Page 7 of Volatile Obsessions

Just as I set out to rap my knuckles on the door, it swung open, revealing a grinning Vic. Clad in a black suit—strikingly similar to mine—with an olive green tie in place of my raven one, he was seemingly the picture of success.

“It’s been a while, man,” he said, offering me a welcoming hand.

It had been a while, for reasons I didn’t care to relive in that moment, earning him a hiccup of reticence on my part. I eyed him steadily, mentally time traveling through years of unwanted memories, which in turn furrowed his brows in confusion. The simple action sprung me into action. I stuffed down those images and extended my hand in return.

“How’s it going?” I offered, falling into that typical one-sided, slap on the back man-hug.

“Pretty damn good, not much to complain about,” he replied, easing back and motioning for me to enter his office. “Come in, come in. Have a seat.”

Vic’s workspace was a stark contrast to the majority of the building. Not one thing was out of place, much less dilapidated or run down. Everything appeared new and quite costly if I’m being completely honest. A massive inky desk with one hell of a throne sat at the very end of the room, all the other pieces of furniture, including the wrap-around bookcases and wingback chairs facing his desk the same dark shade, too. Decorative accent pieces and various abstract paintings in different shades of green were strewn about in strategic places, and yet, somehow were still in perfect symmetry.

None of this was unusual, really. In fact, it all but hollered Vic’s style. But what I couldn’t for the life of me figure out was what he could possibly need my help with.

I took the seat on the left as he shut the door behind us and ambled toward the liquor cabinet nearby, holding up a decanter of what I assumed was whiskey.

It’s all he drank.

“Care for a drink?” he questioned.

Despite knowing the time, I glanced at the steel face of my Movado. “A little early don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, but it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

He has a point…

“Two fingers. I’m driving,” I stated simply.

Vic poured our drinks without spilling a drop and shuffled toward me, holding out the amber liquid.

“What’s with the inquisitive brow?”

“I’m confused,” I said, taking the proffered glass from his hand.

He slipped around his desk and dropped into his chair, setting an ankle to his knee. “About?” he quizzed.

“I thought you needed my help,” I clarified.

“I do.”

“With?” My eyes danced around the pristinely furnished room as I twirled a finger through the air. “You look pretty damn set to me, bro. Granted, the outside is an absolute dump, but I know you didn’t call me all the way down here to restore a fucking building.”

Chuckling, Vic took a generous sip of his whiskey and went on to arrange the glass on his desk, dead-center on the coaster. Not an inch to the right or on the left side of his desk; dead-center on the cork coaster, approximately five inches from the top right corner his laptop. Fucker had the worse case of OCD I know. Hell, if I hung out with him too long, shit started to affect me, too. I hated it. Made me feel crazier than I already was.

“I do need your help,” he affirmed, steepling his fingers.

I waited for him to continue, even nodding to confirm I’d heard him, but, of course, Vic was always one who enjoyed dragging shit out.

“Again...with?” I waved impatiently, which in turn spread a Cheshire cat grin across his face.

“Rising to the top,” he stated evenly.

My head reared back just slightly, unamused confusion cinching my expression. “To the top of what?”

“Of this city, Rome. The top of this city.” He leaned back in his seat. “You see, I don’t just want to be a member of society. I want power. Money. Respect. I want to run these streets.”

I sighed with purpose at his concession, my line of sight trained on his form as I took a long and much needed sip from my glass.

A whole thing kind of sip.

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