To Love Sin

“Life is not a fairy tale and I’m not a fair princess awaiting my true love… awaiting my prince charming to come and rescue me from a life of misery. I’m my own dragon slaying bad-ass b***h. When you come for me you’ve got to come correct.” – Sinatra   Sin Over a dozen armed body guards clear a path as I make my way into the Perfect Look Beauty Salon. As I purposefully stride into the waiting area, my stilettoes tapping on the cold hard tile, my men move out of my way as if they are the red sea and I am Moses. None of them want to stand in my way. Not today. To do so, would spell death. I am pissed… I am beyond f*****g pissed. Someone decided today was the day they would try me. They want to test my power. That is a big f*****g mistake. They will soon learn this. What they don’t know is that I would burn this f*****g world to the ground before I ever surrender my power. My retaliation for this attack will be swift and brutal. I scan the area and take in the level of destruction wreaked on my property. The air is thick with the smell of iron… blood is splattered everywhere… I could almost taste it. Stepping over an upturned chair, the first body I spot is Sinclair. Sinclair is dead. Two bullets to the head, nine millimeter gun, close range. His brain-matter litters the floor of the first of ten salons I have opened in this part of the country. These salons aid me with laundering my money. They are the legitimate front of my operation. Stepping over Sinclair, chunks of his brain attach itself to my Louis Vuitton shoes. I slow my steps to wipe it off on the hem of his pants. I hate getting my shoes dirty. Task complete, I looked up and noticed Monica.   Monica is three feet away from Sinclair. She is not dead… yet. Her chest slowly rises and falls with her labored breaths. She is fighting to live. She is a fighter. That’s why she is one of my lieutenants… one of the few trusted in my inner circle. From the looks of things, she is fighting a losing battle. She will not live to see another day. There are marks of violence all over her body: broken ribs, both eyes swollen shut, busted lip, dislocated shoulder, missing teeth. She was tortured but it looks like she put up a hell of a fight. Her finger nails are torn and bloody… I hope she scratched out the eyes of those motherfuckers.  Her clothes are torn. Her left breast is hanging out of her ripped shirt. It is also swollen and sports several bite marks. Those animals used her like a chew toy. Her red Victoria Secret panties are tangled at her ankles. Despite being a hard ass, she loved feminine undies. No cotton for her. It was always silks and lace. It’s strange the meaningless trivia you remember about someone after they die. It’s clear she was violated. She was not shown the same mercy afforded Sinclair. The perpetrators have to be some sort of p***y-hating bitches.  This pisses me off. Since the beginning of time, women have always had the short end of the stick. I’m f*****g sick of it. I’m thirty-two, and the amount of s**t I’ve had to endure during my time on earth so far could fill a five-book series. It’s moments like these I feel like extricating myself from this world I’ve built. But no. I require power, absolute power. I am never returning to that broken, scared, powerless girl. It's time for me to double down, and show the world what happens when it messes with Sinatra motherfucking Armstrong.   Someone came into my place of business and killed my employees. It is the height of disrespect. They will pay. The mere fact that someone took the time to torture Monica but killed Sinclair quickly indicates to me that they either know my secret or they are very close to finding out. I need to keep this close to my vest. I can’t afford for my secret to come out. Not now. Not after all the hard work and sacrifices I made to get where I am today. I’ve reached the stage where my power has been cemented as absolute, but there is always some fool willing to test the status quo. Every country has its own criminal elements—willing to do anything to gain and maintain power, whether through drugs, illegal arms, prostitution, human trafficking or money laundering. The Italians made the Mafia or Mob popular; China has the Triads; Russia the Bratva; France the Corsican; Mexico has its drug cartels, and Japan has the full-body tattooed Yakuza. My country – Guyana, has the Devil’s Demons. And I am the queen b***h that runs things. So I need to contain this and I need to do so quickly. But first I need to find out which one of my enemies has decided to forfeit their life. To do so, I need to keep Monica alive… at least for a little while longer. Then I will put her out of her misery. It is the good and proper thing to do. She has served me well, so I will ensure her daughter is taken care of. I just need her to do one last thing… I need her to tell me who I have to hunt. She is the only one who can tell me who has done this. The perpetrators have taken all the security cameras with them. So there is no way of identifying them. They are smart. They have struck when my salon is most vulnerable… that is on Sundays. We are closed on Sundays, and so I usually have only one guard, and Monica, as one of my lieutenants, would do inventory. Whoever it is, knows enough of my business, to know areas of weakness. I need to find them now. Signaling to the nearest guard, I spoke out loud for the first time since arriving. “Confiscate an