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Title: The Power Behind The Throne
Author: Rose_the_Hat
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 29,000
Summary: In which Jensen is a powerful mob boss and Jared is his Enforcer…and so much more.
Notes: This is the product of reading too many M/M mafia romances and listening to too much Type O Negative. Apologies in advance for all the Type O references and for putting the late great Peter Steele in this
Beta’d by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jdl71
2- World Coming Down
PART 1
The pit is flooded with light. Jensen winces, slams his eyes shut, and ducks his head down. As before, he forces his eyes open. He doesn’t know how long he’s been down here. He’s getting hungry and thirsty. Keeping his voice calm and even he calls up. “Hey, up there. Want to introduce yourself? Obviously, you wanted my attention. You have it now. Come out and let’s talk some business.”
No response. Jensen hadn’t been expecting one to be honest. He’s played this game himself a time or two back when he used to interrogate people. He recoils when something is tossed down to him. He reaches out to catch it. The object bounces off his cupped hands and hits the floor. A moment before the trapdoor is closed and the overhead lamp goes out Jensen can see his captor had thrown down an eight ounce bottle of water. “I appreciate the hospitality,” Jensen says with sardonic joviality.
Holding the bottle of water makes his thirst rage. He feels around the mouth and lid of the plastic bottle. The seal seems to be intact. He breathes for a few seconds, trying to get the thirst under control, but it feels like a living thing crawling around in his throat. He cracks open the bottle and takes a few measured sips; just enough to moisten and refresh his mouth. He forces himself to put the lid back on and put the bottle as far away from himself as he can.
How big is this place anyway? He wonders idly. Shrugging he stands, sighing at the stretch and pull of his muscles. He shakes his legs out and rolls his shoulders. That feels a little better. He had been sitting too long and his muscles were starting to stiffen up. He’s not as young as he used to be, he thinks wryly. Gone is the lithe pretty twink and in his place is a man nearing forty, tall and broad shouldered, face showing the first lines of age, not unattractive, but giving him a more seasoned look; his dark blond hair beginning to show the first threads of grey at his temples. A very handsome countenance. No longer “pretty”. Jensen walks back and forth, guessing his prison is somewhere around ten feet wide. No, definitely not pretty. Pretty Jenny died and it was Jared and Petrus that helped kill him.
After the attempted hijacking, Jensen gave Petrus and Jared a thorough dressing down. He didn’t rant and rave about them—though Jensen feels the onus is mostly on Jared—circumventing his authority. They took their scolding manfully. However, Jared’s eyes sparkled with a little too much humor and maybe a little something else, too. That something else had Jensen’s dick wanting to stand up.
Before he dismissed them he handed them each six hundred dollars. Petrus gave a soft word of thanks and left. Jared, however, had different parting words.
“I can’t feel bad about it,” Jared said, eyes raking across Jensen’s body like a physical touch. Christ, he wished it were. “Got your attention,” Jared whispered, smirking. He leaned in close, smelling of good cologne mixed with his own masculine scent. Jensen inhaled deeply; he wanted to get closer, bury his face in the crook of Jared’s neck, and lick. “That’s really all I wanted to do.” He winked at Jensen and sauntered out of his office.
Jensen put Petrus and Jared to work gathering information on a couple of different crews. Petrus in the chop shops because he had knowledge of cars, and Jared with the fences because he had an eye for luxury goods. Even if he was from the streets, Jared had an eye and taste for fine things. Jensen wanted to give them to him. It was a couple of months before they got back to him with troubling news. As it turned out the hijacking was a symptom of a problem that was gaining traction throughout the Organization.
“Gentlemen,” Jensen greeted welcoming them into his office. He took their measure again. It seemed that the past four months of steady meals and excellent pay had done well for them. Both had put on weight not appearing nearly so gaunt in the face. Their clothes, while not designer like Jensen would wear, fit them well. Petrus was simply dressed in black jeans and button up shirt. Jared seemed to have a panache for clothing, wearing black slacks, shirt and blazer, with a ruby tie. A fedora with a deep red band was tipped mysteriously over one eye; he made Jensen think of Humphrey Bogart.
Petrus nudged Jared with an elbow. “Take off ya hat.”
Jared, with the hat to block Petrus from seeing it, gave Jensen a sexy wink, before removing it.
“What have you learned?” Jensen asked, getting right down to business.
They took seats in front of his desk and waited for Jensen to be seated behind it before beginning their report.
“I been workin’ at the chop shops like ya told me,” Petrus began. “And noticed some of the paahts ain’t what they should be.”
“Meaning?” Jensen prompted.
“Ritchie is cheatin’ on prices. He takes paahts from a Ford or Chevy and when he goes to sell ‘em he says they’re from a Benz or BMW.”
“Yeah, something similar is going on with the pawnshops,” Jared added. “Freddy and Mark are taking any lux goods coming through the shops and selling them to a third party then passing off fakes at premium prices. They’re good fakes, but still fakes.”
Those bastards. Jensen was very good to his employees and they still had their hands in his fucking pockets. More than that these assholes switching premium merch with cheap was going to damage this Organization’s reputation. That wasn’t something you could put a price tag on and once it was damaged, couldn’t be easily repaired.
“Do either of you know how long this has been going on, not that it matters it needs to stop, but I need all the information I can get before I act.”
“We been working the rackets for five months now,” Jared said. “Seems like it coulda been going on at least that long.”
“That attempted hijacking seems to have been a catalyst. Before that it was all talk.”
“You’d think Ty, Tim, Seb, and Robbie’s deaths would have sent a message to them,” Jensen mused.
“Maybe you need to send a stronger message,” Jared said, a cunning smile and dangerous light flashed in his eyes. “Make a stronger impression.
“They been gettin’ away with it so faah. They probably got a bit of an ego trip goin’ on now.” Petrus said, not unwisely Jensen thought. “Feelin’ a little too comfoahtable and invincible.”
“Show them they aren’t,” Jared rushed to add. “Impress on them you have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing gets past the Big Boss Man.” Jensen wasn’t sure what to make of this nickname Jared seems to have given him. It’s cheeky but respectful. Jensen supposed he could live with it.
“You already have a plan in mind, don’t you?”
Jared nodded; spark of hunger and bloodlust flashed in his eyes once more. This man had a thirst for killing, Jensen realized. He was willing to bet Jared’s used those boyish looks and soulful eyes to lethal advantage. Is he using them on me now? Jensen wondered. He’d been enamored with Jared from the second he laid eyes on him, knew Jared felt the electricity, the chemistry, between them.
