Chapter One
Location: Chicago Outfit; Export Warehouse #1

The smell of the musty green house was always a stomach turner. No matter how many times one walked through it, your head would swim, and your nose would sting, and maybe your lip would curl in disgust. I never liked going here, but jobs were jobs, and I intended on keeping mine.

The workers were beyond careful. Hand picked by the Boss himself to nurture and coddle his crops to life. His men and women were the organized lot; not the gunslingers people assumed ran this sort of business. Gloves prevented their hands from leaving any incriminating traces of evidence. Long clothing covered the skin, visors guarded the eyes, and from afar they all looked the same; heavily clothed workers in a sea of money.

Green plant stocks flourished and those ready to be exported were carefully packed by gentle hands. They would go to the processing branch, protected of course. Once there, the lucky few responsible for this month's batch, would process the marijuana into its final product. After that the dealers would set to work.

"Artemis Lacroix, it's been some time." The voice was deep and smooth, most likely from smoking an immeasurable amount of cigars.

"I'm not here for pleasantries Belcastro," I laughed, "you and I both know that."

"Ah, so it seems." Faint footsteps sounded from above. Of course, the scaffolding for the observation deck. Glancing upwards I spotted his form leaning on the railing. White undershirt rolled up to the elbows, dress pants freshly pressed, slippers adorning his feet.

"You try too hard to fit the stereotype Belcastro." Even from here I could see his dark brown eyes twinkle with a hint of amusement.

"Fashion is coming back piccola furbetta," He smiled, Italian accent thick, "but we're here for other reasons, yes?"

"Dwyer isn't happy about your stunt last week." The incident had caught the attention of the press. Reporters from all fifty states had a field day with the headlines.

"The little stronzo stole from me!" Belcastro's hand crashed down on steel railing. The sound of metal rings clinking together echoed around the warehouse. A silence settled over the room as the workers froze.

"Dwyer didn't steel from you Belcastro. The police discovered your route," I argued very aware that people were staring.

"How? He was the only one who knew! His crew was to meet my caravan at the check point. The police couldn't have found my message, it was coded so only Dwyer could decipher it." Belcastro's voice thundered angrily.

The folded piece of paper had been tucked carefully into the sleeve of my dress. Even now I could feel the corners brushing my skin, a reminder that I had evidence.

Moving carefully as not to alarm him I withdrew the slip of paper and unfolded it in plain view. He didn't need to suspect I had a weapon, even if a pistol was strapped to my thigh. "This is your original copy of the letter. No code. It was found as a draft in the glove box of your car. Do you not recall the police seizing your decoy vehicle?"

"Of course I recall!" He snapped.

"Then you can't blame Dwyer for the mistake you made."

"So I get a reprimanding from the Boss' puttana but Dwyer is free to do as he pleases?" Belcastro demanded.

"You know very well this isn't your first mistake. First you were put on trial for not covering your tracks, then your car is seized, and now you've lost an entire truck of merchandise. Your chance for redemption is over." His death note in hand, I tore it to pieces.

"You're making a mistake. He needs me! I'm the onl-"

BANG

"Three strikes and you're out. You know the rules Belcastro." The end of my pistol smoked for a brief moment. Sighing I slid it back into the thigh holster and lowered the corner of my dress. As if on queue my phone rang. Call it unconventional but flip phones were easy to ditch, screw Apple. "Hey."

"Have you finished the agreement?"

"You could say that. What should I do with the...ah, liability situation?" My gaze settled on the fallen form of Belcastro. He laid bent at an awkward angle half on the scaffolding, half off.

"Take it out back. I'll send a crew to aid you. Oh, and Dwyer will be there shortly."

"Hmmm. Seems interesting. Can I have a little fun with him?" There was a low chuckle on the other side of the call.

"Non ma chérie," He replied, "c'est pas le moment."

"Perhaps another time then?"

"Oui."

"Adieu, patron." Pulling the phone from my ear I snapped the device in two before crushing it beneath the heel of my shoe. Clearing my throat I turned to address the workers. "You will be under the guidance of Dwyer for the time being. The order should continue as planned."

No one was stupid enough to say anything, let alone protest. As if a switch had been flipped the workers, very much like bees, went to work. Humming a pleasant little tune I climbed the steps to the scaffolding above.

There was the faint pat pat pat of Belcastro's blood dripping onto the floor below. Pursing my lips I knelt next to his limp form. He'd be heavy. Nothing I couldn't manage.

After a bit of struggling and an attempt or two I managed to lift him. Walking steadily down the steps I pushed through the back door that opened up to the mouth of an alley way. With a grunt I let Belcastro slip to the ground finding the thwack of his head pretty satisfying.

The low rumble of a car engine sounded at the mouth of an alley before a black Subaru rolled to a stop. The lights flickered off bathing the alleyway into darkness once again.

"Funny seeing the punk so out of sorts!" Dwyer laughed waltzing to where Belcastro lay in a heap, "Not so tough now are you?"

"Watch your tongue Dwyer. Boss isn't happy about this. Belcastro was annoying but he had experience and tactics." Dwyer withered under my gaze and stood dusting his hands on his pants.