ambulance and transport Monica to the manor,” I ordered. The manor is a safe house I maintain in this part of town, for emergencies such as this. “Yes. Sir.” All my employees address me as Sir. It’s a show of respect and they are too terrified of me to address me any other way. Sidestepping a broken table, I stop and give one final instruction before I leave. “And Rahul,” I said, pausing to ensure I had his full attention. “If Monica dies before you reach the manor, shoot yourself… in the head.” He nods his understanding. He doesn’t bother to question my directive. He knew doing so would warrant an instantaneous bullet to the head, and someone would carry out my instructions. Keeping Monica alive may seem an impossible task, but my men are paid to make the impossible possible. If Rahul can’t figure out a way to do this, then he is of no use to me. As I make my way out of the salon, I begin to plot my retribution.  I walk to my waiting bullet-proof vehicle and enter it. My driver, Alaric, who’s been in my employ over a decade, does not wait for my instructions. He knows me well enough not to be idle. I am always on the go. Since there is only one road in and out of this part of town, he doesn’t need me to tell him where to. He knows I will let him know where we are headed by the time he hits the intersection. Seated next to me is my older half-sister, Harmony. We have the same father but different mothers. I became aware of her existence after our father died. Apparently, he left her and her mother to start a new relationship with my mother, who soon after birthed me. We are five years apart. The circumstances surrounding our shared genes caused some bad blood between us initially. Harmony blamed me for taking our father’s love away from her. I had to explain to her, he had none to give to begin with. I fervently wished he’d stayed with his first wife, even if it meant I would never have existed. That’s how crappy my childhood was. Since explaining this to Harmony, we have been able to work through our differences over the years, and eventually learned to love each other. After all, we are the only family each other has got. I’ve welcomed her into my empire and now she sits at my right hand. She is now my confidante and one of my advisers. And on the occasions I do not take care of a job personally, she is my executioner. I can count on her… I can trust her and I don’t trust, easily. Many called her Jumbie – a derogatory creole term used to describe someone who is ugly. At age fourteen, she was in a vehicular accident that left her face disfigured. With the billions I’ve accumulated over the years, I’ve offered to pay for plastic surgery to repair the damage done. But she has refused me each time. Harmony believes her grotesque features serve her well as an enforcer… that it makes her appear fiercer. I agree with her. People equate her to the bogeyman. Harmony turns to me. “What is our next move, Sinatra? Who do we have to kill?” She questions. She is always ready to draw blood. In my circle, I’m known as Sin. Few have the liberty to call me by my given name, Sinatra, and live. “Someone targeted my salon. Sinclair is dead and Monica is at death’s door,” I say. “They took all the surveillance tapes to cover their tracks. I need to find a doctor who can keep Monica alive long enough to tell me who attacked them.” “Okay. But you should let me handle this. The CID (Criminal Investigative Department) is already looking into you. You shouldn’t be starting a war while you’ve got this much heat on you right now.” “I’m not starting a war. But I am damn f*****g sure it will end.” Harmony is right. The police are circling my organization like sharks sniffing blood in the water. But I have an advantage that has kept me in power all these years – no one outside of a select few in the organization knows I am the boss. They all think I’m just a lieutenant answering to some man above me. Sexist serves me well. Besides, I am not bothered by the witch hunt the police have once again launched. I have enough of them in my back pocket to get adequate advance notice of any raids. Harmony decides to push the point further. “With the bodies we dropped last week, I’m sure they’ll have their eyes everywhere.” “The police are too busy receiving bribes and kickbacks to bother with me.” Despite Harmony being my right hand, certain things I keep close to my vest. I don’t want anyone to know the extent of my reach. “They will soon grow tired of that and set their eyes on bigger fish,” she says. “If you believe that, then you haven’t been paying attention.” “I’m just—” “I’m going to deal with this matter myself,” I asserted. Harmony mutters under her breath, “It’s your funeral.” Only she can get away with that level of disrespect and not die. “Now do you have any recommendations for a doctor who will be able to keep Monica alive, if only for a short while?” “I have someone in mind that would be perfect for the job, but – ” she pauses, considering. “I’m not sure he can be persuaded to work for us. He’s one of those morally upright people. He works for Doctors without Borders.” “Don’t worry yourself about his compliance. I will ensure he is brought to heel,” I said, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes. This is going to be a very long day. I might as well get whatever rest I can now. I conclude the discussion by adding, “Direct Alaric to where we can find this esteemed doctor of yours.”