It hit Jensen, then, like a bolt from the blue; killing Ty and the others, plus whatever plan Jared has worked out to help Jensen reestablish his hold on the Organization, were Jared’s way of flirting with him. Fucking hell. It shouldn’t be so arousing but it was. Random hook ups could provide release but never this kind of understanding. This was something Jensen never had, and could never have had, with Sterling: Someone who not only knew the score, but hungered for Jensen’s lifestyle. The knowledge made him half hard.
He gestured for Jared to continue.
“Kill them. Kill them all.”
Petrus shook his head and rolled his eyes. “That’s youah ansa to everythin’.” Jensen doesn’t get the bloodlust vibe from Petrus; he seems more pragmatic.
“Let me dope it out for you,” Jared said, his eyes sparkled with eagerness and he licked his pretty pink lips. Christ, Jensen ached for a taste. “You have to send a message people like them understand.”
“People like them?” Jensen asked. He’s completely charmed by Jared, from the way he’s dressed and even the archaic terms he uses. Yes, Jared is infatuated with organized crime’s way of life.
“Gangsters.”
“You read too many o’ them Puzo books growin’ up,” Petrus said. There was such a sardonic deadpan quality to Petrus that Jensen found himself enjoying. Yes, this man was a straight-shooter no doubt about it. Jensen loves honesty. Jared…. He’s not sure about Jared. There is deceptiveness in him, Jensen can sense it under the surface, but he doesn’t think Jared would lie to him. Jesus. He sounded like a love sick teenager.
“Shuddup, Petey,” Jared said affectionately. “If I did, that would be on you.” Petrus gave a lazy shrug.
A little piece of the puzzle that is these two men drops into place. They knew each other as kids, but Jensen doesn’t think they are brothers. They don’t share a last name (that doesn’t necessarily mean anything) but they also didn’t look anything alike. That little exchange between them lead Jensen to believe Petrus had a hand in raising Jared.
“Anyway,” Jensen prompted.
“You have to punish them and show those under them that they cannot get away with fucking you over. Knock off the ones dippin’ into your pocket and that’ll send a message to others who might be thinking about trying the same thing.”
Jensen had to admit there is something to it. Swift and brutal.
“How would you go about sending this message?” Jensen grinned. “Send ‘em a dead fish or put a horse head in their beds?”
Jared smiled and Jesus fuck he has the cutest dimples. How had Jensen not noticed them before?
“Don’t give the little fucka ideas, Boss,” Petrus said in that sardonic way Jensen is becoming familiar with.
Jared gave Petrus an annoyed look, but with no animosity behind it. “Invite them to dinner. A nice dinner. Good wine and conversation. Just a bunch of friends getting together, maybe talking a little shop. Get their guards down then pop ‘em,” he made a finger gun gesture, “one behind the ear. With a .22.” He added, “.22’s won’t make a big mess to clean up. The bullet will go in, rattle around, scramble their brains a bit, but not create an exit wound. Quick and efficient. Those that see will understand if they fuck with you, you will know, and they will be next.”
“And where would this little dinner party take place?”
“Here, of course,” he said nonchalantly.
“What? You’re talking about killing people on my private property.”
“That’s the beauty of it. You want to put them at ease, just the Big Boss Man inviting a few of his most trusted lieutenants to a nice dinner. They would never think you’d bump ‘em off on your own property. And have them searched and their weapons confiscated when they come in. That’s usual procedure anyway so that won’t raise red flags.”
Jensen gets to his feet, crosses to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch, turning the plan over in his mind. Jared has put a lot of thought into this and Jensen was coming to realize that though he was young Jared was something of a mastermind. With Petrus to back him up they would make formidable additions to not only his Organization but perhaps to his Inner Circle.
“Your guys know how to clean up and the guest’s cars would just be fodder for the chop shops,” Jared added.
“Who should be invited to this little death day party?” Jensen asked.
“Those in charge of all the big operations: guns, drugs, gambling, and hooking, your Inner Circle guys. It would seem odd for them to not be there. Then Ritchie, Mark, and Freddy. They’ll be the ones to get bumped off since they are the ones in the wrong. Also the guys under them—not to kill them” Jared was quick to add, “just to get the point across, they fuck you over they’ll be next.”
Three bodies to get rid of. Not that tall of an order. As Jared said, his guys know how to clean up. Plus the Organization’s contacts in Dallas PD would take care of any official inquiries that may be made into Ritchie, Freddy or Mark’s disappearances. “I’ll give your idea some thought. Now, gentlemen, I want to, as always, thank you for your work.” He pulled out his money clip and peeled off ten one-hundred dollar bills for each man. He shook Petrus’ hand, giving him the fold of bills.
“Sure thing. Thanks, Boss,” Petrus said.
Jared put his hat back on, tipped it down over one cat-like eye. Jensen shook his hand, so big, warm and rough with calluses, and passed him the bills. Jared’s fingers linger and trail across the back of Jensen’s hand, to an onlooker it was casual, but the heat and intent in Jared’s gaze said it was anything but.
“I’ll be in touch. Keep your eyes and ears open in the meantime.” He escorted the men out of his office.
Twenty-four hours later he called Jared and gave the okay for his plan.
The dining room set up was as elaborate as it had ever been for this event. The long teak wood dining table was set with the good china, crystal, fine linen napkins, and heavy antique silverware. Jensen still had reservations about inviting a few upper echelon of his Organization to his home only to gun them down, but he had to admit the cold-bloodedness and efficiency of it.
The door slid open and the newest members of his Inner Circle silently came in. It was a struggle not to pant and drool at the sight of Jared tricked out in a bespoke three-piece pinstripe Armani suit. The custom tailoring accentuated his broad shoulders and chest, down to his trim waist and slim hips and long legs. His Gucci shoes were polished to a mirror shine. The fedora was absent, but there was a flashy gold pocket watch chain dangling from his teal paisley silk waistcoat and matching tie. His hair, while still long, has been cut into flattering layers that frame his angular face. Regular meals and access to the compound’s gym had done wonders for his physique, filling out his slender frame with lean muscle. Many times Jensen had observed Jared and Petrus working out together in the gym. Petrus lifting barbells or on the bench-press, while Jared ran on the treadmill or was on the elliptical.
He swallowed hard and tore his eyes away to glance at Petrus who was more simply attired in all black and minus the waistcoat. He did however sport an atrocious, in Jensen’s opinion, green tie and matching handkerchief. Petrus’ hair, still halfway down his back, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. The trips to the gym had done wonders for him as well. With his thick biceps and massive chest, he looked like a beast. Jensen was glad that Petrus was loyal to him.
“Gentlemen,” Jensen greeted with an incline of his head.
The door opened again and Stevie Guitar, Kane, Tommy Blue, and Lazy Jase entered. They stopped short at seeing Jared and Petrus.
