On the far edge of the docks, a squat concrete house pulsed with music. The place stank of weed, sweat, and cheap perfume, a trap house that looked like it'd been patched together out of bad decisions.
A black sedan rolled to a stop outside. A man stepped out, mid-thirties, thick mustache, sharp eyes that scanned the street without hurry.
He flipped a knife open with a casual flick of his thumb, not to use it, just spinning it between his fingers as if to keep them busy.
He moved up the warped steps and pushed through the door.
Inside was haze and noise. Young women lounged on torn couches, half-dressed in a way that barely counted as dressed at all.
Showing bits and bits and until it wasn't even bits anymore.
A few men sat scattered around, playing cards, smoking, laughing too loud. Nobody stopped him.
He walked deeper, ignoring the stares, knife still dancing in his hand. The further in he went, the quieter it got. At the end of a narrow hallway, he stopped at a closed door and rapped his knuckles twice.
"Come in," a young man's voice called from inside.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was drowned in smoke, thick, sweet, chemical. A young man in his mid-twenties sat behind a cheap wooden table stacked with bricks of cash and half-burnt bills. A tall glass bong leaned against the wall, a hookah hose snaking across the floor.
"Ahhh, finally," the younger man drawled, voice sharp but lazy. He stood and waved a hand. "Everyone out!"
The girls lounging on the couch moved quick, laughing nervously as they slipped past Michael and out the door. The music faded with them, leaving the hum of cheap speakers and the buzz of a broken light overhead.
The younger man took a long drag from the blunt hanging off his lip, eyes glassy but alive with mania. He spread his arms wide, pacing like a preacher on a bad trip.
"Picture this, Michael, we take this slum city first, yeah? Then we move to the capital. We own the whole damn country. The streets, the ports, the supply lines, all of it. You know what that means? Real power. Real money. None of this nickel-and-dime shit."
Michael stayed silent, flipping his knife open and shut in one hand, expression unreadable.
The kid grinned through the smoke. "Moreno runs the capital now, sure. He's a big name, scary guy. But kings fall. He's just a man. And when he goes down, we step in."
Michael's voice was low, skeptical but curious. "You've got big dreams, kid. Moreno's not just another thug. Taking him down won't be easy."
"It's fine," the kid said with a half-crazed chuckle, tossing the blunt into an ashtray and lighting another. "You need guns? I got guns. You need product? I got product. Just keep working the docks, that's your job. My job is everything else."
He grabbed a small baggie from the table and tossed it to Michael. "Before you leave, take a hit of this."
Michael caught it, eyed the powder. "Is that—"
"Real shit," the kid cut in, smiling wide. "Not the cut garbage everyone's sniffing out there in other lands. I'm the first motherfucker to get drugs into this country. A pioneer." He smacked his chest, half proud, half manic.
"So here's the deal, Michael, the supplier wants me on top. Wants me running the capital. Me. I've been chosen." The sarcasm in his voice didn't hide the ambition behind it.
He leaned forward over the table, smoke curling from his lips. "We take the capital, we own this. We build something bigger than anything my father ever dreamed of."
Michael's knife stopped spinning. His hand curled into a fist. Whether it was excitement or anger was hard to tell.
"My father was thinking small," the kid said, pacing behind the table. Smoke curled around his face as he smirked. "Talking about keeping the country clean. Nobody in power's clean. Not really."
He waved a hand like brushing away an old man's memory. "Anyway, enough of that. We got time. We got patient friends," he added with a pointed grin, clearly meaning the mysterious supplier.
His eyes cut back to Michael, who was still flicking the knife open and shut. "But I've been hearing you're getting problems with your little debt-shark business."
Michael sighed through his nose, shoulders tight. "I'll handle it. Been busy keeping the docks running."
The kid leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. "I got a better idea. You got plenty of poor bastards who owe you, right? People drowning in debt?"
Michael gave a slow nod. "Yeah."
"Then stop just bleeding them dry. Make them work for you."
Michael frowned, knife pausing mid-flip. "Work for me?"
"Yeah. Work for you, work for me, same difference," the kid said, grinning wide. "Think about it. Once we take the capital, once we've got the supply rolling heavy, we're gonna need distributors. Street legs. Movers. Who better than the desperate ones who already owe us everything?"
Michael's eyes narrowed, silent but thinking.
The kid smirked deeper, knowing the hook was catching. "Instead of breaking their kneecaps, put 'em on payroll. They pay off their debt by moving our product, protecting our shipments, doing whatever dirty job we need. Loyal, because they've got no way out."
Michael stared at the kid in front of him. God, he was annoying, twitchy, loud, all over the place, but there was no denying it. The brat was smart. And cruel.
It wasn't like the idea hadn't crossed Michael's own mind before: putting the people who owed him to work instead of just squeezing them dry.
But back then, there'd been no work to give them. Drugs weren't a thing in Astoria. Even in the slums, crime was mostly money games, smuggling, some stolen cars, nothing needing an army of deliveries.
But this boy… this boy was carving out new ground. Cruel enough to build an industry out of desperation, cruel enough to force people into crime just to survive. And for the first time, Michael felt the faint tug of possibility, and danger.
Because he had ambition, but unlike his father, he had no principles and definitely no lines he wouldn't cross.