Enamor

II

Alexandre

I am going to hell. I accepted it when I was young. I can not escape fate, what I am meant to do, and what happens to my soul when I die.

It's not easy being an evil man but it's what is expected of you in a family like this. I have expectations of myself just like a prince would for his future kingdom. This family is a dynasty nevertheless.

I am sitting in the back of my car with my suit covered in blood. It's a shame really, that such an beauty is going to be thrown.

"Marcel, quel est le problème! Dépêche toi avant que les flics n'arrivent!" (Marcel, what is the problem! Hurry up before the cops get here!).

Désolé mosuieur, il y avait une collision devant.(Sorry sir, there is a collision ahead).

I rolled my eyes. This was getting out of hand. The cops were cracking down on us despite all my bribes.

I didn't have time to play games.

"Move."

He gets out of his seat.

I immediately put the car into steady and speed past all the cars on the highway to the nearest exit. I drive out on a regular street and narrowily miss the few pedestrians. I am driving on the sidewalk, people's lawns, and passing red lights.

Marcel is holding onto dear life beside me praying for his life. I was a gambler. That's the only way you get shit done, you have to gamble on your life every time, otherwise, there's no chance of success.

I pull up into the driveway and Marcel lets out an exhale.

I toss the keys to him.

I enter the empty home. This was my place where I allowed no one to enter. The family home with my siblings and my mother was twenty minutes away if anything.

I liked peace and quiet.

And my mother was nagging me to get married anyways.

I don't want to get married, to some woman who just wants to take my money.

I hate being used.

Some brainless woman to come into my life and do nothing but take my hard work and flounder with it?

I want a woman who can challenge me intellectually, a partner. A woman who can discuss plots with me, strategies, and business plans, beat me at chess. I want an equal, but the kind of women that are in this kind of world, the mafia world, are all trophy wives.

I head up to my room in the mansion and unload all the guns throwing them on the floor. I am exhausted and sick of people not getting shit done.

I had to kill someone who owed me a million dollars because he kept running away. My men gave him three warnings, clearly, they did not scare him enough.

I don't have time for incompetency, you take, you  pay.

Why do I have to personally deal with the fuckery?

I've been checking the old checkbooks of my father after his death. I notice some gaps in the banking receipts. I discovered almost four million in unrecovered debts my father did not take care of before his passing.

Perhaps he was too gentle.

But I knew better, he made me the monster I am today.

Like father, like son.

I rub my forehead in frustration, there was one last name on the list.

I take off the suit and drag it out of the room to the laundry room. I'm gonna burn it.

I'm wearing a white collar up and black slacks. My six-foot-three frame towering in the halls.

I know I was blessed by beauty. My mother said she prayed for it. All of us got her genes. My younger brother and sister.

It was bad enough that women were all over me at social events, I had no interest in them. Why would you want to attract flies when you can attract gold?

That's not to say that I do not have my fun, but I do not have anything serious. No woman has ever come to my home, everything ends at a hotel.

I head to my office and sit in the chair with a glass of whiskey. I open up the checkbook and flip through until my eyes find the name.

I lean back with the glass in my hand, the black walls shining off the marble-tiled floor.

"Ah, bien, Johah et Selina Ruth."

I pick up the phone and make a call.

"Did you find the last couple on the list?"

"Oui, oui bien sûr, mais il y a un petit probleme." (Yes, yes, of course, but there is a little problem).

I clench my jaw in annoyance.

"Spit it out."

"They're dead."

I chuckle darkly.

I turn in my chair.

"Of course they fucking are" I mimic.

"50,000 euros down the drain."

"But there is, uhh, un solution..."

"Quoi, Bernard." (What)

"They have a daughter, ici in Paris." (here)

My interest is peaked.

"But the girl is uh, comment je dis, very uh poor." (how do I say)

"I will get that money."

"He chuckles nervously."

"You wouldn't sell her alive would you."

I frown in distaste, "I don't involve myself or this business in human trafficking, I would like to keep what is left of my humanity. It is simply evil."

I always believed everyone had a right to their body. Everyone has a purpose in this world, a reason to live, a vitality. Everyone owns, even the penniless. They all own their body, and should anyone take that ownership from someone and corrupt it, they should be condemned to damnation in the most excruciating fires of hell.

Despite being a criminal and a sinner I was a devoted Christian, I guess that also makes me a hypocrite.

Is that not how life always is, we all pay for the sins of our parents. I was born into a family that required me to give up eternal life after death. I was doomed from birth. She is doomed to her parents' financial captivity.

I will not charge interest if she is compliant. I should, that debt is over ten years old, but I have sympathy for the weak.

I hang up the phone.

I get a write-up a few minutes later on the daughter from Bernard.

Her passport information, social security, everything.

Malèna Ruth, nineteen years old. Lives on 468 Dupont.

I flip the page and my heart stops.

My eyes drink in the photo in front of me.

"Merde moi, elle est magnifique!" (Fuck me, she's gorgeous!)