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Fabian

In this vast world, there are countless individuals capable of igniting my temper, but none quite like the man standing before me – my own father. As the inevitable heir to his business, our animosity runs deep, way past our conflicting ideas of how to run the family business.

It’s a curse, really.

Part of a family tradition where it's almost taboo for the eldest child to get along with their father and it seems I was not spared that fate. But how can there be no animosity between us when my old man is stuck on his outdated methods? Like trusting my drunk uncle to oversee a major business deal just because he’s family.

“I will not allow it!”

Perhaps these are not words my father is used to hearing, seeing he is a mob boss and all, but soon, he will be retiring and his mess will be mine to clean up. Even so, I can tell he doesn’t like to be challenged as his eyes, cold and piercing, lock onto mine.

“What do you mean you can’t allow it, boy?”

“I mean just that. I will not allow Russo to close the weapon deal with the Armenians,” I say firmly, meeting his menacing glare head-on. “Uncle Russo is a man with the temperament of a two- year-old. Prone to throwing a tantrum and starting unnecessary fights when things do not go his way. We need someone more diplomatic–”

“Diplomatic!” he sputters. Veins popping in his forehead as he steps up to me. “Russo is family!”

“I will not allow him to mess up this deal.”

“And what do you know, huh? I’ve been running this business since well before you were born.”

And isn’t that the crux of the matter? My father's need to constantly remind me how much better of a leader he was than I will ever be. Ever since I made it clear that I would not resort to violence to solve conflict unless it was the last option, he’s made it his mission to express his disappointment in me. It doesn’t matter to him that I bring in more money and broker beneficial deals with the family. No, I am a huge disappointment because people aren’t scared shitless of us. I bet it’s a huge blow to his ego that people don’t drop to their knees and worship his very feet when they see him. It’s outdated and old-fashioned, a tradition that will die with his leadership.

“We are wasting time talking over this matter, papa. Russo will not be the one to close the deal with the Armenians just because he is family. He is not qualified to! He can tag along, but the second he starts something, I am cutting him off.”

“Not on my watch, you are not!”

“That is exactly what I will do if he causes this deal to tank. There is a hundred million on the line –”

“You would dare put money before family?” he roars, slamming his fist down on the table and sending papers flying off it, but I don’t blink at the display of anger. I lock my arms in front of my chest and meet his glare. The same glare that used to scare me when I was a boy, but I am no longer just a child. I haven’t been a boy in decades. This family tramples on innocence, leaving behind an empty shell full of resentment. My old man should be proud of the unfeeling bastard he has created.

There are few things that move me and while I may not turn to violence to deal with matters, hardly anyone would call me good-natured. I get the job done. I am the heir to the business. The cold, unapproachable one that deals with numbers and not people. I don’t listen to sob stories or woe-is-to-me tales. I look at the numbers and if they don’t add up, then and only then do I show the extent of my personality.

“I will take care of the deal myself!” I decide, choosing to put an end to this standoff, but my father is never one to back down from a fight and it seems that today, he’s out to draw as much blood from this as he can.

“Alright, if you think you know this business better than me, then let’s see how you handle a little challenge!” he says with a sneer, walking around to his desk. He drops down to his chair with a heavy grunt before reaching into the safe he keeps by his desk. There is a self-assured smirk on his mouth as he opens the black box and reaches inside for something before tossing it my way. I barely have time to see what it is before I instinctively grab it.

A log book.

“What is this for?”

“All the debts owed to us by the residents of Moth Hill. That includes five million dollars in total plus interest,” he says, leaning back in his chair and fixing those cold eyes on me. “In the old days, we would go around breaking legs and shooting one person after the other until the money was paid in full. Let’s see how you get the money back!”

I flip through the book to confirm that he has the number right and I push back a sigh. Another mess for me to clean up. It's actually a little over five million dollars, but close enough. "Why would you loan people this much money? They are all low-income and cannot pay it back!"

“That may be true, but by owing us money, we run this city. We don’t always need them to pay back in money...”

I don’t even want to ask. I’ve seen enough over the years of how my father and his minions collected “favors” and I have no intention of following their route.

“…Get me half of that money boy, and maybe I will consider replacing Russo with someone else on the business deal.”

I want to fight my old man some more. but I have too much shit to do to keep going at it with him. We’ve been doing that my entire life. A part of me wants to toss the log book on the table and walk away. Let him and Russo ruin everything I have been doing these past few years. but I push it down, bottling it up, right along with all the other things I despise about this family.

Numbers are easy. I can find a way to make sure everyone in this book pays at least a percentage of their loan to make up for half the money they owe us. I don't have to resort to breaking legs like my father. No, I can easily calculate their property and sell it to make up for the money.

"Fine," I grit, not one bit pleased with myself but it seems that yet again, I have to prove to my father that I am more effective at running things than he ever was. By treating it for what it is. A business.

