by Davis, Alexa
BILLIONAIRE’S TRUST
By Alexa Davis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Alexa Davis
From the Author
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CHAPTER ONE
Dax
"What the hell is wrong with you, Beck?" I yelled. "You fuck up everything you lay your hands on!"
"Aww, c'mon, Dax," he said with a hangdog look. "I didn't do it on purpose. It's not that big of a deal, only a couple of ounces got lost."
"Lost my ass," I said as I rubbed my eyes and then looked at him. "Beck, I don't care if you are my fucking brother, if you don't get your shit straight and run your business right, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you."
"Dax, it's not my fault," he whined. "I sold the stuff the way you told me, it's just that your connection shorted me on the buy."
"Bullshit," I said. "He's never once shorted me before. This is your fuck up and your fuck up alone. Get your shit straight, Beck, or I'm gonna have to do something you're not gonna like."
"Fine, whatever," he said as he turned and walked across the empty floor. He stopped before he got to the door and turned to look at me as he spoke. "You're not always going to be on top, you know, big brother. Someday, someone is going to come along and knock you off your throne and then where will you be, huh?"
"Let them try," I said as I held his gaze. He looked away first and then shoved the door open with a loud bang before walking out into the street.
I turned to the figure sitting in the shadows and said, "Keep an eye on him, Riza. He's gonna fuck things up for all of us, I just know it."
"Don't be too hard on him, boss," she said as she stood up and stretched. "He's young and wants to impress you."
"That may be, but I'm not going to risk the entire business for his growth opportunity," I said. My younger brother was a Class A screw up and had been his entire life. It wasn't entirely his fault.
We'd spent the first years of our lives in a violent home before my father, a failed inventor, shot my mother, a financial analyst, and himself and left us orphans. We'd been placed with my father's mother, an Irish woman who ran a grocery store on San Pedro and lived in a shack behind the store. We didn't know it at the time, but she was in the early stages of dementia and often left the store closed up and us to fend for ourselves while she wandered out into the streets on Skid Row looking for a way back to her hometown of Dublin.
When she was home, it was obvious why my father had ended up the way he had and why we rarely saw my grandmother while he was still alive. She held the firm belief that children who were heard rather than seen should be severely punished in ways that would have horrified even the toughest disciplinarian. Gram hated Beck and often punished him for minor infractions that I was allowed to get away with. Needless to say, I looked forward to the days when she'd disappear and leave us on our own. They were a respite from the torment and abuse.
With no one to check up on us, I quickly got used to being the protector and provider. We didn't really have to struggle much, since my grandmother was well connected in the neighborhood and people looked out for us, but it took awhile for Beck and I to figure out the system. By the time my parents died, we were living in an abandoned house that had no running water or electricity. The switch to the Grand brought us into a different world that was more consistent in many ways, but still left us on our own for long stretches of time.
Gram had little interest in us, aside from ordering us to stock shelves or haul boxes into the storage area from the truck that arrived every Monday. She didn't bother to buy us any clothes or toys or even register us for school.
I had to figure all of that out on my own.
We moved in with my grandmother when I was ten and Beck was eight. By the end of the first week, I knew which neighbors would feed us without asking questions and which ones were inclined to call nosy social workers. I learned to call Elsa, the woman who ran the liquor store on the corner of 6th Street and who knew my grandmother the best, and let her know that Gram was gone again. Elsa was the one who helped me order clothing for Beck and I and register us both for school. I quickly became wheeler-dealer and, as a result, I was able to maintain a good front and keep people from asking too many questions, despite the oddness of our living situation.
Beck was too young to know just how strange our situation was, but he quickly learned to follow my lead and do as I told him. He knew that not following directions would often lead to something terrible, so he became both cautious and reckless in the way he behaved. At home, he was a silent child who hid in the storage room or a closet to avoid the wrath of Gram, but at school, he was a hellion who refused to follow the rules or even stay in his seat. On more than one occasion, I'd been called out of class to go to Beck's classroom and deal with his misbehavior, since I was the only one he'd listen to. It was exhausting caring for both of us, but I didn't see any other option. So I shouldered the burden and did the best I could to ensure that we were fed, clothed, and had a roof over our heads.
By the time I was twelve, I was playing dice with the neighborhood hustlers in back alleys. They taught me about smoking, drugs, drinking, and what little they knew about women. As a result, I never touched the first two, but the last two, well, I always say I've never met a drink I wouldn't sip and a woman I couldn't enjoy. The problem was that I also learned not to trust anyone.
Except for Riza. I'd met her on the streets when we were twelve, and she'd quickly decided I was her best friend. She was taller than most of the boys in our neighborhood and her exotic looks, thanks to her Honduran father and Moroccan mother, gave her face a mysterious look of danger. It also helped that her father was a known drug lord during the ’70s and had a reputation for "disappearing" anyone who dared cheat or disagree with him. Riza was his pride and joy, and since I was her best friend, he trusted me.
"Hey, boss, you want me to take the car and follow the kid?" she asked. "I can tail him tonight, if you want. The next shipment isn't scheduled till Tuesday, so I've got some down time."
"You sure you want to do that?" I replied.
"Yeah, sure, why not? I've got the time. Why not nip it in the bud now and bring him to heel?"
"Alright. If you're up for it, then do what you can," I said as I walked behind the bar, filled a glass with ice, and then hit it with a shot of soda water. I had a meeting coming up later and I needed a clear head. "But don't let him know you're following him. He'll lose his shit and then I'll have to deal with it, and I don't have time to deal with a Beck meltdown this week. Clear?"
