He peeks at me and I wink.
“I’ll be back with your coffee, sir,” He deadpans. Though for him it’s like…regular panning?
I grin and huff, going about my business, taking a shower and getting redressed in something moredashingbefore I go check in on my prison.
I believe in dressing up. It’s what separates us from the animals, after all. Clothes, accessories…material objects. Consumerism is an important part of today’s society, and let’s be honest. Everyone feels better when they look pretty.
Deny it all you want, but it’s true. Buying something new and shiny is an automatic boost in serotonin.
But here’s the part only people who grew up poor will understand. When you spend a significant portion of your life on the outside of high-end shops looking in, it gives you a determination to one day make itinside.
It’s a known fact at this point that growing up poor builds character.Hunger for food, hunger for more.I acknowledged atan early age that I was too big for my humble beginnings. And even though we didn’t have much when I was growing up—okay, we barely had anything—my parents still always took pride in their appearance.
From day one, when I set foot in Arturo Alvarez’s organization, I dressed to the nines. I was always in a three-piece suit and designer accessories. Sure, at the time, most of it was stolen—Ocho taught me how to rip off the dry cleaners who were terrified of Arturo, so they’d never say a thing.
But that didn’t matter. I made an impression, and it became something of a calling card for me.El Marfil,with his white hair and fancy attire. Slaughtering rooms full of people in Valentino while he cackles like an unhinged madman.
It was part of what got me on Arturo’s radar.And the rest, as they say, is history.
But that first step inside Louis Vuitton is one I’ll never forget.
Downstairs, I walk through the foyer, my patent leather Versace’s making thatclack clack clackI lovesomuch on the marble floors. A few members of the staff scatter when they see me, which I also love.
They don’t have to make themselves look busy. I know they are. There’s a permanent shortage of bodies on this island for the amount of work we have.
Kent’s grievances aren’t his alone. Everyone wants more help. From the chefs, to the cleaning crew, to the ferry captains, shipping and receiving… And, of course, the prison guards.
Jonathanneverstops harping about needing more officers. But my answer is always the same.
It’s not in the budget.
I’m not lying when I say this. My Alabaster budget ispenniesconsidering what it costs to operate this island. The part that frustrates everyone—myself included—is that there are ways ofgetting more money. I mean…Ihave more money than I could spend in five lifetimes. But it’s a matter of principle.
Irefuseto spend my own hard-earned money on a prison that has taken over my life, which wassupposedto be a gift, but has somehow become just a massive pain in the ass.
Like when you decide to rent out your basement to make a few extra bucks, but the tenant never pays you a dime, then ends up squatting in your house, and you can’t get them out and they throw wild sex parties, eat all your food, and ultimately ruin your life until you lose your house to the bank and die, penniless and miserable.
Like that.
Look, my relationship with Alabaster Pen is complicated—clearly. I love it, because it’s dreary and beautiful anddefinitelyhaunted, which appeals to me on many levels.
But I also hate it, and I wish it would burn down.Does that make sense?
Sigh. Welcome to the life of The Ivory. Where you want the things you hate and resent the things you love.
Outside, my chauffeur pulls the car around, and I get in, nestling into the sheer luxury for the five-minute drive to the prison. I traded in the Maybach for a Rolls-Royce two years ago—sort of just to rub it in Jonathan’s face a little, though I would never admit that out loud because it’s childish.
It’s fine. He got his own anniversary gift…
I have a meeting with the board next month, wherein I’ll plead my case for more funding. They’ll say no, and I’ll threaten them. They’ll complain, but eventually cave and give me, like,ten thousandmore dollars, stingy pricks that they are.
Just another part of this job that vexes me on a regular basis. The nonstopcomplaints.
People always wanting more,expectingmore. The endless disputes overturf…
It never stops. Everyone wants to feel like theyownsomething. Desperate to stake their claim, but mostly, they want to reap the benefits that come with territory.
I can’t say I don’t get it. Controlling spaceislucrative, and there’s something to be said for belonging somewhere. Sticking your flagpole intounoccupiedland and saying,“This is mine.”It’s an extremely legitimate and reasonable desire.
