Penance

Nothing came in to the country without his knowledge.  Drugs, weaponry, precious jewels; he knew about all of it and money didn’t exchange hands without his say so.  He had made a name for himself.  He was a “businessman” that you didn’t cross.  As long as you played by the rules it was business as usual.  Break those rules and, well, you didn’t break the rules.

He never planned this life.  He grew up in a middle class family.  Mother was a teacher, father was the head of a successful accounting firm.  He didn’t want for anything.  But when a friend of his asked if he wanted to make a bit of cash selling drugs, he saw a way to make his own money.  And when his provider got taken in on a weapons charge, he took over distribution.

From there he’d quickly made his way up the ladder.  Always had a head for business.  The uglier, less appealing side of the business was delegated to a select few of his men.  He didn’t get his hands dirty.  Except for when he spent a few weeks a year in Syria; Nepal; Cambodia; building houses for the poor or those who lost their homes due to war or natural disaster.  He felt it was his penance.  A very small right in his world surrounded by wrong.

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