“Are they those two street rats? Big ‘n Little?” Tommy Blue said. Jensen couldn’t tell if he was impressed with their elegant transformation or bewildered by it.
Jensen fixed him with a glare, firmly in his role as leader of the Ackles Organization this evening. “Mr. Padalecki and Mr. Ratajczyk are my Enforcers and here at my personal invitation.”
Tommy grinned and held up a hand. “Sorry. Sorry. Howdy, fellas.” He tipped them a wave.
“Stylin’ and profilin’ I see,” Lazy Jase said. “Congrats on the promotion, guys.” He strolled over to the table. “Extra swanky. Place cards and all.” He sprawled into his assigned seat with his trademark lazy grace.
“A formal get-together to talk a little business,” Jensen said echoing Jared’s words of a few days ago. “Take your seats, gentlemen,” Jensen said to Tommy Blue, Kane and Stevie, motioning to the gracefully appointed dining table.
Jared and Petrus took sentry positions on either side of the door, which positioned them so that those who sat on the left side of the table—specifically Ritchie the Chin, Mark, and Freddy—would have their backs to Jared and Petrus.
Tommy Blue and Steve took their seats. Chris lingered and came closer to Jensen. Jared moved with a silent quickness that should have been difficult for someone so big, attempting to put himself between Jensen and Chris. Jensen threw out an arm to halt Jared. Jared gave Kane a long cold stare before returning to his spot at the door.
“Jenny,” Chris began, glancing furtively at Jared.
Jensen glowered at the hated nickname. A low growl came from Petrus and Jared took a threatening step forward, squaring his shoulders.
“Jensen,” Chris corrected quickly and leaned in close to murmur. “Enforcers? Since when do you have Enforcers? What’s really going on here tonight?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.” Jensen smiled at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “Sit.”
Shortly after they were seated, others began to filter in. First was Misha Collins, an average looking man with brown hair, blue eyes and cavalier manner who ran the prostitution rackets. Jensen scanned the room, pausing for a moment to observe Jared staring a hole through Misha, his eyes flat as coins; and as lifeless as a doll’s eyes. It sent a shiver through Jensen. He wondered what that was about. Neither Jared nor Petrus had reported any duplicitous behavior in regards to how Misha ran his business. He had been overheard commenting on Jensen’s attractiveness and speculating what sexual positions Jensen might enjoy. Harmless shit-talk, and definitely disrespectful; Jared was probably offended on Jensen’s behalf. It shouldn’t make his heart flutter but it did. Jensen had him seated on the right, but near the end of the table.
Next came Tahoma Penikett and Brock Kelly, two men who had worked under the late Ty Olsson in the gun running operation. Neither Jared nor Petrus had turned up anything untoward about them in their investigations. Both were young guys eager for the opportunity to prove themselves and had seemed ignorant of Olsson’s treachery. Followed by Matt Cohen and Jake Abel, who were the number two and three men under Tim Omundson entered the dining room next. They, like Tahoma and Brock, were young-ish men who followed orders and seemed ignorant of their boss’ duplicitous behavior. It didn’t escape Jensen’s notice that it was the older men, men who had worked dependably under his father, that seemed to have the idea they could fuck Jensen over.
Freddy Lehne and Mark Pellegrino came in; shortly, followed by Richard Speight Jr. AKA Ritchie the Chin. Jensen cordially greeted them as he had all his guests. They in turn shook his hand and smiled in his face as if they weren’t sticking a knife in his fucking back.
Chad Michael Murray, who ran the book making operations, sauntered in. He was blond and good-looking in that generic teen-heartthrob kind of way. His attitude was glib but he ran a good business. He gawked at the luxury he found himself surrounded by. “Good to be the king, huh, Ackles?”
“That is Mr. Ackles to you, Murray,” Petrus said, startling Chad.
“Fucking hell!” He shrieked, clutching his chest. “Where did that big motherfucker come from?”
“Brooklyn,” Petrus answered in a deadpan voice. “And show some respect when you’re a guest in your boss’ home.”
Chad cowed. “I’m sorry, Mr. A., sir.”
Jensen nodded accepting the apology, motioning for him to take his seat on the right in the middle of the table.
Mad Mike Rosenbaum, a slender man with short cropped light brown hair who was in charge of the drug trade entered. He offered Jensen a hand shake. “Boss,” he said. Mad Mike was so named because he had a streak of coldblooded insanity that came in useful dealing with the Mexican and Colombian drug cartels.
“Mr. Rosenbaum, always nice to see you.” Jensen shook his hand and motioned for him to take his seat. Jensen observed the man giving Tommy Blue a wistful look before sitting beside him and drawing him into easy conversation.
He had a friends-with-benefits thing going with Tommy Blue for several years now. Tommy Blue was calm and steadfast, which was a good counter for Mike’s brand of craziness. Jensen suspected both didn’t want to admit how serious they were about one another. His friends’ love lives weren’t his business and he stayed out of them, unless someone came to him for advice, which they rarely did since Jensen had ascended to top man in the Organization. They treated him with deference now, and though Jensen appreciated that, he missed just shooting the shit with his friends.
With all his guests seated and the household staff waiting in the wings to serve the dinner, Jensen took his place at the head of the table.
“I’m glad to have you all here. Let’s have a nice dinner then we can talk some business.”
Dinner was thick wagyu streaks paired with an exquisite cabernet. The flavor of the steak was praised to the heavens and back by his guests. Conversation was light mostly concerning women and sports, two subjects Jensen had no interest in. As time passed Jensen became angry. These men, who worked for him, some who actively tried to betray him, were sitting in his home, at his table, eating his food and drinking his wine as if they had not a care in the world. Jensen let the anger build. The same men laughing and drinking also called him faggot behind his back and Pretty Jenny. Jared was right. They were disloyal and dishonorable and needed to be taken care of. Disloyalty and dishonor were weeds infecting his Organization and he needed to rip them out, root and stem.
After the steaks were demolished, Jensen tapped his glass to get everyone’s attention. He schooled his features into an impassive mask, not letting the anger he was nursing show.
“I appreciate everyone coming here tonight. I hope it has been worth it.”
“Damn fine meal, Mr. Ackles,” Ritchie the Chin called out. Others echoed his sentiments. It was only right for the condemned to have a decent final meal, Jensen thought.
“Thank you for that.” Jensen flashed a humble smile, though it galled him, the duplicity of these fucking bastards. “It’s been hard since my father died. I won’t lie. It’s been a struggle. I’ve heard the whispers. Oh, yes. People skimming profits, skewing numbers. People get greedy. It’s always been a problem. Then there was the incident with the attempted hijacking.”
