unerringly in his duties, of this he is sure, but there's always that haunting possibility that somehow his family has betrayed the shaky alliance he has worked to build with the Cubans. He backs himself out of his thoughts and glances at his reflection in the passenger side mirror – shades covering the dark spaces beneath his eyes, his skin so brown from his time in the sun, his once-manicured hair creeping close to his ears in neglect. Gun metal is hot against his lower back. He has become a ghost of himself, a quiet, pensive shell of his extravagant nature. He's just a shaggy nobody whose tendency toward haughtiness is dangerous in this world that isn't his.
Miguel drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for a light to turn green, sighing in aggravation. He smashes the button on the blaring radio and the car interior falls to heavy quiet. Seth glances at his friend, taking note of the hard-set jaw, the tension lines along brown arms, and his nerves stir again. The light changes, and Miguel takes a hard left. He lets loose a string of nasty Spanish insults toward a car that nearly cuts them off. Seth recognizes the street, and that it's the usual route to one of Havana's warehouses.
It seems like a year in itself before they roll through an open bay door, and the mechanical sound of the garage door closing behind them is a harbinger of something dark. Miguel throws the car into park and shuts off the engine. In New York, Seth would strut his ass through the place like he owned it, but here he must make sure to stay behind his boss, and to keep silent. In New York, he would own the place.
They stalk deeper into the bowls of the warehouse, and as they do, Seth can hear the muffled sounds of struggle. He's heard those noises before, and so is not entirely surprised to find three muscled Cubans surrounding one man duct taped to a folding chair. The man's face is a mess of blood and swelling, and Seth can only presume that he is also Cuban from the dark tousled hair and the brown of his skin. The man is whimpering, and bleeding, and still doing his damnedest to pull against his bonds. Despite the intensity of the scene, cool relief blossoms across Seth's nervous system. It's not his day to die, and business is easy when it doesn't include him dying. He summons his poker face, and the deadly calm of his father.
Miguel stares down at the offending party for a long stretch, his dark brown eyes blazing. Then he sighs again, and turns to Seth. The eye contact is like electricity in Seth's veins, and Miguel's accent softens the curve of his words when he says, “This man has stolen from us, skimmed product that did not belong to him. And we don't tolerate thieves.”
Seth is silent and still, and he is sure he can hear the ticking of a clock from somewhere. Maybe it's actually his heart, rising again into panic. He's smart, knows he's smart, but Miguel's words are slow to sink into sense. He blinks, swallows, feels the sweat roll down the small of his back. Miguel's gaze softens just a fraction, and he puts a steady hand on Seth's shoulder and continues.
“Word from the top named you to deal with the problem.”
The riot that has just calmed in Seth's gut erupts into another round of pitting nerves. Now, it makes perfect sense. This is a test. Every day is a test. And yet this test is unique. For all the clout Seth's name carries, for all his experience as a king's son, his own family has never made him put a gun to anyone's head with the intention of punishment. Suddenly, his stomach violently churns, but to show weakness now would destroy the name is he has worked so hard to make for himself, so he mechanically unholsters his gun with a nod.
He turns his attention to the fucked up foreign face, barely recognizable as a face at all, and he takes a steadying drag of oxygen. For the moment, he's glad the man's eyes are swollen mostly shut so that Seth can't see the terrified
Miguel drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for a light to turn green, sighing in aggravation. He smashes the button on the blaring radio and the car interior falls to heavy quiet. Seth glances at his friend, taking note of the hard-set jaw, the tension lines along brown arms, and his nerves stir again. The light changes, and Miguel takes a hard left. He lets loose a string of nasty Spanish insults toward a car that nearly cuts them off. Seth recognizes the street, and that it's the usual route to one of Havana's warehouses.
It seems like a year in itself before they roll through an open bay door, and the mechanical sound of the garage door closing behind them is a harbinger of something dark. Miguel throws the car into park and shuts off the engine. In New York, Seth would strut his ass through the place like he owned it, but here he must make sure to stay behind his boss, and to keep silent. In New York, he would own the place.
They stalk deeper into the bowls of the warehouse, and as they do, Seth can hear the muffled sounds of struggle. He's heard those noises before, and so is not entirely surprised to find three muscled Cubans surrounding one man duct taped to a folding chair. The man's face is a mess of blood and swelling, and Seth can only presume that he is also Cuban from the dark tousled hair and the brown of his skin. The man is whimpering, and bleeding, and still doing his damnedest to pull against his bonds. Despite the intensity of the scene, cool relief blossoms across Seth's nervous system. It's not his day to die, and business is easy when it doesn't include him dying. He summons his poker face, and the deadly calm of his father.
Miguel stares down at the offending party for a long stretch, his dark brown eyes blazing. Then he sighs again, and turns to Seth. The eye contact is like electricity in Seth's veins, and Miguel's accent softens the curve of his words when he says, “This man has stolen from us, skimmed product that did not belong to him. And we don't tolerate thieves.”
Seth is silent and still, and he is sure he can hear the ticking of a clock from somewhere. Maybe it's actually his heart, rising again into panic. He's smart, knows he's smart, but Miguel's words are slow to sink into sense. He blinks, swallows, feels the sweat roll down the small of his back. Miguel's gaze softens just a fraction, and he puts a steady hand on Seth's shoulder and continues.
“Word from the top named you to deal with the problem.”
The riot that has just calmed in Seth's gut erupts into another round of pitting nerves. Now, it makes perfect sense. This is a test. Every day is a test. And yet this test is unique. For all the clout Seth's name carries, for all his experience as a king's son, his own family has never made him put a gun to anyone's head with the intention of punishment. Suddenly, his stomach violently churns, but to show weakness now would destroy the name is he has worked so hard to make for himself, so he mechanically unholsters his gun with a nod.
He turns his attention to the fucked up foreign face, barely recognizable as a face at all, and he takes a steadying drag of oxygen. For the moment, he's glad the man's eyes are swollen mostly shut so that Seth can't see the terrified
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