The bullet bounced off the metal steel ceiling panels and rattled on the floor. Damien lowered his pistol and cocked his head to the side, aiming the barrel between the captive's eyes.
âThe next bullet is going through your head,â Damien said sternly. He dropped the pistol, even more, letting the weight of it lie freely in his hands as he leaned on the chair's upper rail.
âWhat is your name?" His voice was suddenly more audible. The prisoner scowled at Damien before bending forward towards the infamous boss and spatting on the ground.
âScarface,â he said, a wicked smile on his face, some of his teeth missing.
âAnd I recognize you. Damien Wolfe, a pretty white boy who inherited most of his father's fortune, new to the drug business, and now has all this money he doesn't know what to do with-" His speech was cut short by the sound of Damien shooting the pistol. When he realized the bullet had gone through his foot, the guy shouted in pain. The sicarios and lieutenants gathered about, seeing the brutal questioning. Nobody ventured to enter the lion's den.
âLet's try this again,â Damien said calmly as he tightened the barrel on the pistol.
âWho sent you?"âF-fuck you,â the guy huffed, holding back the agony of his gunshot wound.
Damien jumped up from his chair, knocking it on the floor. He drew closer to the guy, resting his hands on the chair's armrest.
"Who sent you!?" He yelled, spewing droplets of saliva into the man's face with the venom of each word. His face was flushed, and he was losing patience. But the guy refused to budge. He didn't react as Damien threw the chair across the room and waved the pistol in his face, threatening to kill him. When he was centimeters away from Damien's face, the grin on his face grew.
âYou already know who sent me.âDamien wrinkled his brows in response to the man's remarks. He wasn't sure who could've sent Scarface to murder him since he had more enemies than he could count, all with the same objective. But whoever was responsible for this was unyielding, and he knew that if he didn't solve it right now, it would turn into an even larger issue. Damien pulled himself away from Scarface, exasperated. He walked about the room, squeezing his nose as his mind wandered. Many individuals wanted Damien dead, but no one has ever succeeded or even attempted to do so. They largely stayed away; therefore, the issue is, who is it? He came to a halt in his pacing and faced Scarface once more. He looked at him as if he knew the answers to all of his inquiries, but it was irritating when Scarface didn't participate. He was finally rendered ineffective when Damien pointed the pistol towards Scarfaceâs head and squeezed the trigger. He stood still as Scar's corpse fell on the chair.
âGet rid of the body,â he said to the sicarios before turning on one heel, handing Dwight his pistol, and exiting the room.
After Damien's encounter with Scarface, minutes stretched into hours.
âYou know who sent me,' Damien let the words play back in his mind as he sat in the back of his
Maserati with James, who sensed his boss was tense. They were sitting outside the party, and the booming bass of the music matched the fast pounding of his heart in his chest. When Damien and James got out of the vehicle, he fought down his apprehension and said,
"Let's go." The two attractive, well-dressed guys approached the party but were halted by the sight of a squirrel writhing on the ground, white foam coming from its lips.
âThe hell,â James said as he moved away from it. They watched as the squirrel ran off into the distance. Then, they walked inside, making a big entrance that drew a few heads in their way.
âI need to go the restroom,â Damien said above the music to James. James gave him a thumbs up before making his way through the crowds of people dancing in the direction of the kitchen for drinks. Damien made his way through the throng to the restroom, taking out his phone to send a series of texts to Dylan.
To Wifey Dyl:
where are you?
are you still mad at me?
come home.