The Art of Death

Prolouge: Fraud

Fraud (noun): wrongful or criminal deception intended to result in financial or personal gain.

***
September 3rd - Thursday

Marcus Torres dipped into the dimly lit ally way, narrowly avoiding the dribbles of left over rain from the above fire escapes. It was September in the Bronx, and the recent rain did nothing to chase away the humidity leached to the air.

As his feet echoed down the alley way, he clutched a half wad of sticky dollar bills tightly in his hand. His earnings.

The other half was burning a hole in his jean pocket, along with the left over cocaine he hadn't sold.

It was 3 o'clock in the morning and the streets were deserted of human life, only the odd rodent scurrying across from dumpster to dumpster in front of him, lit by the faint illumination of exit signs of the passing buildings. Despite this, he could feel the prickle of eyes watching, the burning gaze of the security camera in front of him, the slight electronic whiz making his eyes dart nervously as it watched him approach. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, and he tried his best to hold back a shiver, instead shrugging nonchalantly, reaching up to press the red flashing telecom button on the wall.

It blinked once. It blinked twice. It blinked thrice. His heart thundered so hard, he had to rub the ache the middle of his chest to make the pain of the hard thumps go away.

He heard the click of the lock, and he quickly slipped into the building, the thick warm air of alley being blown away by the cool air conditioning of the building. He could hear the hum of the A/C and the intermittent flickers of the lights; it seemed to echo down the deathly quiet hallway.

The florescent lights stung his eyes, his pupils narrowing quickly to account for the bombardment of unnatural light. After spending the majority of the evening in the dark corners of Propoganda, one of the largest Russian owned nightclubs in the Bronx, his eyes were particularly sensitive.

The aircon slithered along his damp skin making him shiver as he took the stairs down to the lower levels of one of La Casa Nostra's distribution centres. It was particularly quiet with it being a week day, and he had to squint to check his Bulova wrist watch, the one Marcus' father was wearing when a fatal heart attack killed him and his mother in car wreck. There was a crack on the glass face, but Marcus didn't bother repairing when he'd inherited his father's minuscule collection of inexpensive watches in the will.

3.14am, the watch read; the Parlour opened in 5 hours, and he still needed to get the bus home.

He shook his head, it didn't matter. He was doing this for his sisters. If not for Nova; to keep her in Law school and ensure her tuition is paid. But for Indie, who is also trying her hardest to keep them afloat; working at the parlour in the day, bartending at night and stocking up her portfolio and creating sketches for her clients in early hours of the morning before the sun kisses the horizon.

This was the only way.

He stepped out into the open space of the warehouse, heading straight past the soldiers of the Casa Nostra, towards the back where a small office sat, the shutters to the windows over the looking the warehouse were shut.

He begged internally not to see one of the higher ranking men, who would actually bother to count the cash, but one of the soldiers who would just shove it in the safe and call it a day. No one spared him a glance as he tried to slip past as quietly as he could, just a lowly associate, a shadow, a nobody. Just how he wanted to stay.