"You're right, my sincerest apologies Lacroix."

"Now, dispose of him, please. I have business to attend." Dwyer nodded curtly and snapped his fingers. Two of our muscle men stepped forward, black suits crisp, eyes hidden behind sun glasses, ready to receive Dwyer's orders.

A second car joined the first not long after our quick discussion. The wheels grated on dirtied asphalt as the passenger window rolled down. "Your ride Miss Lacroix."

"Hmm," smiling I slid into the back of the car. Through the window I could see Dwyer's men drenching Belcastro's body in gasoline, "he does love playing with fire."

"They don't call him the Incinerator for nothing Miss," chuckled the driver.

"Darling, that's not what I meant." Smirking I caught sight of his amused expression in the overhead mirror. He knew exactly what I meant. Dwyer had been trying for years to take over Belcastro's position. It was no secret he'd set the entire plot.

The Boss wasn't stupid and neither was I. Eliminating Belcastro on technicalities, wether false or true, was a much needed statement. Dwyer needed to have his hunger satiated or we'd risk his defecting. On the flip side, the others needed to understand that slipping through the cracks and making critical mistakes, were unacceptable.

"Where to Miss?"

"I have a business meeting to attend Charles. A girl can't have blood on her dress now can she?"

"Indeed." Tires grating on the ground once more, the chauffeur pulled out of the alley just as Belcastro's corpse was lit. The smell of burning flesh was never pleasant, and I was grateful to be leaving so...conveniently, but one grew desensitized to certain things over time.

A gentle hum of classical music filled the pristine interior of the car. The seats were a deep black leather full of little niches and secrets. Beneath the driver's seat was a knife, and beneath the passenger seat a tire iron lay fastened to the underbelly. Then there was the floor cover that hid away a cooler for the more delicate exchanges. It was quite the Easter egg hunt if anyone wished to explore.

"What will today's afternoon of luxury entail?" Charles questioned with a small smile.

"Well, I was thinking a long bath. Maybe some wine if I'm feeling like it and perhaps a nice dinner," I joked.

"Wonderful plans Artemis."

In truth, my evenings didn't have much luxury but that was fine with me. Despite the exhaustion of it all, my job provided quite a bit of entertainment.

---
The car rolled to a stop in front of the large home. It was tucked away from public view, just as it should be. If it wasn't? Well, I wouldn't be able to casually wear a bloodied dress now would I?

"Thanks for the ride. Say hello to the kids for me," I smiled as Charles left the driver's seat to open my door.

"Will do. Christian has a soccer game this weekend, if you'd like to stop by." Charles closed the car door gently behind me. "He quite likes you."

"Does he? I wonder why." The two of us shared a small laugh. In truth I'd known little Christian since he was a boy, and I'd known Charles since I began this line of work. He was very much like an Uncle to me, and Christian was the spitting image of his father. There was Lillian of course but she was too young to decipher just yet.

"Good evening, Artemis." With that, Charles left me behind. The car pulled away from the driveway as I made my way to the front door. Pulling the key from my shoe I was soon standing in the entrance of my home.

It was large, grander than I'd have liked . The walls arched high where dazzling lights hung from the ceiling. The paint was a faint beige with white accenting and framed artwork covered blank space. The only territory of the house that looked well lived in was my bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.

Slipping off my shoes and setting them by the door I padded lightly up the stairs, extra careful not to leave traces of blood behind. If I was lucky I'd accomplish a shower, and possibly a nap, before another call was made.

Unfortunately only a shower was the answer. Wrapped in a towel I stepped out from the bathroom to find him perched on the edge of my bed. Suit jacket discarded, white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, neat hair now a bit wild.

"You're early."

"I don't run on a schedule ma chérie," He smiled, "don't forget who's Boss."

"I'm sure they'd be surprised to find the "Boss" sweet talking instead of dictating," I countered.

"You're too smart for your own good mon amour." Standing he held up my discarded and bloodied dress. "Hmmm such a shame. I liked this on you."

"Then buy me another, Clarke."

"Perhaps. Now, to business. You have a press conference this evening before the gala," He noted.

"Correction, you have a press conference before the gala and you want me to go with you." Though he tried to hide it his smile still showed.

"Yes, now get dressed. Something not blood stained would be preferable."

"We'll see. I do like the color red." Snatching the ruined dress from his hand I tossed it into the small waste bin near the nightstand.

"Then you won't mind a little blush?" An arm snaked lazily around my waist until my back pressed lightly against his chest. Giving a half hearted sigh of disapproval, he responded with an amused laugh followed by a press of the lips against my shoulder. "Only kidding."
---
"Here I am making sure I'm cleaned up nicely and you get to wear a suit that looks the same as your other twenty four get ups." Rolling my eyes I adjusted the sleeve of my dress as I padded down the stairs with a set of flats in hand.

"It's all in the tie." Clarke winked. "Still, you're less dressed up than the others will be. Just how we like it."

"The public likes it too."

"Yes, but, I know you like simpler things," He smiled. "After all, it's why we do what we do."

"Clarke, you know I don't like social events." In truth, I despised going to galas after public appearances more than the stupid drug warehouses.

