Page 29 of The Impact (Parachutes #3)
Chapter Seven
For the most part, Vin left his past in his rearview.
On rare instances, he was triggered into reflection.
A colleague mentioning a news story—the biggest DEA Fentanyl bust in decades out of some small Oregon town—and Vin wouldn’t let on that he personally knew the cartel running that region.
Or how blessed he felt to have escaped the game unscathed whenever a former affiliate was tackled.
Not long ago, Dali had revealed that she had been invited to a pill party.
As the parent she typically confided in, Vin had snapped.
Personal history as evidence of what drugs did to the people he knew, he pulled the car over just to shake her by the shoulders, making her swear she’d never put a pill in her mouth unless it was Tylenol.
His baby girl, wide and doe-eyed, agreed.
After apologizing, Vin kept quiet about why it hit so hard.
Aside from those sporadic incidents, he kept his past where it belonged. Except…he didn’t.
Except in every aspect, from the way he walked to the way he spoke… The way he slickly earned people’s trust only to identify their weaknesses and use them…Vin was a hustler beyond the glory, guts too.
These boardrooms were his corners. He still supplied a demand. Still negotiated for maximum profit. Still reminded people why they needed his protection and affiliation. Long live the hustler.
“Hello. I have an appointment with Mr. Moreno. You can tell him–”
“I know who you are, Mr. Hayes.”
Vin squinted at the petite beauty who could barely meet his eyes.
“Hold on…” He tilted his head. “Beatrice? No,” he corrected quickly. “Bianca.”
She shielded her pretty smile.
“You’re good,” she mumbled into her hand, boosting his brows with a mischievous smirk.
“Oh. Not so good?” Bianca questioned.
“Depends on who you ask,” he glanced at his ringing phone, texting one of his landscaping foremen back instead of picking up.
“I’ll let Mr. Moreno know you’re here.”
“I appreciate that,” Vin walked off, not looking up.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.” He took a seat in the hall, finishing his text. A minute later, Bianca stood over him in her skirt and blouse, holding out a cup.
“So, the last time you were here, I offered you refreshments and you turned them down. Then you went into Mr. Moreno’s office, and he offered you coffee. He called me and asked me to make it for you, and it made me look like I didn’t do my job.”
Stun parted Vin’s lips. Small talk rarely penetrated him.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just take the coffee before my arm falls off. Black, right?”
Intrigued, he took the cup. She was blushing and bashful, yet offered up spicy tidbits that teased fire. He fucking loved women. Multifaceted. Magic.
“Thank you.”
“Bese Saka.”
“You know it?” Vin asked, surprised she recognized the tattoo on the back of his hand that symbolized affluence and power.
“Yeah. My grandmother was from Ghana.”
Vin nodded. “My youngest daughter calls it my butterflies.”
Bianca giggled. “Aw. How old is she?”
“Six.” A machine gun of grief riddled him with bullets. He missed his kids too much. Going from coming home to his children daily to negotiating which recital he was allowed to attend was brutal.
“Mm. My son just turned 18 and got his first tattoo.”
“You have an 18-year-old son?” He tried to dilute his shock. She could pass for twenty-eight.
“I was a teen mom.” Vin nodded. Tahli hadn’t been far from one either.
“Anyway. I just got done giving him the speech on how he’d never land a respectable job covered in ink.”
Vin snorted. “I heard that one before.”
“Yeah, well…I guess I need to eat my words. I can tell him I know a very successful man with lots of tattoos.” Vin only met her eyes as a response. “I guess things aren’t always as black and white as we make them.”
Vin shrugged. “Maybe not.”
She held the wall, eyes running away from his stare. When Vin was married, he hadn’t seen Bianca. He knew she was attractive, like other attractive women he interacted with. But he had Tahli blinders on.
The door opened. Vin’s client stepped from his office as Bianca walked off in a way that warranted Vin to watch, switching her hips in her form-hugging skirt.
When she bent the corner, Vin heard squeals from the other female employees he had spotted on arrival—a Latina, an older black woman, and a young white girl with purple hair.
“Dalvin, I’m so sorry. Can you give me another five? I hate to keep you waiting. I know you have a tight schedule. But it’s my wife’s surprise birthday party tonight, and the caterer just messed up the order.”
Vin nodded jealously. “No problem.”
When Tom disappeared back into his office, Vin retook his seat.
“Ooh, not you finally getting the balls to talk to your man. Coffee black,” one of the ladies taunted.