There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, the post-meal lassitude shifted to wary apprehension. Jensen’s demeanor which he had kept laid-back became icy and forbidding. He knew how to turn it on and did so now. He dragged his gaze over to the men on the left side of the table. Ritchie the Chin shifted in his seat. Freddy and Mark’s eyes darted around. They might as well have GUILTY stamped across their fucking foreheads.
Jensen’s fists clench and he allowed some of the anger burning in him to creep into his voice. “I’ve heard other whispers, too. The speculation that the son is not the father, that I am not the man “Iron” Alan Ackles was. They look at me and don’t see Iron. They see a pretty faggot!” Jensen slammed his hands down flat on the table as he surged to his feet. “They think I can’t control this business because I fuck men! Because I have doe eyes and cocksucking lips!” Jensen’s lip curled in a sneer of distaste. His eyes raked over the three slated to die in moments. Adrenaline pulsed through him. His heart raced in his chest, blood pounded though his veins. He felt lightheaded; almost giddy.
Out of the corner of his eye he detected Jared and Petrus reaching into their jackets. None seated noticed because their eyes were glued to Jensen and his uncharacteristic display of anger. Good.
He turned to the room at large, those he trusts implicitly, and those he is unsure of. “You’re all fucking wrong!” Jensen roared, letting his rage have free reign, letting it twist those “pretty” features into an ugly mask. “Pretty Jenny is dead!”
At the mention of the loathed nickname, Petrus and Jared open fire. A quick succession of gunshots ring out. Ritchie the Chin, Mark Pellegrino, and Freddy Lehne all go slack, some fall forward into their empty plates and others fall to the side and slip from their chairs. Dead, each with a hole still smoking from the backs of their skulls .22 caliber bullets buried deep in their brains.
Silence reigned and the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood wafted through the air. Jensen shifted his hard gaze to the men seated furthest from him, those whose loyalty he had deemed questionable—Matt, Brock, Jake, Tahoma—all stare at him with shocked disbelief and a new healthy dose of fear. “There are two things I do not forgive, disloyalty and disrespect,” his voice was soft and calm now but shot through with ice. “You who remain, if you try to fuck me over and go into business for yourselves you’d do well to remember who you’re dealing with, and what I’m capable of.” Jensen turned to leave but stopped and fixed the men with a disdainful stare. “And If I ever hear the name Pretty Jenny uttered again, I’ll cut out your goddamn tongue myfuckingself! Jensen turned to Chris. The man was instantly at attention and alert if a bit stunned after what just took place. “Get a crew in here and clean this shit up.” Jensen strode from the room, Jared and Petrus followed in his wake.
Once he was in the foyer he turned to Petrus and Jared. Jared’s eyes were alight, though he outwardly appeared calm. Petrus likewise appeared indifferent to the executions carried out. “Petrus, would you please see to getting rid of the cars.”
Petrus inclined his dark head in a respectful nod. “Yes, sir.”
Jensen waited until Petrus was gone before reaching out, grabbing Jared by the lapels of his three thousand dollar suit and hauling him in for a deep and dirty kiss. The other man returned it with equal fervor, arms wrapped tight around Jensen. Jensen had no doubt that this man and his plan just helped him secure his hold on the Ackles Organization for many years to come. Heaven help him, Jared may be a touch unbalanced under that aloof exterior but Jensen wanted him, wanted him with an intensity and fierceness that should scare him. This man in whose arms he was in was fucking dangerous, a rabid dog, but Jensen held his leash.
When they broke apart Jensen was rock hard and felt Jared’s answering erection. His breath was warm and scented faintly with whiskey and smoke as it gusted across his lips. He gazed down at Jensen with desire so scorching in intensity Jensen could almost feel it. He wanted this man with equal fervor, but now was not the time.
“Help them,” Jensen indicated the dining room with a jerk of his head.
If Jared was disappointed or pissed off he gave nothing away. He stepped back from Jensen, with a few precise movements his suit was once again in pristine shape. He inclined his head. “Yes…sir,” he said with a smirk.
No one ever called him Pretty Jenny after that. Not even a whisper of it reached him. But a new name was making the rounds in the underworld: “Ice Cold” Ackles. Maybe a tad cliché, he thought, but it got shit across. He was in firm control of the Organization.
For the last fourteen years he has ruled over the Organization. Never questioned and if—on the very off chance he was—his Enforcers were there to take care of it. Except, thinking about things now, and in reality what the hell else can he do but think, for maybe the last three years there have been attacks and incursions on his territory. They weren’t any real threats, just minor inconveniences; some arsons and robberies and attempts to extort money for “protection” from shop owners. Small time shit; but maybe those incidences have something to do with this.
The grinding squeal of the trapdoor being opened again prevents Jensen from exploring that train of thought.
A hand flicks out. There is a wink of silver and a foil wrapped something, Jensen surmises is a sandwich, lands with a dull splat at the bottom of the pit. “It’s not wagyu, but eat hearty, Pretty Jenny.” A male voice says from above, tone full of mockery before the trap door slams shut and the light goes out.
Well, his captor, and he has no doubt that was his captor, has certainly given him something new to think about. Mentioning wagyu and using the hated and forgotten nickname were clues. That significantly narrows down the list of suspects. Whoever has him works for him or used to. Jensen knows the story of the Dinner Party got out and circulated among those of their vocation, but the odds of some rando dropping it is slim. No, his captor wants Jensen to know, or figure, out who they are.
He has to be patient. His captor will reveal himself. It’s all about showing Jensen who has the power. It’s not very original, really. Whoever is behind this lacks imagination. Oh, he’ll given them a few bonus points for keeping him in this pit—the whole duct-taped-to-a-chair thing is beyond cliché—but that’s as far as he’ll go. Even that idea isn’t original. His captor probably watched Silence of the Lambs and stole the idea of a pit.
Jensen gets down on his hands and knees and gropes around for the sandwich his kidnapper so thoughtfully provided. He brings it to his nose and inhales deeply. A briny vaguely processed smell hits his nose followed by the yeasty smell of the bread. Bologna? He doubts it is poisoned. All this, keeping him naked, in the dark, giving him very simple food is a game, meant to humiliate him.
He’s not sure how long he’s been down here. Two days? Three? He is ravenous and very thirsty, only taking sips of water. He doesn’t know when he may be given another bottle so he is carefully rationing it. He doesn’t think he can do so with the sandwich. While his pit is below ground and therefore cool, it will still spoil. He has the water, the little bottle is still mostly full, so he’ll eat the whole sandwich. Which his fingertips tell him there isn’t a lot to it, two pieces of bread and one slice of bologna. Still, it’s food.
He wonders what Jared and Petrus are doing now. Jared is probably ready to go scorched earth and raze Dallas to the ground to get him back. Petrus right beside him bashing the skulls of whoever might be left. Not an ounce of doubt that Jared is coming for him, Jensen eats his meal.
