Begin

The cigar smoke hung in the air, thick like oil.
I could feel it penetrating my skin. I readjusted myself on his lap, not enough to disturb the conversation but enough that he knew the smoke was bothering me. He stubbed out his cigar and stroked my head gently. I often wonder how I ended up in this situation, how I ended up being so unfortunate that I'll probably be dead in less than four hours. I let out a slight cough. He looked down at me. Sometimes, I forgot how soft his eyes were when he looked at me. He reached into the desk drawer and handed me an envelope. He pushed it into my chest. I looked down at it and clasped my hands around it.
"Take it to Scarlett. She's expecting it." Pushing my body gently from his lap, he readjusted in his chair and sunk into it, lower than before. Standing behind him, reaching my slender hands over his shoulders, I could kill him right now; no one would notice. His business call is muted on this end. They're just yammering on about the Eastside and how little control we have there.
I could do it. I should do it.
As my hands found their way down either side of his shoulders, he tilted his head back to look at me. Almost as if to say, I know what you're thinking, don't even try it. Relaxing my tense hands, I put them on his chest and rested my head on his. I sighed and left the office. I was still clinging to the envelope for Scarlett. Regret poured into my thoughts. Why hadn't I just killed him? I could have ended all of this so much sooner. I need this to be over. I can't do it anymore. At that moment, I managed to walk down the main hall, out the front doors, and into a car. I was sitting in the driver's seat without even realising it. I glanced in the rearview mirror at the office again, thinking this might be the last time I ever observed it. 

The drive to the secondary estate was short. It was only a few miles away from the main offices. I knew Scarlett would be there. And others, sitting in their chairs, with kids on their laps, playing some form of Texas Hold 'em where the price of entry was a human life, and the winner takes all. As I arrived, I had a sinking feeling of guilt and anxiety wash over me. I entered the main hall. It was cold; it is always cold here now. 

Thoughts of the past welled up inside of me. I thought about the last time I visited the central estate with him. I must have been around 16 years old then. The whole main estate was daunting. It had a large brick exterior, cobblestone paths, and a small forest to one side. It felt overwhelming just standing in the driveway.

I remember clinging onto Patrick so tightly; that I left nail imprints on the top of his hand. He knew I was terrified. He never let go of me until we reached the front door. Patrick knelt to be at eye level with me on the front stoop. He brushed my hair out of my eyes. He had a soft smile, almost saying that everything would be fine. I knew it wouldn't be, but I had hope, looking at him. Patrick put his hands on my shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes. "Be brave, James." His eyes looked weary, almost as if he would cry for me. I didn't understand why at the time, but I knew. I knew it would be the last time I would ever see Patrick, the last time I would feel comfort from him, the last time I would hold onto him like the desperate lifeline I needed. 

"You called me by my name? Why?" Since I was four years old, no one had called me by my real name. I didn't even think Patrick knew my real name. He smiled again, that reassuring smile, and stood up. Leaving one hand on my shoulder, he knocked on the large, wooden door. A woman appeared at the door and welcomed us in. We were taken to the parlour. It was full of midday sunshine and books. It felt comforting to be sitting here, especially beside Patrick. He was of average height and build, but he was kind, caring, and always ensured I was safe. He looked after me and others at the secondary estate house. 

My mother had to sell me for her and my sister to survive. My father, the useless deadbeat I got my name from, was a gambler. He plunged our family into millions of debts, and just when he was going to change his life and pay back his debts, he went to war and died. My mother was stuck raising my younger sister and me while having loan sharks and shady gangsters come to the house every other day to get my father's money. After months of fear and beatings, my mother's desperation grew, and she offered me, her only son, to the Bratva as a trade for my father's debts. I didn't know what that meant at the time, but I met Patrick when I was 15. He saved me; at least, that's what I thought. I haven't seen Patrick in at least seven or eight years. My last encounter with him was the hand-off when I was 16 and clung so tightly to him. I often wondered where he was and if he was safe. But those thoughts were soon pushed aside as I arrived at the secondary estate house. While not as large or grand as the main estate, it felt comforting to be here. I spent most of my youth here and came by three times a week to see the children, to ensure they were warm and eating correctly. 

I approached the main doors, knocked once, and waited. It was a cold winter evening, and it felt like the snow was falling. A set of eyes looked at me, they were sharp, and I felt chills down my spine. I smiled. My soft, sweet smile and this tiny, insignificant being let me in. I wiped my feet on the mat in the main hall and sauntered down the main corridor to the sitting room. On the walk, I noticed voices and laughter. Texas Hold 'em, I thought as much. Before entering the room, I felt a sharp pain in my chest. It aches. I was worried about what was on the other side of this door. I reached for the small silver handle and twisted it. As expected, Scarlett sat at the head of the table. A small, frail, dark-headed boy sat curled up into her bosom, holding onto her chest in her lap.

Scarlett was slender. Her sex appeal was ridiculous. She wore skimpy outfits around the main estate, but she wore business suits as if she was working within the walls of the secondary estate. I was never sure why she pretended so much in front of the pets, but she always held herself to a higher standard when she was here. Her crimson hair and pale skin glowed under the dim lights of the room. The air was thick with smoke, and my lungs felt weak. She held in one hand her cards. Of course, she was winning. And in the other, a tightly rolled, thin cigarette. She never smoked in front of the boss, but when she was here, in the element, she let herself go. She looked up over the table at me and smirked. Her long fingers reached up and stroked the little boy's head. Almost as if to say, what are you going to do about this? I sighed and smiled. I rounded the table and handed the envelope to her. She looked up, displeased as always; her hatred for me oozed like water through a sieve. 