“Fabian!” I’m already on my way out when he stops me. “Make sure you show up tomorrow for the Christmas dinner. The entire family will be there.”

Fuck the Christmas dinner is what I want to tell my old man, but family is important to him in ways it’s not to me. As much as I would like to skip it, I know it’ll only lead to another fight between us, so I nod.

Without another word, I stalk out of his office, my phone in hand, and text my men to bring the van around and meet me outside. My steps are quick and I can't wait to get the fuck out of this mansion. Despite the cozy looking and clearly expensive furniture, there was always something that felt empty about this place, and the second I turned eighteen, I was ready to leave. My penthouse feels equally as empty as this place, but has one thing that this house does not. Peace.

The weather is chilly when I step out of the door. I curse out at the cold December air, strutting towards the men tugging hard at their coats. They straighten up when they see me and my right-hand man, Luka, walks up to me, his brown hair blowing in the chill wind.

“Where to boss?”

“We are going to collect money.”

“I can do that,” Luka offers and normally, it would be his job to make these runs, but my father challenged me, and I will do what it takes to prove him wrong.

“No, I’ll do it myself. I just need you and the boys to follow behind in case our debtors need a little convincing.”

He nods firmly before rushing to the four other men standing by a van. I walk to my car and climb into the driver’s seat, looking in the rearview mirror to make sure all the men have climbed into the van before pulling out.

The first visit is to a Smith Jerkins. From the little perusing I did in the office, the man is a school teacher, and he owes us over a hundred grand. No fucking idea why a school teacher would need that kind of money if he wasn’t hooked on something. Maybe he is a gambler. Most of the people who gamble at the family casino typically have normal jobs. I’ve watched countless men lose themselves in drugs or in a stupid game they didn't know to quit. It's pathetic really, and I carry little sympathy for them. What use will sympathy do? To me, people are numbers and all I care about is the value they bring to my business. It's that simple.

The drive to Mr. Jerkins’ house takes a little over fifteen minutes before we pull into a modest little house nestled among tall trees. I step out of the car and am immediately taken back by the home. Its weathered wooden exterior, painted a soft shade of blue, gives it a charming homey feel. A white picket fence surrounds the front yard where colorful flowers bloom in neat little patches.

It's hard to not compare this clearly lived-in home to the cold museum of a mansion I grew up in. Everything about this place looks lived in. From the chair on the front porch to the freshly painted picket fence.

“Boss?”

I nod, snapping my focus to the present. Numbers! That is all I need to focus on. I study the entire house with new eyes and run a quick estimate, figuring it would fetch me somewhere between $150,000 to $300,000. With this amount, the man can pay all his debt and still have some of it left.

With that thought, I push open the gate and walk in, heading straight to the front door. I knock once and then I hear voices coming from inside. There is a long pause before someone opens the door. My eyes quickly shift to a middle-aged man in a wheelchair with white streaks in his hair and a smile on his face that quickly drops when his eyes lock on mine. I am quickly taken aback.

Did I come to the wrong door?

There was no mention of the man being disabled. Maybe the wheelchair is a temporary thing? I shake my head. Since when did I care about anyone’s physical health? We have disabled people who gamble at the casino and drink most people under the table.

“You can’t be here,” the man whispers, snapping my focus back to his.

“Mr. Jerkins, I am…”

"I know who you are but, you can't be here!" His voice is shaky, and his eyes panicked as he pleads for me to leave but I am not going anywhere unless he gives me the $100,000 he owes us in cash or a deed to this house.

“You know why we’re here!”

“Please, leave!” he whispers, trying to push the door closed but I grasp the edge and keep it open. “I’ll pay you back, but can you please go before…”

“Dad?” comes a soft feminine voice from somewhere in the house and I watch as fear clouds the man’s expression. “Who is it at the door?”

“No one!” Jerkins yells, his voice shaky. “No one, sweetheart. Go back to the kitchen, I’ll handle this.”

The girl in the background clearly doesn’t believe the man as the sound of footsteps approaching the door sounds before someone steps behind the old man and… my breath catches in my throat.

Everything stills in the moment and I find myself rooted to the ground. Lord above! Who the fuck is this angel!

Standing behind the man is the most beautiful little thing I have ever seen. Long golden-brown hair falling down her shoulders in soft waves and catching the light in a way that makes it shine. Her striking blue eyes are like small sapphires, bright with confusion and innocence. The sprinkle of freckles littered across her nose gives her a sweet, endearing charm. There is flour all over her apron and in her hair, but it does nothing to take away from her captivating beauty.

The painted picket fence and flowers lining it all speak of this girl's handiwork. One look at her little floral dress and flour-dusted apron tells me how hands-on she is with everything around here and Christ, that only makes me want her more. Warmth radiates off her.

Numbers… I need to think only about the numbers and yet, I can’t. Not around her.

“Dad, who are these people?”