Author: Rose_the_Hat
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 29,000
Summary: In which Jensen is a powerful mob boss and Jared is his Enforcer…and so much more.
Notes: This is the product of reading too many M/M mafia romances and listening to too much Type O Negative. Apologies in advance for all the Type O references and for putting the late great Peter Steele in this
Beta’d by
jdl712- World Coming Down
PART 1
The pit is flooded with light. Jensen winces, slams his eyes shut, and ducks his head down. As before, he forces his eyes open. He doesn’t know how long he’s been down here. He’s getting hungry and thirsty. Keeping his voice calm and even he calls up. “Hey, up there. Want to introduce yourself? Obviously, you wanted my attention. You have it now. Come out and let’s talk some business.”
No response. Jensen hadn’t been expecting one to be honest. He’s played this game himself a time or two back when he used to interrogate people. He recoils when something is tossed down to him. He reaches out to catch it. The object bounces off his cupped hands and hits the floor. A moment before the trapdoor is closed and the overhead lamp goes out Jensen can see his captor had thrown down an eight ounce bottle of water. “I appreciate the hospitality,” Jensen says with sardonic joviality.
Holding the bottle of water makes his thirst rage. He feels around the mouth and lid of the plastic bottle. The seal seems to be intact. He breathes for a few seconds, trying to get the thirst under control, but it feels like a living thing crawling around in his throat. He cracks open the bottle and takes a few measured sips; just enough to moisten and refresh his mouth. He forces himself to put the lid back on and put the bottle as far away from himself as he can.
How big is this place anyway? He wonders idly. Shrugging he stands, sighing at the stretch and pull of his muscles. He shakes his legs out and rolls his shoulders. That feels a little better. He had been sitting too long and his muscles were starting to stiffen up. He’s not as young as he used to be, he thinks wryly. Gone is the lithe pretty twink and in his place is a man nearing forty, tall and broad shouldered, face showing the first lines of age, not unattractive, but giving him a more seasoned look; his dark blond hair beginning to show the first threads of grey at his temples. A very handsome countenance. No longer “pretty”. Jensen walks back and forth, guessing his prison is somewhere around ten feet wide. No, definitely not pretty. Pretty Jenny died and it was Jared and Petrus that helped kill him.
After the attempted hijacking, Jensen gave Petrus and Jared a thorough dressing down. He didn’t rant and rave about them—though Jensen feels the onus is mostly on Jared—circumventing his authority. They took their scolding manfully. However, Jared’s eyes sparkled with a little too much humor and maybe a little something else, too. That something else had Jensen’s dick wanting to stand up.
Before he dismissed them he handed them each six hundred dollars. Petrus gave a soft word of thanks and left. Jared, however, had different parting words.
“I can’t feel bad about it,” Jared said, eyes raking across Jensen’s body like a physical touch. Christ, he wished it were. “Got your attention,” Jared whispered, smirking. He leaned in close, smelling of good cologne mixed with his own masculine scent. Jensen inhaled deeply; he wanted to get closer, bury his face in the crook of Jared’s neck, and lick. “That’s really all I wanted to do.” He winked at Jensen and sauntered out of his office.
Jensen put Petrus and Jared to work gathering information on a couple of different crews. Petrus in the chop shops because he had knowledge of cars, and Jared with the fences because he had an eye for luxury goods. Even if he was from the streets, Jared had an eye and taste for fine things. Jensen wanted to give them to him. It was a couple of months before they got back to him with troubling news. As it turned out the hijacking was a symptom of a problem that was gaining traction throughout the Organization.
“Gentlemen,” Jensen greeted welcoming them into his office. He took their measure again. It seemed that the past four months of steady meals and excellent pay had done well for them. Both had put on weight not appearing nearly so gaunt in the face. Their clothes, while not designer like Jensen would wear, fit them well. Petrus was simply dressed in black jeans and button up shirt. Jared seemed to have a panache for clothing, wearing black slacks, shirt and blazer, with a ruby tie. A fedora with a deep red band was tipped mysteriously over one eye; he made Jensen think of Humphrey Bogart.
Petrus nudged Jared with an elbow. “Take off ya hat.”
Jared, with the hat to block Petrus from seeing it, gave Jensen a sexy wink, before removing it.
“What have you learned?” Jensen asked, getting right down to business.
They took seats in front of his desk and waited for Jensen to be seated behind it before beginning their report.
“I been workin’ at the chop shops like ya told me,” Petrus began. “And noticed some of the paahts ain’t what they should be.”
“Meaning?” Jensen prompted.
“Ritchie is cheatin’ on prices. He takes paahts from a Ford or Chevy and when he goes to sell ‘em he says they’re from a Benz or BMW.”
“Yeah, something similar is going on with the pawnshops,” Jared added. “Freddy and Mark are taking any lux goods coming through the shops and selling them to a third party then passing off fakes at premium prices. They’re good fakes, but still fakes.”
Those bastards. Jensen was very good to his employees and they still had their hands in his fucking pockets. More than that these assholes switching premium merch with cheap was going to damage this Organization’s reputation. That wasn’t something you could put a price tag on and once it was damaged, couldn’t be easily repaired.
“Do either of you know how long this has been going on, not that it matters it needs to stop, but I need all the information I can get before I act.”
“We been working the rackets for five months now,” Jared said. “Seems like it coulda been going on at least that long.”
“That attempted hijacking seems to have been a catalyst. Before that it was all talk.”
“You’d think Ty, Tim, Seb, and Robbie’s deaths would have sent a message to them,” Jensen mused.
“Maybe you need to send a stronger message,” Jared said, a cunning smile and dangerous light flashed in his eyes. “Make a stronger impression.
“They been gettin’ away with it so faah. They probably got a bit of an ego trip goin’ on now.” Petrus said, not unwisely Jensen thought. “Feelin’ a little too comfoahtable and invincible.”
“Show them they aren’t,” Jared rushed to add. “Impress on them you have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing gets past the Big Boss Man.” Jensen wasn’t sure what to make of this nickname Jared seems to have given him. It’s cheeky but respectful. Jensen supposed he could live with it.
“You already have a plan in mind, don’t you?”
Jared nodded; spark of hunger and bloodlust flashed in his eyes once more. This man had a thirst for killing, Jensen realized. He was willing to bet Jared’s used those boyish looks and soulful eyes to lethal advantage. Is he using them on me now? Jensen wondered. He’d been enamored with Jared from the second he laid eyes on him, knew Jared felt the electricity, the chemistry, between them.