"So, you're a messenger now? How the mighty fall," her voice was cold, calculated. I shrugged it off and pressed my lips together in my gentle smile, "Just delivering after the meeting, that's all."

"And how is dear old The Tsar? Still favouring, I see." Her words were sharp. Scarlett hated how much attention I received compared to others, especially her. 

"I can't complain. I know he cares for me-"Scarlett erupted into laughter. Throwing the little boy to her side and slamming her first into the table. "Cares?" She scoffed, "Don't make me laugh, Milo." Her venomous tone was piercing. I felt myself shrinking in stature. She sat down again, elegant as always. The young boy, who was in a heap on the floor beside her chair, climbed back into her lap. He sat, just as before, clutching at her chest and nuzzling into her neck for warmth. I took a step back and leaned against the back wall, observing. Scarlett left the envelope beside her at the table. She refused to read it in front of me. Scarlett and I have a twisted past. She was the Tsar's top wrangler before I arrived. I dethroned her as the right hand, and it's something she has never forgiven me for. I didn't ask for this, none of it, yet here I am. The laughter, drinking, and gambling returned. I looked around the room. Four people; Scarlett, two low-life bar owners I had the displeasure of meeting once or twice as a youth, and Hugo. Hugo was one of the four founding members of this disgusting organisation.

Hugo and the Tsar had been in business together for a long time, along with Scarlett, long before I was acquired. Hugo and I kept our distance from one another. I knew my place, and he knew his. The Tsar chose me for some god-awful reason, and Hugo accepted that. Scarlett, on the other hand, could not. Scarlett was, before I arrived, Don's number one confidant and wrangler. She knew the streets well, had good business dealings with local bars where she acquired children and knew the local officers on the beat and how to get them to turn a blind eye. Scarlett caught and trained at least 100 children for the Tsar in the last 20 years.

The organisation, as a cover, is a construction business. They build and work on thousands of projects throughout the country. Their buildings are flawless, thanks to Scarlett and her connections to city halls, town planners, and the best architects in the business. The construction business was known as Magnesium Industries. They had offices up and down the country with dedicated employees. However, the primary industry wasn't construction; it was trafficking. Scarlett, Hugo, Marvin, and the Tsar began this front around 15 years ago to traffic young children around the country. Their main goal was to control local, state, and broader governments through bribery and secret sex affairs. The money they made sending children, some as young as two and three, to wealthy businessmen and women as slaves was a bonus. That's how I got involved. When my mother sold me to Magnesium, I was four. 

I was handed around to many men, some old, some young, and was taken advantage of, raped, tortured, and broken by them. I was acquired by a wealthy Chinese businessman at five and a half and remained with him until I was 15. Once the Tsar chose me, Patrick trained me to fight, not with fists but with my words and body. Make them submissive to me; that was his goal. If I couldn't escape this fate, I'd learn to control the situations I was in instead. As much as I knew it pained Patrick to do this to me, he saved me by teaching me control. Scarlett was particularly jealous of our relationship. 

"You can leave Milo. There's no further business here." Hugo was cold as always. We did not have the best relations, partly my fault but mainly his. When I was around 16, Hugo was sent to fetch me from a lunch date with some high-class businessman after being chosen by the Tsar. When Hugo arrived, he found me slumped over the bathtub in some hotel. I was drugged out of my mind, completely naked, covered in bruises, and had two broken ribs. The businessman was a masochist. He had beaten me, drugged me beyond reasonable means for submission, and then rapped me.
There were rules in this industry for both clients and pets. 

One, never to be seen in public with the pet outside business hours. 

Two, harming the pet to the point of hospitalisation or death will result in heavy fines and sometimes monthly banning from acquiring new pets. 

Three, pets will obey their owner's wishes and never speak of the activities with other pets. 

Four, and probably the most important, no owner shall fall in love with a pet, and no pet shall fall in love with an owner. 

When Hugo arrived and found me in this state, he broke. I am unsure why, maybe on the inside, he broke the fourth rule with me. Hugo and I were never close per se, but he always looked out for me and was often the one who would come and pick me up from dates with owners. This time, however, he overdid it. Not to say that the guy didn't deserve the beating, but it cost Hugo a lot. Not just money to cover damages, it cost him respect and trust with the Tsar. I have always thought highly of Hugo. He does not engage in any sexual previsions that the other bosses do. He refused kids who tried it on with him. He only works on the construction and building side of the business, but he's still complicit in the whole process. I think he feels guilty for that, but, like me, he's stuck. There's no way out once you're in unless you die. I snapped back to reality when my phone rang. It was almost time. I had accepted that I would die in a place like this long ago, but I only hope to bring justice to these poor children. I might have grown accustomed to it early, but seeing the little dark-haired boy cling so desperately to Scarlett for comfort kills me. 

I want to save them.

All of them, but it might not be possible for all. 

I exited the sitting room and sighed. It was 10:41 pm. In four hours, I'll be dead. I thought about Patrick once more, but the thought was interpreted. My phone rang again. It was Charlie. A wave of relief washed over me, and I left out a small whimper. I answered him; my tone was bitter, which was unintended, "It's time."

 End I