Chapter 5: Into the Boss’s Shoes

The back seat of the sedan swallowed me in leather and polished wood. The door clicked shut, sealing out the warehouse’s stale air. I looked down at my hands—they weren’t calloused, detective’s hands. They were manicured, rings on my pinky and middle finger catching the street-lamp glare. My tie felt tight at the throat, like it was **** out a scream. I stared through the tinted window as the warehouse receded, the Brisa logo floating past on gilded crates of contraband.

The car purred onto the pier road, neon signs blurring into streaks. I pressed my palm against the cool glass, heart hammering. Behind the wheel, the goon—Fletcher, I think he called him—kept his eyes forward. No hint of irony in his posture, no recognition of the man I used to be.

We pulled to a stop before a ocean-side mansion. Floodlights carved patterns on the white-washed walls; wrought-iron gates opened silently. A tuxedo-clad man opened the door and gave me his hand. I exited the car, self-conscious of my demeanor in this setting of glitz and wealth that I had never experienced before.

At the mansion's elaborate and massive doors was a lean figure in suit with the air of a trusted advisor comfortable in his boss's presence. Silver hair combed back, his posture straight enough to iron his suit while wearing it. He carried a leather attache case, gripped as if it held his entire life savings.

He inclined his head. Not quite a bow, but a gesture of genuine respect. “Señor. Good to have you back. The family’s awaiting your orders.”

“Orders?” The word tasted foreign. I swallowed past the knot in my throat.

He gestured inside. “Shall we?”

Crystal chandeliers glowed beyond the double doors, a world of marble and gold leaf. In the foyer, voices hushed as I entered. Faces turned, smiles blooming like roses laced with steel. Most looked like house staff. Maids, butlers, the like. All eyes said the same thing: Here is the boss.

My right hand man—Antonio Marquez, I could only conclude—fell into step beside me. He wore a smirk I knew too well, like a man who’s watched dynasties rise and knew his place at the top. We reached a dark, wood-paneled office. He bag muttering and producing papers and account books for my appraisal.

“Sir, shipment manifest,” he stated, hauling a piece of paper from the leathery folds in his case. “Customs held nothing. Crates clear for immediate transshipment. Shall I tell the men to begin?”

I exhaled and **** my voice smooth.

“Yes,” I said, paling inside. “Dispatch everything.”

Antonio smiled. "Of course. I will see that it is done."

He continued with inquiries for several more minutes. I gave terse, cryptic answers. If that was anything unusual coming from The Boss, Antonion gave nothing away. Finally, he presented one final question. "Thank you señor. I believe that concludes business for the evening?"

When I didn't reply, he inclined his head again and began a polite but purposeful departure. Then he paused, as if remembering something.

"Oh, and of course, the lady is waiting for you in the villette."

A moment later he was gone, and I stood by myself in a mansion that might be mine, in a life that definitely wasn't.