Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King
Ch 9
MIA
It’s 11 PM now. Vasya met us outside in the courtyard again, and now I find myself perched again on Slate’s lap. I’m not sure why he wanted me to come along so badly, but with everything happening so fast, I’m compelled to just go with it.
The Miami streets are alive at night and watching from the back of Slate’s car reminds me of how different people are when they’ve left their day jobs, shed their corporate clothes, and give in completely to their hedonistic urges.
The outdoor bars are overflowing with women in barely-there sheer tops and shorts, their boyfriends or prospective bedmates tailing closely behind them. They carry brightly colored drinks, gratuitous in size and price, I’m sure.
I can see the young couples dancing together under strings of lights, and it creates a hole in me. It’s something I’ve never had, and probably never will. Work was always a higher priority to me than the fleeting feeling of love.
When we get on the highway, Slate grips me tighter as I sway a bit from the inertia, not in an imposing way, but more protective, I suppose. I feel so helpless on his lap still, wondering how many women he’s thrown around in the back of this car.
I can’t let myself get distracted by those thoughts, though. I need to demonstrate that I’m right for this kind of role, not some stupid girl who can’t look at a man without getting flustered. What kind of woman would that make me?
It’s hard, though. I can’t pretend I’m not curious about what he would do if I draped my leg open across his, letting my dress ride up just enough to expose my panties, just enough for him to see. I know he was looking at the club.
What would he do if I put my hand just a little too close to his cock in his pants? Would he be insulted? Would he respond, or would he ignore it, brushing off my advance as easily as a small piece of lint on his crisp button-down shirt.
I notice we’re getting closer and closer to the industrial ports of Miami, and I’m becoming disoriented.
What am I doing?
Ten hours ago I was lying on my bed looking at IKEA bed frames and smoking a joint. Now I’m enmeshing myself with actual mobsters, murderers.
An unease grows in my belly. I’ve made a mistake. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. The question that remains is how hard will it be for me to get out of this?
We pull up to what looks like one of maybe ten houses along the industrial district, spread out along the border of a vacant lot that separates the last of the residential area and the shipyard. The house is extremely run down, the kind of place you would expect to see druggies inhabit.
Slate holds my arm firmly as we exit the vehicle.
There’s a broken chain-link fence around the front, but Eli kicks it down with one motion. Upon first glance, it would appear as though there’s nobody here, and there hasn’t been in a long time. When I look closer, however, I notice a faint glow coming from the thick glass of the basement windows.
As we draw closer to the house, I can hear voices behind the door, trying and failing to conceal themselves from whoever it is they’re afraid of. I’m sure these types of half-baked criminals are constantly afraid. I guess they should be since we found them.
Without warning, Michael draws his weapon and shoots at the lock on the door four times in a row. He then kicks the door open, and we’re met with three pale, gaunt males huddled around a coffee table in an otherwise empty, dark room. It looks like they’re weighing and packaging the shitty coke they’ve been trying to pawn of as Slate’s.
Michael, Eli, and Slate all have their guns drawn, and I’m quickly shoved behind them. The sound of the gunshots has shaken me, and I’m overwhelmed already. They said they were just going to talk, but clearly that was a lie.
“Hey, hey, don’t freak out, man, I just want to have a word with you, okay?” says Slate as he quickly approaches the pale man in the middle of the group. He must have been trailing this guy for a while given his brazen confidence.
“Hey, get the fuck out of here!” says a man who is off to the side who looks a bit like a Persian cat. Without hesitation, Michael hits him in the nose with the barrel of his gun, and the man screams as he immediately recoils and falls to the floor.
“Anyone else?” he asks, the other two men shaking their heads rapidly in panic. Slate grabs the man he was pursuing with both his hands, shoving him into a nearby wall. The drywall cracks as Slate slams him, and the man coughs a deep brachial hack as he tries to regain his composure.
This must be what “talking” means to guys like Slate.
“Okay, Okay! Look man, I’ll quit selling the shit, okay? You can have all of it. It’s coke and 25i. Just take it and please don’t kill me,” he pleads.
