My Criminal Future

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 3 (v.1) - III

Submitted: July 02, 2019

Reads: 5

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Submitted: July 02, 2019

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Magnet gave Crispy a lift and he got out right next to his block and got a percentage of the night’s income. It was 2 a.m. He quietly walked through the hall, not to wake up Mrs Esposito, the owner of the building. She was a kind and gentle woman, but also quite intrusive and cagey. Crispy had used so many of his ideas for excuses that he wasn’t quite sure that he wouldn’t repeat any if he got caught. This time he reached his door undisturbed and opened it. It was a typical apartment for a guy that doesn’t need a lot to be happy. Forty square feet, a living room, where he watches TV, sleeps, cleans his guns, washes blood out of his clothes and calls people to buy alibis. A classic twenty-seven-year-old. He took off his black hoodie and threw it onto his sofa. He took out his phone and put It right next to a framed family picture. It was the only picture of his family he had. It was taken four years prior to his parents’ death. They were standing in front of a hotel in Bulgaria, during holidays. A twelve-year-old Dominick himself, his forty-year-old father - Erick and his four years younger wife – Eva. It’s been almost eleven years since their tragic accident and there had not been a day that he wouldn’t look at that picture with tears in his eyes. Above the picture there were trophies he’d won, during, as he felt like, his previous life. At 16 he became a national champion in wrestling. Then he did a bunch of courses in muay thai and jiu jitsu, for he had been fascinated by martial arts ever since he was a little boy. Now he looked at all those trophies and medals and felt absolutely nothing. He wasn’t keeping them because he was proud of them. He was keeping them as a reminder that he was, or used to be, more than just “Crispy” – he was Dominick Crisper – a talented teenager with a bright, not-very-criminal, future. He saw that he hadn’t noticed a bunch of letters next to his door. Ad, ad, ad, ad, ad, ad. Classic. On one hand, he wasn’t really hoping for a letter from a long-lost aunt informing him that he inherited a hundred million dollars, but on the other he imagined himself getting a letter like that every day. He took out an envelope from his pocket and took out the cash. 3k. He opened his closet and kneeled. He moved two loose wood boards, to reveal a sizeable hiding place. There were two boxes inside. He took out the smaller one, with the word “Future” written over it and opened it. Inside there was about three hundred thousand dollars. He had been working for Boozer for three years now and every day he would put as much as he could inside that box, telling himself that once he’s done, he will be able to reward himself for all the years spent in fear and danger. He knew this was blood money. Money, that shouldn’t really be his. Money he hadn’t earned the right way. But he believed that it wasn’t about where the money come from, it’s about what you do with them. And he wasn’t planning on wasting them. Now he took out the second, larger box with the word “Past” written over it. He opened it and saw two police uniforms. The first one, much older than the other, adorned with medals, was his father’s. The other, much more modern and apparently worn only a few times – was his own.


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