It hit Jensen, then, like a bolt from the blue; killing Ty and the others, plus whatever plan Jared has worked out to help Jensen reestablish his hold on the Organization, were Jared’s way of flirting with him. Fucking hell. It shouldn’t be so arousing but it was. Random hook ups could provide release but never this kind of understanding. This was something Jensen never had, and could never have had, with Sterling: Someone who not only knew the score, but hungered for Jensen’s lifestyle. The knowledge made him half hard.
He gestured for Jared to continue.
“Kill them. Kill them all.”
Petrus shook his head and rolled his eyes. “That’s youah ansa to everythin’.” Jensen doesn’t get the bloodlust vibe from Petrus; he seems more pragmatic.
“Let me dope it out for you,” Jared said, his eyes sparkled with eagerness and he licked his pretty pink lips. Christ, Jensen ached for a taste. “You have to send a message people like them understand.”
“People like them?” Jensen asked. He’s completely charmed by Jared, from the way he’s dressed and even the archaic terms he uses. Yes, Jared is infatuated with organized crime’s way of life.
“Gangsters.”
“You read too many o’ them Puzo books growin’ up,” Petrus said. There was such a sardonic deadpan quality to Petrus that Jensen found himself enjoying. Yes, this man was a straight-shooter no doubt about it. Jensen loves honesty. Jared…. He’s not sure about Jared. There is deceptiveness in him, Jensen can sense it under the surface, but he doesn’t think Jared would lie to him. Jesus. He sounded like a love sick teenager.
“Shuddup, Petey,” Jared said affectionately. “If I did, that would be on you.” Petrus gave a lazy shrug.
A little piece of the puzzle that is these two men drops into place. They knew each other as kids, but Jensen doesn’t think they are brothers. They don’t share a last name (that doesn’t necessarily mean anything) but they also didn’t look anything alike. That little exchange between them lead Jensen to believe Petrus had a hand in raising Jared.
“Anyway,” Jensen prompted.
“You have to punish them and show those under them that they cannot get away with fucking you over. Knock off the ones dippin’ into your pocket and that’ll send a message to others who might be thinking about trying the same thing.”
Jensen had to admit there is something to it. Swift and brutal.
“How would you go about sending this message?” Jensen grinned. “Send ‘em a dead fish or put a horse head in their beds?”
Jared smiled and Jesus fuck he has the cutest dimples. How had Jensen not noticed them before?
“Don’t give the little fucka ideas, Boss,” Petrus said in that sardonic way Jensen is becoming familiar with.
Jared gave Petrus an annoyed look, but with no animosity behind it. “Invite them to dinner. A nice dinner. Good wine and conversation. Just a bunch of friends getting together, maybe talking a little shop. Get their guards down then pop ‘em,” he made a finger gun gesture, “one behind the ear. With a .22.” He added, “.22’s won’t make a big mess to clean up. The bullet will go in, rattle around, scramble their brains a bit, but not create an exit wound. Quick and efficient. Those that see will understand if they fuck with you, you will know, and they will be next.”
“And where would this little dinner party take place?”
“Here, of course,” he said nonchalantly.
“What? You’re talking about killing people on my private property.”
“That’s the beauty of it. You want to put them at ease, just the Big Boss Man inviting a few of his most trusted lieutenants to a nice dinner. They would never think you’d bump ‘em off on your own property. And have them searched and their weapons confiscated when they come in. That’s usual procedure anyway so that won’t raise red flags.”
Jensen gets to his feet, crosses to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch, turning the plan over in his mind. Jared has put a lot of thought into this and Jensen was coming to realize that though he was young Jared was something of a mastermind. With Petrus to back him up they would make formidable additions to not only his Organization but perhaps to his Inner Circle.
“Your guys know how to clean up and the guest’s cars would just be fodder for the chop shops,” Jared added.
“Who should be invited to this little death day party?” Jensen asked.
“Those in charge of all the big operations: guns, drugs, gambling, and hooking, your Inner Circle guys. It would seem odd for them to not be there. Then Ritchie, Mark, and Freddy. They’ll be the ones to get bumped off since they are the ones in the wrong. Also the guys under them—not to kill them” Jared was quick to add, “just to get the point across, they fuck you over they’ll be next.”
Three bodies to get rid of. Not that tall of an order. As Jared said, his guys know how to clean up. Plus the Organization’s contacts in Dallas PD would take care of any official inquiries that may be made into Ritchie, Freddy or Mark’s disappearances. “I’ll give your idea some thought. Now, gentlemen, I want to, as always, thank you for your work.” He pulled out his money clip and peeled off ten one-hundred dollar bills for each man. He shook Petrus’ hand, giving him the fold of bills.
“Sure thing. Thanks, Boss,” Petrus said.
Jared put his hat back on, tipped it down over one cat-like eye. Jensen shook his hand, so big, warm and rough with calluses, and passed him the bills. Jared’s fingers linger and trail across the back of Jensen’s hand, to an onlooker it was casual, but the heat and intent in Jared’s gaze said it was anything but.
“I’ll be in touch. Keep your eyes and ears open in the meantime.” He escorted the men out of his office.
Twenty-four hours later he called Jared and gave the okay for his plan.
The dining room set up was as elaborate as it had ever been for this event. The long teak wood dining table was set with the good china, crystal, fine linen napkins, and heavy antique silverware. Jensen still had reservations about inviting a few upper echelon of his Organization to his home only to gun them down, but he had to admit the cold-bloodedness and efficiency of it.
The door slid open and the newest members of his Inner Circle silently came in. It was a struggle not to pant and drool at the sight of Jared tricked out in a bespoke three-piece pinstripe Armani suit. The custom tailoring accentuated his broad shoulders and chest, down to his trim waist and slim hips and long legs. His Gucci shoes were polished to a mirror shine. The fedora was absent, but there was a flashy gold pocket watch chain dangling from his teal paisley silk waistcoat and matching tie. His hair, while still long, has been cut into flattering layers that frame his angular face. Regular meals and access to the compound’s gym had done wonders for his physique, filling out his slender frame with lean muscle. Many times Jensen had observed Jared and Petrus working out together in the gym. Petrus lifting barbells or on the bench-press, while Jared ran on the treadmill or was on the elliptical.
He swallowed hard and tore his eyes away to glance at Petrus who was more simply attired in all black and minus the waistcoat. He did however sport an atrocious, in Jensen’s opinion, green tie and matching handkerchief. Petrus’ hair, still halfway down his back, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. The trips to the gym had done wonders for him as well. With his thick biceps and massive chest, he looked like a beast. Jensen was glad that Petrus was loyal to him.
“Gentlemen,” Jensen greeted with an incline of his head.
The door opened again and Stevie Guitar, Kane, Tommy Blue, and Lazy Jase entered. They stopped short at seeing Jared and Petrus.
“Are they those two street rats? Big ‘n Little?” Tommy Blue said. Jensen couldn’t tell if he was impressed with their elegant transformation or bewildered by it.
