Aspen.

Aspen POV.
“We need to do this Marco,” I tell my right hand and best friend, my number one guy, we need to do this now.
“Boss, do we have to?” Marco asks sounding like a child, he could be one sometimes.
“Yes, we do, let’s go,” I order him again, there’s a war going on, but there’s always a war here and there, our jobs are dirty, filled with danger, but what can I say, I’m an adrenaline junky.
“Fine boss, but you owe me one,” Marco says, I simply rolled my eyes at him, sure I always owe him one, every time I drag him to any kind of job that he doesn’t enjoy, but what kind of job does he enjoy except the one with pretty asses or pussies in them.
“Let’s go, stop whining,” I scold him, I’m working with children here.
I got my guns ready, checking them all before we leave, you never want to use your gun only to find it not working, or even worse to find it’s not loaded, that’s a tricky situation there, one that’s near impossible to get out of, the only way out is death. I killed people before, not that I’m proud of that, or maybe I’m a bit proud, I was never killed before, that’s my most proud point in life, never dying before.
We both left the house, it’s our safe point, it’s the one place where no business is ever conducted, I prefer to have my safe place, and keep it safe.
I got in my black Mercedes Benz, what’s the saying about black Mercedes cars? German cars are indestructible? No, not that one, the saying that all mafia bosses drive Mercedes Benz, my car is bulletproof, fast, and dark, the windows are tinted, the trunk is filled with weapons and money, you never know which one you might need. I got in the driver’s seat, I know some people prefer to get a driver, but for me personally, I prefer to drive, why give anyone else the control over where I go, put my life in their hands, that was never my thing.
I started the long drive to the club, I know how cliche it sounds, but most of us prefer to work in clubs at the night, it’s the best way to get our work going, we are protected by the moon, the loud music and tone of bodies to hide the things that happen in the back doors.
I got into the club, but this one isn’t mine, I do own one, but not here, mine is on the other side of the town. We have the whole country distributed between us, we have our side and they have their sides, but that doesn’t mean we don’t find, doesn’t mean we don’t try to take over each other sides, but that’s not acceptable, not on my side.
I parked my car and got out, followed by Marco, I walked toward their door, I walked right in, went to the bar and took a seat, looking at the bartender, demanding their full attention, I’m a very dominant man. Or so I’m told, when I walk into a place, I demand everyone’s attention, I get it easily, ever since I was young, much younger, everyone looked at me to guide them, waited for me to be the boss, and so I became.
I was raised on the streets, the son of a drug junky and the old mafia boss, he was the one in charge until I came and took charge instead of him until it was my turn. But in our world, things don’t go so smoothly, nothing is black and white, everyone would think my mother is the bad person, and my father was the better one, but that’s too far away from the truth.
My mother was the victim of human trafficking, stolen when she was only sixteen, she was full of life, a beautiful girl, who’d grow to make a more magnificent woman. But then my father happened, he didn’t take her to himself right away, she’s too strong and hard-headed for him to do so, instead, he sold her, he sold her to the traffickers, over and over again.
Each time she was abused and used, until she was no more, she returned to him only a shell of what she really was, she was addicted to drugs now, one that doesn’t even know what the word no means anymore. My mother was the victim here, forced to get pregnant with me when she didn’t want to, I don’t blame her, I don’t blame the drugs that took her away from us, an overdose, she kept saving them until she managed to kill herself, she died a hero in my eyes.
Next came my jerk of a father, when I said I was raised on the streets, I meant it, he was never a father, he was always the boss, he wanted me to learn, he wanted me to take his place, but I doubt he meant me taking his place that soon. At the age of sixteen, the same age that my mother was taken out of her family house in, I grew to be a very strong, defiant, I was a strong dominant man. My father was afraid of me, afraid enough to be ready to sell me the same way he sold my mother, but I wasn’t my mother, I knew what to do.
I killed him, I took a gun to his head and killed him, easy and simple, it was painless, unlike the death, my mother had to suffer, her heart stopped slowly, and painfully, and the drug moved through her veins, hurting her, killing her from the inside and outside.
Only at sixteen, it was hard to take over the whole business, it’s all messed up, I refused to do or participate in any kind of trafficking, I stopped them all, I do not hurt women and children, unlike my dear father.
“Jack on ice,” I told the bartender looking around the club, filled with people, happy, dancing, taking drugs that would rot their brains and hearts, sometimes I wonder how many of them would end up dead from an overdose, a lot, this club is one of the bigger supplies of bad faulty drugs.
“Sir,” the bartender says handing me my glass, but I wasn’t here to enjoy the view, nor am I here to drink.
“Call your boss, tell him I’m waiting,” I say, I’m here to do some work.