Vin’s brows hiked as he scrolled emails, positive the exchange wasn’t meant for his ears. To Bianca’s knowledge, he was likely already in her boss’s office.
“Yes, she spoke to him. But did you tell him how you want him to play Operation on you and dig out your organs one by one.”
Vin pulled his lips between his teeth; absolutely positive he wasn’t supposed to hear this.
“Okay, first of all. Keep your voice down,” he recognized Bianca’s harsh whisper. “The man is married.”
“No, that man is fine . Did you see the dick print in those suit pants?” Vin swiped his closed eyes.
“Okay, I am a reformed gold-digger,” a Latin-laced accent declared.
“I will let you know that’s a Versace Medusa briefcase, a Rolex sky dweller on his wrist, and a Dior peacoat.
That’s about 50 to 60 thousand in accessories, chicas.
” Damn. Outrageously on point. The Rolex was one of his few watches that Tahli hadn’t taken a hammer to.
Vin was still rebuilding his jewelry collection.
“Can you shut up? I don’t care about any of that,” he heard Bianca hiss and wondered how true it was. “He’s married. You saw the ring. End of discussion.”
“But if he wasn’t…” someone purred, summoning Vin’s curiosity.
“Well…if he wasn’t…I would totally make his toes curl.”
More squeals, more giggles. Luckily, the door opened. Vin could escape into the office and save Bianca any embarrassment if she realized he was still there.
“Dalvin. Sorry to keep you waiting. How about another 2.5-million-dollar contract to make up for it? That’s if you can convince me it’s worth my while.”
Vin grinned. He’d been dealing with Toms his whole life.
Vin used to take meetings with greedy doctors and pharmacists, surprising them with his knowledge and strategic thinking.
This Tom was no different than the one he’d known a decade and a half before.
Same green glow in his pale eyes, same underestimation of Vin’s potential.
Vin flashed a smile and followed Tom into his office, preparing to finesse the fuck out of him.
Sometime in 2009
Elbow propped on the counter, Vin peered into the lab as blinding white lights spotlighted drug-lined shelves.
He’d never considered the inner workings of a major retail pharmacy.
Never needed to. Like the outskirts of ecstasy Tahli pushed him to; if it wasn’t within his arm’s reach of minimal accomplishments, he didn’t concern himself with the “how”.
Now, by default, he knew the big pharma game so well he could’ve taught a college course on it.
“You got the M Boxes right? They eating that shit up,” Vin divulged.
“We have extra M Boxes and K9 like you requested. Less of the Roxy and A’s,” Dr. Trautman replied.
Vin nodded.
“But we couldn’t get 50. More like 30.”
Vin’s jaw squared. “That wasn’t what we discussed.”
“Vin. I’m putting my ass on the line, here. I could lose my license. I could go to prison!” Dr. Thomas Trautman looked up after zip-tying the last plastic pill-filled bag.
“I know. I told you that. Right before you shook my hand and took that first 20 G’s,” Vin reminded him. Since then, every three to four weeks, Vin would see Dr. Trautman for what was now his and Munch’s biggest moneymaker.
“I’ll have more in a week and a half.”
Acceptable. But Vin didn’t let him know. Often it was how he responded to people. In his mind, while his face remained unreadable. An unrehearsed tactic that worked in his favor.
“Lab’s getting some heat,” the doc added. “We have all these fucking protesters and this new pain research intervention group. Honestly, I think it’s headed by a bunch of moms of athletes turned addicts. They’re fighting groundbreaking research all in the name of kids with no self-control.”
Again, Vin remained mute. Because here lied the difference between men. This doc told himself whatever he needed to help him sleep better at night. That his mega lab of manufactured pain pills was doing more good than harm. Groundbreaking research for surgery? Or the killer of millions?
Vin knew what the opioids were doing to the planet. Knew what part he played in it. He chose to prioritize his and his family’s gain over it. Because how else would an ex-felon, 25-year-old Black man accomplish what he had? How else would he beat the odds stacked against him?
One less drug dealer didn’t equal fewer drugs. The equation was rigged.
“Can I ask you, Vin, how much you’re selling these things for?
‘Cause I can tell you, it takes less than a penny per pill to manufacture. We write the scripts. Lab to pharmacy, maybe double that? Pharmacy to patient? I can’t even imagine.
But at 50,000 pills with the deal we cut at .
35 cents each. You’re coughing up 17.5K to me monthly.
And then flipping them for what? High only lasts a few hours.
The kids come right back. You’re always knocking down my door for more before the scheduled meet. ”