Jensen fixed him with a glare, firmly in his role as leader of the Ackles Organization this evening. “Mr. Padalecki and Mr. Ratajczyk are my Enforcers and here at my personal invitation.”
Tommy grinned and held up a hand. “Sorry. Sorry. Howdy, fellas.” He tipped them a wave.
“Stylin’ and profilin’ I see,” Lazy Jase said. “Congrats on the promotion, guys.” He strolled over to the table. “Extra swanky. Place cards and all.” He sprawled into his assigned seat with his trademark lazy grace.
“A formal get-together to talk a little business,” Jensen said echoing Jared’s words of a few days ago. “Take your seats, gentlemen,” Jensen said to Tommy Blue, Kane and Stevie, motioning to the gracefully appointed dining table.
Jared and Petrus took sentry positions on either side of the door, which positioned them so that those who sat on the left side of the table—specifically Ritchie the Chin, Mark, and Freddy—would have their backs to Jared and Petrus.
Tommy Blue and Steve took their seats. Chris lingered and came closer to Jensen. Jared moved with a silent quickness that should have been difficult for someone so big, attempting to put himself between Jensen and Chris. Jensen threw out an arm to halt Jared. Jared gave Kane a long cold stare before returning to his spot at the door.
“Jenny,” Chris began, glancing furtively at Jared.
Jensen glowered at the hated nickname. A low growl came from Petrus and Jared took a threatening step forward, squaring his shoulders.
“Jensen,” Chris corrected quickly and leaned in close to murmur. “Enforcers? Since when do you have Enforcers? What’s really going on here tonight?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.” Jensen smiled at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “Sit.”
Shortly after they were seated, others began to filter in. First was Misha Collins, an average looking man with brown hair, blue eyes and cavalier manner who ran the prostitution rackets. Jensen scanned the room, pausing for a moment to observe Jared staring a hole through Misha, his eyes flat as coins; and as lifeless as a doll’s eyes. It sent a shiver through Jensen. He wondered what that was about. Neither Jared nor Petrus had reported any duplicitous behavior in regards to how Misha ran his business. He had been overheard commenting on Jensen’s attractiveness and speculating what sexual positions Jensen might enjoy. Harmless shit-talk, and definitely disrespectful; Jared was probably offended on Jensen’s behalf. It shouldn’t make his heart flutter but it did. Jensen had him seated on the right, but near the end of the table.
Next came Tahoma Penikett and Brock Kelly, two men who had worked under the late Ty Olsson in the gun running operation. Neither Jared nor Petrus had turned up anything untoward about them in their investigations. Both were young guys eager for the opportunity to prove themselves and had seemed ignorant of Olsson’s treachery. Followed by Matt Cohen and Jake Abel, who were the number two and three men under Tim Omundson entered the dining room next. They, like Tahoma and Brock, were young-ish men who followed orders and seemed ignorant of their boss’ duplicitous behavior. It didn’t escape Jensen’s notice that it was the older men, men who had worked dependably under his father, that seemed to have the idea they could fuck Jensen over.
Freddy Lehne and Mark Pellegrino came in; shortly, followed by Richard Speight Jr. AKA Ritchie the Chin. Jensen cordially greeted them as he had all his guests. They in turn shook his hand and smiled in his face as if they weren’t sticking a knife in his fucking back.
Chad Michael Murray, who ran the book making operations, sauntered in. He was blond and good-looking in that generic teen-heartthrob kind of way. His attitude was glib but he ran a good business. He gawked at the luxury he found himself surrounded by. “Good to be the king, huh, Ackles?”
“That is Mr. Ackles to you, Murray,” Petrus said, startling Chad.
“Fucking hell!” He shrieked, clutching his chest. “Where did that big motherfucker come from?”
“Brooklyn,” Petrus answered in a deadpan voice. “And show some respect when you’re a guest in your boss’ home.”
Chad cowed. “I’m sorry, Mr. A., sir.”
Jensen nodded accepting the apology, motioning for him to take his seat on the right in the middle of the table.
Mad Mike Rosenbaum, a slender man with short cropped light brown hair who was in charge of the drug trade entered. He offered Jensen a hand shake. “Boss,” he said. Mad Mike was so named because he had a streak of coldblooded insanity that came in useful dealing with the Mexican and Colombian drug cartels.
“Mr. Rosenbaum, always nice to see you.” Jensen shook his hand and motioned for him to take his seat. Jensen observed the man giving Tommy Blue a wistful look before sitting beside him and drawing him into easy conversation.
He had a friends-with-benefits thing going with Tommy Blue for several years now. Tommy Blue was calm and steadfast, which was a good counter for Mike’s brand of craziness. Jensen suspected both didn’t want to admit how serious they were about one another. His friends’ love lives weren’t his business and he stayed out of them, unless someone came to him for advice, which they rarely did since Jensen had ascended to top man in the Organization. They treated him with deference now, and though Jensen appreciated that, he missed just shooting the shit with his friends.
With all his guests seated and the household staff waiting in the wings to serve the dinner, Jensen took his place at the head of the table.
“I’m glad to have you all here. Let’s have a nice dinner then we can talk some business.”
Dinner was thick wagyu streaks paired with an exquisite cabernet. The flavor of the steak was praised to the heavens and back by his guests. Conversation was light mostly concerning women and sports, two subjects Jensen had no interest in. As time passed Jensen became angry. These men, who worked for him, some who actively tried to betray him, were sitting in his home, at his table, eating his food and drinking his wine as if they had not a care in the world. Jensen let the anger build. The same men laughing and drinking also called him faggot behind his back and Pretty Jenny. Jared was right. They were disloyal and dishonorable and needed to be taken care of. Disloyalty and dishonor were weeds infecting his Organization and he needed to rip them out, root and stem.
After the steaks were demolished, Jensen tapped his glass to get everyone’s attention. He schooled his features into an impassive mask, not letting the anger he was nursing show.
“I appreciate everyone coming here tonight. I hope it has been worth it.”
“Damn fine meal, Mr. Ackles,” Ritchie the Chin called out. Others echoed his sentiments. It was only right for the condemned to have a decent final meal, Jensen thought.
“Thank you for that.” Jensen flashed a humble smile, though it galled him, the duplicity of these fucking bastards. “It’s been hard since my father died. I won’t lie. It’s been a struggle. I’ve heard the whispers. Oh, yes. People skimming profits, skewing numbers. People get greedy. It’s always been a problem. Then there was the incident with the attempted hijacking.”
There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, the post-meal lassitude shifted to wary apprehension. Jensen’s demeanor which he had kept laid-back became icy and forbidding. He knew how to turn it on and did so now. He dragged his gaze over to the men on the left side of the table. Ritchie the Chin shifted in his seat. Freddy and Mark’s eyes darted around. They might as well have GUILTY stamped across their fucking foreheads.
