The trouble with the criminal world was that sometimes it just felt too darn small. He’d gotten along fine with Cooper’s Mafia — they had multiple beneficial arrangements together; and he’d been friends with the Masters. Hell, he’d watched the man slumped before him grow since Christian was just a kid. In a way, he was proud of what the kid had accomplished; and yet, the kid annoyed him: eliminating the competition left and right without a care for the old unspoken rules (not that it didn’t solve whole bunch of problems; but it created new ones too), muscling into the space like he’d owned it.
Wilfus admired the ambition the other had, but the fact that Christian and his parents had differing ideologies would eventually lead to a certain kind of chaos that wasn’t healthy of the of criminal underground. He’d been tasked with reining the other in, and taking him down a couple of notches — and Wilfus knew the surest way to do it. All it took was a special party that had a certain prestigious guest list, and couple of strippers and whores, and couple of drug-laced drinks, and here Christian was, shirtless and out like a light on his marbled floor — and right where he wanted him. Most of the guests and people he hired had already dispersed from the venue, and the remainder were either in it for the show or for a chance to participate.
The smuggler kicked the unconscious body lightly, and satisfied that the young Masters was still completely knocked out, began to squat down and undress him. There wouldn’t be a need for any restrains, no; because even if Masters did wake up in the middle of the proceedings he’d be too weak and groggy to fight back.
