Chapter two

"You don't listen, do you?"

As I sink into the plush couch, I intertwine my fingers and lean forward, my restless ear picking up the slow tick of the clock amidst the oppressive stillness. With a quiet chuckle, I lift my frosty gaze to hers, observing the confusion dancing in her vivid blue eyes, yet commending her for keeping her inscrutable poker face intact.

In a measured tone, I effortlessly lace my words with a biting sarcasm, "You just ask the same questions every fucking week."

"How's your relationship with your brother?"

"How's your job?"

My words hung in the air like heavy curtains. I leaned back, studying the ceiling with a deep sigh. My fingers danced across my rough stubble as I considered my sentence with careful precision. "Are you having any negative thoughts...?" I trailed off and paused, taking a moment to soak in the weight of my confession.

"All I have are negative thoughts."

There are moments when existence feels like a draining vortex, suffocating my soul and suppressing my emotions. My innermost thoughts struggle to escape the confines of my tongue, as if chained to the tip. They remain trapped, wading in a sea of inadequacy and insignificance.

The deafening silence that follows is almost unbearable, crawling into my being to produce an inner ringing that's impossible to shake off. The void that consumes me is unbearable, prompting me to seek solace in worldy distractions that are temporary and unsatisfying.

My appetite for life is curbed by an unspeakable sense of inferiority that has dominated me for far too long.

My intense emotions have now become a barrier, shrouding me in a cloak of nothingness, an endless void.

"Are they about your mother?" My therapist inquires, and I raise my head to meet her unwavering gaze. It remains fixated on me, unflinching, as I contemplate my response. "Yes, and you, people and sometimes my brother."

As my therapist's eyes meet mine, I feel exposed, vulnerable. The intensity of her gaze shows that she's fully present and unafraid to delve into the depths of my mind. "Do you think the drinking helps?" she probes. "No."

I let out a sigh, knowing deep down that it's the truth. The liquor numbs everything, quieting the spinning chaos in my head. But it's a temporary fix, a band-aid over a festering wound.

Marléne jotted something down hurriedly in her notebook, and I couldn't help but feel resentful towards this stranger who knows nothing about my twisted past.

Against my will, I keep laying myself bare in front of her, desperate to dig myself out of this hole I'm in. Grappling with my addiction certainly isn't going to help fix anything.

In an attempt to escape the tormenting and constant thoughts, I turn to my go-to solution: drinking.

It's my only escape from the chaos in my head, my only solace in the midst of my inner turmoil. As I sit opposite Marléne, my therapist, I can feel her inquisitive gaze upon me, the scratching of her pen in her book echoing in the room.

At first, I dreaded these sessions, still grappling with the idea of confiding my struggles to a total stranger. How could she possibly comprehend the horrors I have endured and the pain I carry every day? But despite my reservations, I know deep down that I need to fix myself – and turning to the bottle won't solve my issues.

The clock ticks methodically in the corner of the room, filling every moment with a sense of urgency. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the weight of Marléne's scrutinizing gaze. She crosses her legs thoughtfully, jots down a few notes, and turns to face me.

"Abel," she begins carefully, "I think it's time you found a new hobby, something that calms you down. It needs to be something that doesn't involve violence or drowning your sorrows at your mother's grave. Find something that gives you peace, something you can turn to in moments of stress. Then, we'll talk again about those negative thoughts."

I exhale a deep breath through my nose, pushing my unruly hair out of my eyes. My mind races as I try to come up with something, anything that can soothe my troubled soul.

Now where the fuck will I find that?

Is there anything that can soothe the unrest in my soul?

I slouch on the couch, searching for an escape from my listless state. Marléne peers at me with concern.

"I better leave," I mutter. "Will you come back next week?" she inquires.

"Perhaps, if I can find a reason to keep plodding through this mundane existence," I confess before grabbing my coat and walking out.

Outside, the sunshine blinds me momentarily. I grab my phone and dial my brother's number.

"What?" he barks. The sounds of flesh pounding against flesh and a woman's low moans fill my ears.

I sigh. "Wanna hit the gym with me after your cardio?" I suggest, walking over to my sleek gray huracan Lamborghini.

As I approach the car, it sings its familiar tune with two smooth beeps. My eyes dart from side to side like a sharpshooter, scanning for any potential danger. Coasting through the safety checklist, I slip inside and close the door with a reassuring clang.

The aroma of lavish leather mingled with the tiniest hint of whiskey assaults my nostrils in the coolest way possible.

"Done with your therapy?" Saint's voice is buttery smooth, like silk, as he grinds through the pleasurable agony with the girl he's fucking via the phone. "Yep."

"How was it?"

After scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror, I slumped my head onto the car seat, releasing a heavy sigh of resignation. "It's the same old shit," I grumbled with a twinge of despair. "She made it sound so easy, suggesting I pick up a wholesome hobby to align my inner peace." With a push of the ignition button, the engine rumbled to life.

"How will you find something that will help with your condition?" I heard Saint's voice echo in my ear, laced with concern.

A pall of quiet descends upon us, broken only by the faint moans of anguish that prick at my ears. I brace myself for the inevitable suggestion from Saint, but no amount of mental preparation could have steeled me for what he proposed next.

"Get a puppy," he advises, as if this was a perfectly rational thing to say in the midst of my crisis. "It's what some of my guys do for emotional support. They can help you cope with whatever you're going through."

I can feel my eyeballs rolling heavenward as I protest, "A dog? Seriously? I can barely take care of myself, let alone a needy little furball that requires constant attention and care." Even as I speak, I can already see the sad little creature, whining and pining away in my empty apartment, wondering why I've abandoned it to a life of neglect and hunger.

That's a fact. I'm barley at home, and even when I am, I'm not in the proper frame of mind.

I'll impose my miserable existence on the innocent creature, causing both of us to suffer.

With a huff of frustration, I activate the speakerphone and set my phone in my lap, ready to make my escape out of the parking lot and away from this ridiculous conversation.

Clearing my throat I push my hair out of my face and say. "I'll meet you by the gym." I tell Saint before ending the call.

I wouldn't want my trip to the gym be filled with fucking noises.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

With every punch and kick I threw, the bruises on my face grew in size and intensity, my hair sticking to my sweaty skin as I struggled for breath.

"Listen, I really think a furry friend could help you out," Saint gasped out between shirtless pushups, revealing a massive back tattoo that danced with his muscles.

"No," I grunted, my fists pounding the bag with even more fury.

"What about a piano?" He suggested, his voice trailing off as he feigned interest in one of his hobbies.

I unleashed a double kick on the bag, sending it flying dangerously close to the screws that held it up. "Unless you've got a legit solution to my problems, Saint, save your breath," I snapped with irritation, watching as he laughed lightly before rising to his feet.

Stretching his neck until it popped, he groaned with pleasure, savoring the release of tension.

As I broached the subject, Saint wiped the sweat from his forehead with a damp towel and downed a whole water bottle. "Let's discuss our next shipment," I said, getting straight to the point.

"Zoltan has informed me that the feds are onto our arms transportation scheme. So, to avoid any mishaps, I have arranged for a ship to transport Italian wine bottles instead of our usual goods. They'll never suspect a thing," Saint declared, with a shrewd grin on his face.

Relieved, I nodded in agreement, and Saint continued, "Prince and I will be keeping a sharp eye on the federal channels, just to make sure they haven't caught on to our little ruse." He gave me a satisfied nod, and we both knew that we were one step ahead of the game.

Le Milieu was no ordinary underworld. In the early 1900s, the air was thick with seduction and danger, the seedy streets rife with prostitution, bookmaking, fencing, and hijacking. Come the 1940s, everything changed.

A new crop of hardened criminals emerged, emboldened by the thrill of bank robbery, drug trafficking, and smuggling. But just when we thought we couldn't get any craftier, the 1980s saw a resurgence of large-scale bank heists that left authorities scratching their heads. It seemed they would stop at nothing to get their hands on dirty money.

Fast forward to the 90s and 2000s, and the gangs had taken things up a notch. Complex extortion rings spanning the length and breadth of Marseille, Aix-en-Provence and the French Riviera stretched our tentacles into the legal economy. Now, in the present day, Le Milieu is a force to be reckoned with. Not content with just extorting our victims, we now run an impressive counterfeiting and white-collar crime operation too. But as financial regulations tighten, we've been forced to get smarter to blend in with the legal economy. It's risky business, but we are not ones to back down from a challenge.

France's geographical location makes it an attractive venue for trafficking, smuggling and counterfeiting. The port of Marseille is a hub for Le Milieu to move large amounts of product into domestic and European markets. Low economic development continues to be the largest factor in youth joining French criminal organizations.

My brother Saint reigns supreme as the leader of the illustrious French mafia, and I am honored to serve as his trusted lieutenant. While he possesses a heart of steel and a mastery of all things perilous, I bring a strategic mind and a penchant for organizing our endeavors to the table. Naturally, I cannot take on all the responsibilities alone; alongside me stands my partner in crime, the suave and cunning Prince.

And though Saint works closely with Zoltan, my closest friend, we all collaborate seamlessly as a formidable team.

"Three weeks until the shipment arrives. You excited?" I inquire, and Saint answers affirmatively with a nod.

It's the one thing that can divert my attention away from the haunting visions that plague my mind.