Jensen’s fists clench and he allowed some of the anger burning in him to creep into his voice. “I’ve heard other whispers, too. The speculation that the son is not the father, that I am not the man “Iron” Alan Ackles was. They look at me and don’t see Iron. They see a pretty faggot!” Jensen slammed his hands down flat on the table as he surged to his feet. “They think I can’t control this business because I fuck men! Because I have doe eyes and cocksucking lips!” Jensen’s lip curled in a sneer of distaste. His eyes raked over the three slated to die in moments. Adrenaline pulsed through him. His heart raced in his chest, blood pounded though his veins. He felt lightheaded; almost giddy.
Out of the corner of his eye he detected Jared and Petrus reaching into their jackets. None seated noticed because their eyes were glued to Jensen and his uncharacteristic display of anger. Good.
He turned to the room at large, those he trusts implicitly, and those he is unsure of. “You’re all fucking wrong!” Jensen roared, letting his rage have free reign, letting it twist those “pretty” features into an ugly mask. “Pretty Jenny is dead!”
At the mention of the loathed nickname, Petrus and Jared open fire. A quick succession of gunshots ring out. Ritchie the Chin, Mark Pellegrino, and Freddy Lehne all go slack, some fall forward into their empty plates and others fall to the side and slip from their chairs. Dead, each with a hole still smoking from the backs of their skulls .22 caliber bullets buried deep in their brains.
Silence reigned and the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood wafted through the air. Jensen shifted his hard gaze to the men seated furthest from him, those whose loyalty he had deemed questionable—Matt, Brock, Jake, Tahoma—all stare at him with shocked disbelief and a new healthy dose of fear. “There are two things I do not forgive, disloyalty and disrespect,” his voice was soft and calm now but shot through with ice. “You who remain, if you try to fuck me over and go into business for yourselves you’d do well to remember who you’re dealing with, and what I’m capable of.” Jensen turned to leave but stopped and fixed the men with a disdainful stare. “And If I ever hear the name Pretty Jenny uttered again, I’ll cut out your goddamn tongue myfuckingself! Jensen turned to Chris. The man was instantly at attention and alert if a bit stunned after what just took place. “Get a crew in here and clean this shit up.” Jensen strode from the room, Jared and Petrus followed in his wake.
Once he was in the foyer he turned to Petrus and Jared. Jared’s eyes were alight, though he outwardly appeared calm. Petrus likewise appeared indifferent to the executions carried out. “Petrus, would you please see to getting rid of the cars.”
Petrus inclined his dark head in a respectful nod. “Yes, sir.”
Jensen waited until Petrus was gone before reaching out, grabbing Jared by the lapels of his three thousand dollar suit and hauling him in for a deep and dirty kiss. The other man returned it with equal fervor, arms wrapped tight around Jensen. Jensen had no doubt that this man and his plan just helped him secure his hold on the Ackles Organization for many years to come. Heaven help him, Jared may be a touch unbalanced under that aloof exterior but Jensen wanted him, wanted him with an intensity and fierceness that should scare him. This man in whose arms he was in was fucking dangerous, a rabid dog, but Jensen held his leash.
When they broke apart Jensen was rock hard and felt Jared’s answering erection. His breath was warm and scented faintly with whiskey and smoke as it gusted across his lips. He gazed down at Jensen with desire so scorching in intensity Jensen could almost feel it. He wanted this man with equal fervor, but now was not the time.
“Help them,” Jensen indicated the dining room with a jerk of his head.
If Jared was disappointed or pissed off he gave nothing away. He stepped back from Jensen, with a few precise movements his suit was once again in pristine shape. He inclined his head. “Yes…sir,” he said with a smirk.
No one ever called him Pretty Jenny after that. Not even a whisper of it reached him. But a new name was making the rounds in the underworld: “Ice Cold” Ackles. Maybe a tad cliché, he thought, but it got shit across. He was in firm control of the Organization.
For the last fourteen years he has ruled over the Organization. Never questioned and if—on the very off chance he was—his Enforcers were there to take care of it. Except, thinking about things now, and in reality what the hell else can he do but think, for maybe the last three years there have been attacks and incursions on his territory. They weren’t any real threats, just minor inconveniences; some arsons and robberies and attempts to extort money for “protection” from shop owners. Small time shit; but maybe those incidences have something to do with this.
The grinding squeal of the trapdoor being opened again prevents Jensen from exploring that train of thought.
A hand flicks out. There is a wink of silver and a foil wrapped something, Jensen surmises is a sandwich, lands with a dull splat at the bottom of the pit. “It’s not wagyu, but eat hearty, Pretty Jenny.” A male voice says from above, tone full of mockery before the trap door slams shut and the light goes out.
Well, his captor, and he has no doubt that was his captor, has certainly given him something new to think about. Mentioning wagyu and using the hated and forgotten nickname were clues. That significantly narrows down the list of suspects. Whoever has him works for him or used to. Jensen knows the story of the Dinner Party got out and circulated among those of their vocation, but the odds of some rando dropping it is slim. No, his captor wants Jensen to know, or figure, out who they are.
He has to be patient. His captor will reveal himself. It’s all about showing Jensen who has the power. It’s not very original, really. Whoever is behind this lacks imagination. Oh, he’ll given them a few bonus points for keeping him in this pit—the whole duct-taped-to-a-chair thing is beyond cliché—but that’s as far as he’ll go. Even that idea isn’t original. His captor probably watched Silence of the Lambs and stole the idea of a pit.
Jensen gets down on his hands and knees and gropes around for the sandwich his kidnapper so thoughtfully provided. He brings it to his nose and inhales deeply. A briny vaguely processed smell hits his nose followed by the yeasty smell of the bread. Bologna? He doubts it is poisoned. All this, keeping him naked, in the dark, giving him very simple food is a game, meant to humiliate him.
He’s not sure how long he’s been down here. Two days? Three? He is ravenous and very thirsty, only taking sips of water. He doesn’t know when he may be given another bottle so he is carefully rationing it. He doesn’t think he can do so with the sandwich. While his pit is below ground and therefore cool, it will still spoil. He has the water, the little bottle is still mostly full, so he’ll eat the whole sandwich. Which his fingertips tell him there isn’t a lot to it, two pieces of bread and one slice of bologna. Still, it’s food.
He wonders what Jared and Petrus are doing now. Jared is probably ready to go scorched earth and raze Dallas to the ground to get him back. Petrus right beside him bashing the skulls of whoever might be left. Not an ounce of doubt that Jared is coming for him, Jensen eats his meal.
