It’s clearlysomuch deeper than sex could ever reach.
The Ivory takes a seat in his large leather chair, with Velle kneeling before him. He opens the drawer of his side table, removing something I can’t make out from all the way over here.
But when he unbuckles it, I understand what it is.
“I know you fear someone finding you over here, my pet,” he hums, opening the leather collar and leaning forward to fasten it around Velle’s neck. “I told you all those years ago that perception is everything.”
Velle nods. “Yes, sir… You did. You were right.”
“Ialsotold you that there can be only one guard to your heart,” he whispers, finger slipping through the buckle. He tugshard enough that Velle grunts and fumbles a bit. “Don’t forget that, Jonathan.”
Velle’s chin is dipped, gaze aimed at the floor, as if he’s programmed to do so. “Yes, sir.” The Ivory’s fingers brush up his neck, and his eyes lift. “Only you.”
“Buen chico,” he whispers, lips quirking.
I feel my legs giving out. Without an ounce of strength left, I drop to my knees too. Behind the bookshelf, I kneel, and I watch.
Eventually, The Ivory signals for Velle to come closer, which he does. He nestles up against Ivory’s legs, curled up at his feet while Ivory pets him, sipping scotch by the fire. It never turns sexual, not in any conventional way. But again, this is stronger.
This is ownership.
The guard dog, and his master.
And I stay on the floor of the library all night myself, just watching them. Absorbed, yet restless. Because it seems to me like, even when he inevitably picks himself up off the floor and goes back to being Officer Chevelle, the guard who’s as hard as stone and cold as ice, thatcollarnever truly comes off.
And I wonder if either of them actually understands just how tightly they’re chained to one another in a destructive, captivatingly tumultuous and damningly loyal…love.
Anyone who says the universe is random has never experienced their own unexplained instance of cosmic connection.
I have.Many times.
I’ll tell you about one that’s currently amusing me to no end.
Shortly after taking over, I began collecting on some of the debts from when Arturo was still active. Back in the seventies, he’d acquired a whole slew of ports across North America. For the cartel, having control of ports is like having an ATM in your convenience store. Not only do you make a percentage just for having one—that’s money without lifting a finger—but they also draw business.
And if your store is cash only, well, then they’re a necessity, aren’t they they?
Ports are obviously only found in cities by the water, where ships come and go, delivering cargo. Bigger ones yield higher volume, but they’re more heavily guarded by the coast guard and homeland security post-9/11, which means bigger risk, and ultimately much higher losses in hazard pay. This is why smaller ports can often be easier to manage.
Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be a lesson in organized crime, though Icouldundoubtedly teach that class at the doctoratelevel. The reason I’m talking ports is because my predecessor had been letting some things slide around his port territories. When I came to The States, one of my most important orders of business was to get things back on track.By any means necessary.
Our ports are all over; Miami, San Diego, Port Isabel, East Boston—fun fact, that is where I first encountered Joy Jameson, while getting my port back from her overly confident, yet ultimately shrewd, hot-head of an Irish mob boss father.Nonetheless, it was our port in New York that introduced me to someone who would become a key player in many aspects of my business going forward.For better or worse.
The port in Brighton Beach wasn’t as much of hassle to reclaim as some of the others. Just the usual introductions and minor bloodshed as a sign of good faith, to show them I was serious. Brighton Beach belonged to the Russians, who brought in good money.
So we struck a deal. They could continue using my ports in exchange for thirty percent of their business. Their boss wasn’t exactlythrilled, but hey… No onewantsto pay taxes. But you do it, unless you want Uncle Sam to shoot out your kneecaps with a shotgun.
And yet, there are still people who try to stiff the goddamn IRS.
After collecting our firsttribute, I got a call from Mateo claiming he’d been shorted by some asshole in an old black Cadillac. This meant I had to goall the wayout to Gravesend, to the guy’s house, and shoot him in the face in front of his family.
Totally throwing off my afternoon.
I arrived with Kent and Nestor in tow, and we marched up the front stoop of his simple little Brooklyn home. I rang the doorbell, pulling my pistol from behind my back while waiting for him to answer the door. Yelling came from inside, though notdirected at me, or even related to my presence. This was clearly a marital dispute.
Ringing the bell again, I followed it up with a few impatient taps on the door with the butt of my gun. Because I’m not a marriage counselor, and I don’t care if you’re fighting with your wife.I’m here to kill you, and you’re holding me up.
The shouting persisted, and I rolled my eyes, muttering to my men, “Sounds like I’ll be doing him a favor…”