"I know. Believe me I'll make it up to you," He promised. As if to solidify his intentions he kissed my cheek and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"You better. Now, let's get this over with shall we?" Clarke nodded as I straightened his tie. He always had it slightly to the left.

"As soon as Charles is here we're free to go."

---

As it turned out Charles arrived no less than five minutes later in the same black car as before. He was dressed in his best clothes as well, tie crisp and slacks freshly pressed, a pair of sunglasses perched on his face.

"Let's get this over with shall we?" He asked, adjusting the overhead mirror with a smirk on his lips.

Clarke and I remained silent throughout the ride. I could tell without looking that he was anxious, most likely thinking of what to say to the public and reporters. If this went well he was in a prime position to be selected for the next round of senate elections, at least, that was the goal.

He was twenty six, nearly twenty seven, and thirty years were required to be able to run a proper campaign. Patience was important for now but it was clear there was a long road ahead. There were still laws to abide by even if it wasn't our forte.

"Clarke?"

"Hm?" He questioned eyes snapping to look at me.

"Relax. You have yet to pull off a bad public appearance. Everything will be fine, you're charismatic, the people already love you." Despite my attempt to ease his nerves he seemed unconvinced. "This is about something else isn't it?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, love, " smiling he gave my hand a gentle squeeze, "nothing I can't sort through later."

"If you insist. Still, if it's about Belcastro and Dwyer, things will be sorted out. In all honesty Dwyer is nothing more than an ignorant and power hungry Irish man." Clarke smiled faintly at my words. "His feud with Belcastro was pointless. Belcastro's financial status was poor, he had two warehouses to his name, two kills, and a horrible addiction to whiskey and cigars which left him incapacitated on more than one occasion. He was only good at digging up information. Ultimately Dwyer's "hard earned" enterprise is nothing more than sloppy seconds found in a dumpster."

"What concerns me is that very issue," Clarke admitted.

"You wonder why he was so eager to collect a dumping ground?"

Clarke nodded pressing his lips into a thin line. "Dwyer is no fool. Especially if he staged Belcastro's own undoing. He knew I was pressed into a corner. Either I let Belcastro slip through the cracks and seem weak, or take action and give him what he wants while saving my reputation."

With a sigh Clarke ran a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Clarke, darling, you did the right thing. I'll investigate later this evening. Dwyer may be smart but he's no where near as clever as I am."

"I promised you a relaxing evening not a witch hunt, Artemis." Clarke glowered at his shoes, "If my father were here he'd be laughing at me."

"Your father would have done the same. He taught you all that you know." A grunt of agreement sounded from Charles as he navigated the traffic.

"Perhaps."

That was the end of the conversation.
—-
The camera lights were bright as always. Even before the vehicle came to a complete stop my vision was bombarded with dark lenses covering excited faces.

"Breath love." Clarke took my hand in his giving it a careful squeeze. "I know the cameras are the worst part for you but it won't be long."

"Right. Of course." Taking a deep breath I plastered a smile on my face.

I hated cameras. I'd hated them for as long as I could remember. Those stupid lenses depersonalized what they captured. They were frightening and all too mysterious, like masks over a robber's face.

The first time I'd seen a swarm of cameras was on a freezing winter night. My clothes were thin and I sat bundled up in what I'd scrounged from dumpsters. There was a man with silver hair and a whole herd of people tripping through the snow to see him.

He looked so important I thought I'd finally found some proper help. My parents had always said, trust your gut, in that moment I did. Scrawny legs carried me towards the plump man and ignoring the others I tugged on his sleeve.

His attention had left, only briefly, to look down at me. I asked him for help. He gave me a dollar. I asked him for more. He pushed me aside. I looked to the cameras for guidance. The cameras stared at me like I was a spectacle. The cameras made real events seem fictional.

Cameras were bad. Political protégés were bad. Monopolies were bad. Financial schemes were bad. Clarke. Clarke was offering me his hand. Clarke was good.

Blinking I reached out so our hands interlocked. He pulled me carefully to my feet and away from the car. Charles waltzed around the front end of the vehicle politely asking for the paparazzi to give Clarke and I space. They shuffled back no more than an inch.

"It's alright. Remember what it's for," Clarke whispered tilting my chin so I was no longer focusing on the cameras, "think about the people we're helping."

"I know. I'll be fine," I promised. But Clarke seemed to think I needed more comfort and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips.

"Right this way my guests!" A man well dressed with an obnoxiously pristine mustache beckoned at Clarke and I.

"Ah! Mr. Chateau, good to see you." Clarke waved with a charismatic grin glistening on his face.

"You as well. Right this way and I'll take you to the podium," Mr. Chateau smiled. Clarke linked his arm with mine and the two of us followed Charles through the eager crowd.

The podium was raised slightly, not too high, but just enough to peer out over the crowd. There was bullet proof glass paneling that reached the waist and a series of microphones that made up the platform.

Mr. Chateau approached the podium first, a Cheshire grin on his face. "Ladies and Gentleman the wait has been long but I present to you, at last, Clarke Lyndon!"

The applause was thunderous.