Reads: 356  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Vince is a mafia king, running a drug trade the stretches as far as the eye can see. With a habbit of getting involved with bad women, and killing people without thinking twice, Vince has another side, his Ghost. A mafia king with a mental problem, an anti-social voice in his head driving his thrist for blood, to kill to destroy and to rule the drug kingdom. Here's a piece with Vince's personality.

Submitted: August 21, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 21, 2016




He woke up and looked to his side. There she was, a girl he didn’t even like, someone that could do so much more than just a prostitute, but life doesn’t seem to want it that way. He got out of the bed and towered over her body. He moved a loose hair behind her ear; she was so beautiful under that drug induced coma she was in. That all they ever wanted, drugs or money or both, it was sad, really sad and he knew that because he’s seen many of them passed out on a side walk and many more ending up dead from all sorts of over doses. And then there was him, the drug dealer. He spat, no one freakin told her to get high; no one told her to leave a privileged life for a life on the streets. His cell phone buzzed; picking it up before it woke the girl he tapped answer and held it to his ear

“Yes” he said into the phone.

“Boss, we got a problem” the voice whispered back, “G didn’t make the drop and…”

“The others are angry, I get it” he said strictly into the phone, “I’ll be in my office in an hour, make sure that Gorilla is in there before I am” He said in an even stronger tone, like a father scolding their child. Turning the cell phone off before anyone could call again he tossed it to the side.

Walking to the cheap motel bathroom and washing his face with the ice cold water that dripped out of the rusty tap. Looking up at the cracked mirror with his face still wet, dripping like a slightly open tap. Looking at himself in the mirror; thirty didn’t hit him hard, not the way it hit most of his friends. Most of them had scares around their face, some dead other on the verge of death from the recent raid two days back. But him, oh no, he barely ever got caught, and if he did he was released not long after. His eyes were still bright like the bright brown eyes of a child. His head was still full of pitch black hair, still long and full like when he was a teen. His hair hung on his shoulders, not a centimeter over.

Grabbing an elastic band from his wrist –where he unconsciously kept it when it wasn’t tying his hair back- he tied his now wet hair back, pulling it so none fell in his face. And then there was one. The minute the pony tail was tight, the one stubborn hair around the side of his face would fall out of place. And the on  other side of his face as well, he’d have up to three strands of hair popping out of both left and right sides of his face, something he hated and very often led to him cutting the hair out with scissors. Pulling out the elastic band and dipping his head forward so that all the hair fell forward, he tied it again and looked up, not a hair out of place. Drying his face with the dirty towel that the motel bathroom provided, drying every inch of his face. Unlike most of his drug mates, there was not one scar that showed on his face. Smiling at himself he walked back into the room and grabbed his trousers off the dressing table. Tossing his shirt on, and pulling on his shoes.

Looking in the dressing mirror as he slipped on his golden watch, slipping on his gold chain and pulling the cross to his lips, tapping it there for a while, thinking of his next move, what now? What could he do know when a deal was done and another was yet to be made. He then walked out of the room, he wouldn’t want to see the tramp wake up, hear her pester him for money, hear her moan for a little sniff of what he’d never carry on his person.

Turning, he walked out without a second glance.


Walking through the doors of his office with more than rage in his eyes, Vince walked through the door. He saw his men, three, or two considering what Vince planned on doing to one of them. He let out a laugh, a metallic, fake, forced laugh. Walking with a fake spring Vince stepped up the little rise and sat down behind his desk. Turning his desk around and facing through the huge stain glass window. He let out a laugh.

“Do you really think I need this right now?” he asked sarcastically. His thick eyebrows were raised, one who didn’t know him would think that he was actually the slightest bit concerned, but his muddy eyes spoke another language. His lips curved slightly, a malicious smile grew on the tips of his lips, raising his hand up, his long fingers first straight, the tips all facing the ceiling, and slowly three of them curved leaving his index finger pointing up.

On the way back home that morning one of his men sent him the details of the trade that didn’t happen because of the buffoon that stood before him, the guy that would have been dead long ago if he hadn’t been so merciful, the guy that would be dead soon if Vince was not so merciful. Smiling he turned his hand, still sticking his finger up, “one” he said softly, “you have one day to fix yourself. Don’t mess up or you” he pointed the finger at the man before him. A man looking like he was shaking within his crocodile skin shoes. This huge gorilla of a person shaking like a thin tree in a strong gale, “You” the finger pointed straight at the man, “have one chance or” he then lifted his thumb, a makeshift gun. And with a laugh he made the sound, “Bang” the gorilla man would have staggered back then, as though he really got shot, but that would show weakness, actual fear, and Gorilla couldn’t afford to mess up, even emotionally.

His lips formed an O, lifting his ‘gun’ to his plump lips he blew.  “Go now, I want my stuff tomorrow morning, or you won’t see the afternoon” he winked at Gorilla as he waved a hand to dismiss another one of his goons. Gorilla shut the door behind him; making a small click just another sound in the ever silent mansion that Vince lived in. Looking back at his computer and seeing nothing that catches his attention. Yawning he spun in his black leather chair, intertwining then untangling his fingers repeatedly, thinking of his next move, what would he do with Gorilla. The bloke didn’t get it, he probably didn’t know more than the math’s he learnt the day he dropped out of school.

If Gorilla went down there was a chance his whole Heroine distribution would go down for at least a month, if that idiot messed up Ghost would have to build up trust again, which was easy with the local drug dealers, but harder when you went international. Standing up and taking a step from his desk, using his finger to trace along his dark wooden desk.

Lifting the photograph from his desk he saw his father, the former Ghost, yeah, talk about heritage. When he was younger his father would sit behind the big wooden desk, taller than Vince was tall, dark and big and intimidating. The chair’s back would always be facing the door when pa was on the phone; he never wanted his son to see him shout over the phone. His voice had become a lot like his fathers, big and round and slightly scary, no, very scary when he wanted it to be. Now it was Vince’s desk, it was Vince’s chair, it was his telephone now. The black thing that only beeped, never really rang.

Beep, beep’ picking it up he heard the voice of the guard at the gate of his mansion.

© Copyright 2017 HarrowsSilence. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by HarrowsSilence


Essay / Romance

Blues Music

Short Story / Romance


Essay / Literary Fiction

Popular Tags