⟝BEL⟞
The Brooklyn sub rosas, cage and coop of something bound for victory and moved on the backs of rats who dreamt for better lives. Puppets in buildings by the string yanking of a cosa nostra sensation. Labs go east, west. North. South. Between. Pocketed in those non-English-speaking districts where the cards are cut just by bare management. 'Cause it can go one of two ways: riches or ruin. These stockrooms range from coffee houses, basements, titty bars, to crack dens. Each front has its purpose. The mass production of analgesics, opiates and stimulants is the foremost. Branded Zaire.
A familiar theme 'round these parts is the devil's song and frequent libido to dance to it. The opposite of the bible is the parables written in this place, where indulgence is courtesy of opted intent for dirty glory. If one can't find it in an empty wallet and scattered teeth of a sidewalk, they will find it in the rippling of their blood after selling their soul. Euphoria is never too far for the willing hedonist. But prestige? Big guns never lose it when they're unafraid, against the odds without hesitation toward the next spirit they break. It's why this neighborhood is gutted down the middle.
Two kings. Two houses.
Bel sat under the crown of cold hard cash. He'd accept nothing less in the absence of his father. His former brother in arms, Gunner, resided on the diametric side, with significantly less losses. It was because of this that Bel found himself at war even more so internally than out - the agony behind painful self questioning never garnered him reason. Never explanation.
Why was it that, as Cristobel and Senna's father became a ghost, Gunner got to speak to his one last time? Why in all of this, did Gunner's spine stiffen to a formidable code he wouldn't break, not even for his best friend? Why wouldn't he tell anyone anything? Why didn't he want the family he grew alongside to have closure? Why in Andres Zaire's memory, was there only the aftermath of Gotti Bates and his perpetual stain on Bel's family? Why did any of the Bates stay in New York? What gave them the nerve? How was that family name still remotely alive in the streets? Was Bel just fucking their only daughter in the name of some sworn counter play? Was he next to be taken out? These things were contemplated quietly. Inside the glock-tapped-temple of none other than Cristobel.
The rough skin of a tattooed palm came down his face at the realization that morning was actually noon and noon was surely ticking past 2PM. With a knuckle slide along the ribs of his clientele and concubine, he murmured, "Muñeca I got shit to do." No movement. He assessed his stubble from mandible to chin point, waiting for a response.
“Vamos,” he snagged the comforter from where it rested just enough to protect her dignity below, tugged on one of her ankles and gruffly spoke up, “Salir. Now.” The baritone spilled out of his mouth in autocratic excellence without room for second thoughts or apologies. Not like he ever gave either, anyway. The Latina hissed in recoil, “Yo sé cómo funciona!” She went vertical, suddenly turning the rounded tip of her nose up and gathering material around her naked frame. He was pleasantly surprised by her comprehension, being that it was almost impossible to recall whether she spoke English or at all the night before. “Cálmese. I don’t wanna’ fucking cuff you. No te hagas ilusiones.” It appeared she was mocking him, but he attributed it to her beauty sleep being disturbed.
“Nobody owns Cristobel Zah-ree.”
It appeared his generous assumption was wrong. Nope, this was home-brewed loathing. But all he could do was furrow his brow at the rolling of her tongue around the syllables of his name and let a grin split across his face. There was real anger behind the full red mouth that was barking at him, stainless cotton falling from her grasp in her audacity. As her dialect proceeded into a flood, he scrolled through his phone, acknowledging the common case among all of the texts. More or less a block party at The Little Lady which would be warped into a business opportunity the minute he stepped foot on the property. Live music, good food, maybe they’d even open up the outdoor dining portion if the sun stayed at it. A cocked eyebrow hit when the firecracker threw a hand toward him, breasts jiggling at every point she made, babbling about him not even listening.
Had to love the sass and fearlessness of a Latina, the disrobed pride and promise that he would miss her when she was gone. That she swore. His response was unmoved by her passionate script, but hell if it wasn’t entertaining. “Si, si.” He’d say. Hypnotizing, really. Watching the bounce of her chest and allowing her voice to fade into static. Just smile and nod. Offer her a ride home and try not to laugh.
By the time she’d finally relented and caved for a cruise in the A6, he was short on time. He didn’t get her name. Back to the pad and swiftly into the shower. The usual nine yards. Shit, shower, shave. What greeted him in the mirror was prominent cheek bones once made way for by the clearing of condensation. A pair of dark riddles above his nose, the steel jawline complimenting surfeit of symmetry. Dead set terrain down his abdomen showed in washboard fashion. Somehow it was maintained by the occasional shake and two hour gym session. Casual slap of Armani aftershave, finger rake through chocolate hair at the hard part, pomade to keep it in place. Save for the clothes in the bedroom, he was just about done.
Pregaming lone wolf style would have him fashionably late for the bash but no one would mind. Julia, maybe, but it wasn’t like she could come sit in his lap either way in a place like that. Not with the odds of her brothers showing up. Senna would reserve a table or a seat at the bar, clock him with her tiny hand and chide him without any real effort whenever he decided to make an appearance. Everything else would be handshakes and exchange.
Bel neglected pulling a shirt on until the last possible moment, lethargic in sliding a denim jacket over it as well. The permanent medallion across collar bones barely peeked over the white seam. And when he rocked himself to his full posture of six feet and then some, floorboards creaked under his shoes.
The atmosphere was friendly, happy enough. Light. Yeah, that’s what he would use to describe it. Lots of family-oriented cordiality and the smell of home cooked recipes. The doors were propped open as if to say, “Everyone is welcome.” Immediately behind the counter with a twist on his mouth was what Bel assumed to be the owner or head chef, muscles wrapped around his arms and twitching when something was out of place. At his side, a young girl, maybe six or seven at the most. She pulled on him and suspended from his side in the way children do when they really want something.
It didn't take Bel long to spot Dominic Bates, cigar between teeth and sidewise to the commotion. The rest of the clan would surely be arriving if the least-involved tramp was there.
Bel held a menu in his hand. The place was stacked with decent options, none of which he’d get to sit down and enjoy with sniper-eyes in every corner but. He’d take a mental note of it and return on a less crowded day. The sandy-haired hurricane herself blew in a moment later, eyes buffed black by make up. Julia totally avoided her brother, curved anyone else and went straight for the bar. Eventually the brawn known as Gunner showed up, then a Kim [or two], and Simone in the ironed perfection of a tailored get up.
Suddenly it felt congested.
Upon ordering himself a bourbon, Bel found himself next to a familiar patron, scarlet shade pinning crux on her. But he knew all about Chloe. Her habits, her cool exhibition of being the secret aficionado. He ordered her a vodka and cranberry, mouthing, “It’s on me.” She was pressed to the bar by the back of the Yakuza’s daughter [really strange seeing her out in the daylight, let alone somewhere like The Little Lady].
Moving between the crowd was a blue-haired girl, anxious in mannerism, serving plates of food. She dumped an appetizer tray in front of Chloe and Bel, looking flustered. The air constricted, thickened with the humidity of bodies packed and much too comfortable whether in a drunken state of food or booze to move. Bel closed a hefty tip in her free hand and waved her off. He tried to keep his gaze off of Jubes, raising his glass to toast with Chloe, “So aside from the obvious, what do you do in your free time? You don’t strike me as the regular New Yorker, and I’m all sorts of curious.”
Read Jubes' Post Here
