Bad Boy Addict

♛ 05. Sweet Talk ♛

♛ XAVION'S  P.O.V. ♛

The last man who disobeyed the way of Pablo is still missing in the state of Ohio.

      I think of that, repeatedly, as I sit in my car—parked outside of Pablo's mansion. I've been in here for half an hour with little to no intentions of getting out. I've gone back and forth from playing music on the radio and silently calculating how much the amount hospitalization will cost after Pablo is done with me. I told Jinnah that he wouldn't kill me—and I'm sure of that. But I haven't marked out 'server bodily harm' as a possible punishment for defying his power.

      When the opportunity approached me to help that girl, I didn't have a problem pissing off Christopher. I figured the worst that would happen from freeing her would've been minor consequences. Having to deal with Christopher's annoying glare every now and then seemed like an even tradeoff for what I did.

      This, however, isn't what I signed up for. Dealing with Pablo is a completely different ball game than handling a dispute with the top boss. Pablo finds amusement in watching people suffer. The joy he gains from that is strong enough to settle an issue if he gets a good laugh out of the punishment. And that's why I'm expecting the worst. A pact with Pablo is like a pact with the devil himself.

      Inhaling deeply, I unlock the car door and throw it open, exiting my vehicle with my head low. I reach into my back pocket, retrieving a pack of cinnamon chewing gum. After lodging a red stick of stiff gum, I play with the foil paper up until I'm inches from the doorknob. I don't bother knocking. It's never locked. When you're as armed and well-guarded as Pablo, you don't fear what's behind your back as much.

      Pablo's manor is a spectacle of its own. Elegant pale stone statues, mimicking the Ancient Roman era dot the path leading to his living room. It's as though you're walking through a museum, staring up at the mural on the high ceilings and gawking at the gold framed artwork hanging on the walls. They're mostly family portraits, but I spot a couple classic period pieces from the Renaissances. I've always hesitated from asking if they were real or replicas. Knowing Pablo, he wouldn't bother settling for something fake.

      Vividly, I remember running up and down this path so many times during my teen years, not thinking much of the emotionless men in black, strapped with weapons who poked their heads from behind doors.

      "No!" Someone, deeper within the house, yelled. "I said to give me his head on a silver platter. You're trying to let him off easy on this, but I'm not. I want the kid dead. You hear that, Frankie? D-E-A-D. Dead. I'll kill him myself if I have to. I'd take pride in scalping that motherf—" he stops himself, spotting me at the end of the walkway of statues and looming at the entrance of the living room. After whispering a goodbye, he slams the phone down and gestures for me to come in. "Sit, Xavion."

      I do as he says and take a seat across from him. Sinking deep into the cushiony red recliner, I brace myself for the worst screaming match of my existence. "How you been?" I ask.

      "I'm doing fine."

      "That phone call tells me otherwise."

      "I'm busy with a lot of shit, ok? You're not the only asshole who's pissed me off today." Pablo picks up a pencil from the coffee table, propped on a stack of papers. "I didn't call for you to bring your ass over here for small talk. This isn't about the call. This is about you trying to interfere in my business. Business that—quite frankly—doesn't fucking involve you to begin with."

      "Christopher was going to kill her." I say. "If not that, then sell her off to a sex trafficking ring."

      "And what does that have to do with you? Huh?"