Instead of calming him, this just made Slate even more angry. “25i?! You’ve been selling 25i to people under my name? That shit can kill people,” he shouted with righteous fury in his voice.
“I said I’m sorry,” the man whimpers. AT this point, he must be positive that this is not going to end well for him no matter what he does.
“You know what? I have a different plan for you,” Slate says, and my stomach drops. “Go find me a sheet of 25i, I want to see something.” His expression completely unreadable.
The skinny man considers sprinting out the window near him. I can see his eyes moving toward the window, trying to decide which way he’ll die quicker. In everyone’s mind, including his, he’s already a dead man.
“Michael, follow him down to his little distribution center in the basement,” Slate orders.
Michael nods, the muzzle of his gun trained on the skinny man’s head as he is led to the basement. Slate, Eli, and I wait silently for them to return, and I avoid making eye contact with anybody in the room, especially not the other two men who lie half-conscious on the floor.
When they return, the skinny man nervously hands Slate a sheet of blotter paper colored pink, purple, and blue. “I mean, I already told you it’s not real, you can take everything if you want,” the man says, now becoming more resolute in his bargaining power.
Slate takes the sheet, studies it, and begins to grin menacingly.
“So, you are saying that you want me to take your entire stock, right? Guys, what do we think of that?” Slate asks to Michael and Eli.
They both shrug, uncertain of whether or not Slate is asking for their legitimate input or if he is playing a game with the man.
“No, I don’t want your shitty synthetic drugs,” Slate snaps, turning back to the man. “I am insulted that you would attempt to bribe me with such a thing, and I am insulted for you that you believe your life to be so worthless. So, no, I do not want to take your drugs. Instead, I want you to eat this entire sheet of 25i in front of me.”
I can almost see the man’s heart explode with fear. While I wasn’t certain what would happen to him, it seems that he’s quite familiar with what will happen to him should he ingest this much of the drug.
“Now, please. I will not leave until you do,” says Slate, sounding almost bored.
“Please… Don’t do this to me,” the man pleads. “Just shoot me. I’ll do anything, please just shoot me. Don’t make me eat all of it,” he continues, tears forming in his desperate eyes.
Slate’s face remains unchanged, clearly unmoved by the weeping. “You have attempted to tarnish my name, to undersell my work. Eat the goddamn tabs. Now,” he orders.
When the man doesn’t take the initiative himself, Slate motions for Eli and Michael to come closer.
“No, please, please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” the man wails as Michael and Eli grab him by both arms and shove him into the wall as Slate takes she sheet of blotter paper from the man.
He grabs the man’s lower jaw and forces his mouth open, shoving the entire sheet of tablets past his yellow teeth. He then forces his mouth closed as the tablets dissolve, and the man attempts to scream as the bitter chemicals seep into his bloodstream.
The screaming continues, and when the papers start to dissolve completely, the man starts to thrash violently to get away from Michael and Eli to no avail. I feel as though I am watching something worse than murder, a damnation of sorts.
After a few moments, Slate motions for Eli and Michael to drop the man, who has been reduced to fits of sobs. Slate turns around and addresses the other two men, who are watching in horror, both looking sick to their stomachs.
“Remember what you’ve seen here. I will be back if I hear my name in anyone else’s mouth, do you understand me?” Slate barks at them as they scramble to their feet to sprint away despite their injuries.
The Persian cat man immediately falls into a glass coffee table that has been cordoned to the corner of the room, and his arm is torn from the wrist up. Blood pours and pools below him as he screams.
Without another word, Slate, Michael and Eli begin to move towards the door as if nothing happened. Eli glances behind and gestures for me to follow as I stand frozen in place. He seems completely unfazed by everything that has just happened while I remain horrified.
When we return to the car, I climb back into Slate’s lap and, for a moment, I’m distracted from the events of the night by the wild look in his eye that I catch glimpses of while everybody settles into their seats. There’s an animalistic nature about it, and I’m growing more and more nervous around Slate as the night goes on.
Whatever happens next, I know I won’t be prepared for it. This is some very serious shit.