"Crystal," she saluted as she sauntered across the floor towards the door.
"Be back here at three," I said. "I need you here for the meeting."
"Aye, aye, boss." She waved as she pushed open the door and let sunlight briefly enter the darkened club. Then she was gone.
Riza's dad had taught me the business from the ground up and then made me a silent partner in his cartel. I worked my way up from a corner boy, to the top dog on Skid Row. I kept my head down, worked hard, and listened to every single
thing Hernando D'Oro ever told me.
Hernando, or Papi as we all called him, had groomed me to run the empire and when he was gunned down in a gang fight two years after he'd made me his second in command, I stepped up and took over the business. I now owned a hotel on Grand Avenue and this club, and, with the help of a loyal band of warriors, I ran a billion-dollar drug business that owned the entire Los Angeles market. Everyone hated me.
Except Riza. When it had become obvious that her father wasn't going to train her to be the head of his cartel, she joined the Marines and spent a few years in Iraq. Papi had gone ballistic the day she'd told him what she'd done, but since she was eighteen, he had no say in the matter. I knew it hurt him to watch his beautiful daughter pick up a gun and fight in "a man's war," as he called it.
There had been nights when we'd made a run down to Tijuana to pick up a shipment and Papi would talk to me about Riza and war the whole way down. But despite the pain, deep down he was also incredibly proud of his daughter.
He just never told her.
When she came back from Iraq, something about Riza had changed. She’d seen too much and done too many things that she said she didn’t want to talk about, but it came out in other ways. She was constantly picking fights and winning them. She was one of the most feared gang members in LA, mostly because it was rumored that she had no conscience. I knew better, but she wanted to keep her secrets safe and maintain a certain level of respect via fear. So, I looked the other way and watched her try to self-destruct.
Papi was furious about his only daughter’s behavior. He’d wanted her to settle down and get married so he could have a bunch of grandkids to bounce on his knee, but Riza was stubborn and refused to settle for any of the guys in the cartel. For a while, I thought maybe she didn’t like men, but when I asked, she said it was that she didn’t trust anyone outside of Beck and me. She was quiet and wary, much like her father. And, when he was gunned down just a couple of months after she returned stateside, she turned even further inward. For two years after Papi’s death, the only people she'd talk to were Beck and me.
Even now, she was a woman of few words and didn't tell me too much about what was going on with her. She simply showed up and did her job 24/7, 365 days a year. She was still my second in command, only now she also functioned as my bodyguard during trips and meets with other cartel leaders. She was my shadow, and she kept a lid on the business in ways that even I didn't know, but I trusted her, so I didn't ask.
CHAPTER TWO
Brooke
"Brooklyn Jane Raines!" my mother yelled as I stepped into the kitchen and walked across her freshly waxed floor. "I'm going to kill you, child!"
"Aww, Mama," I said with a sheepish look of apology. "I didn't know you'd just waxed. I'm sorry!"
"It doesn't matter how old you kids get to be, you're still completely intent on driving your mother crazy!"
"Who's driving their mother crazy?" my father asked as he stepped into the kitchen and walked the same path I'd just walked.
"TONY RAINES!" my mother yelled. "I'm going to kill you and your offspring alike!"
"What did I do now?" my father asked with a genuinely confused look on his face. He had a pencil tucked behind one ear and several sheets of printer paper in his hand.
"Pop, she just waxed the floor," I said as I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," he said as he flashed my mother the grin he knew would cause her to forgive his sin as he bent down and pecked my cheek. "How're you doing, Brookie?"
"Dad," I said. "It's Brooke, just Brooke now. I'm a lawyer, not a first grader."
"You'll always be my Brookie," he said with a smile as he danced a few steps. "I'm your dad, it's my prerogative."
Both my mother and I groaned at his terrible ’80s reference. My father has been the entertainment reporter for the LA Times since the early 1970s and as a result, we are constantly treated to his encyclopedic knowledge of entertainment history in every conversation. My mother shook her head and ran the mop over the ruined part of the kitchen floor as she muttered under her breath. She's been a math teacher at Lincoln High for the past twenty years, and is a perfectionist when it comes to having a clean house, refusing to let anyone else clean, even though between the two of them, they make enough to hire a housekeeper. We knew no one else would meet her standards, so we all just grinned and took our lumps.
"What are you doing all the way out here, Brooke?" my mother asked.
"I wanted to stop by and see if you and Dad were free for dinner next week," I said as I opened the fridge and grabbed the orange juice pitcher that my mother kept filled with fresh-squeezed juice.
"And, you couldn't have called to ask?" she replied. "I smell something fishy going on here."
"Mom, I dropped by to see about dinner, that's it," I said as I poured a glass of juice and then looked at her as innocently as I could while sipping it. Then, mumbled into the rim, "And, I wanted to talk to Dad about something."
"I knew it!" my mother declared. "I knew it wasn't a simple visit. It never is."
"Mom, that's not fair!" I protested. "Fine, but dinner? Yes?"
"Yes, we'll have dinner with you," she said smiling as she moved to the sink and rinsed her mop. "When and where?"
"I'll figure it out and let you know," I said before turning my attention to my father who was now completely engrossed in editing something on the sheets of paper he'd brought into the kitchen. "Dad, can you help me write a convincing ad that will bring in more business for the firm?"
"Huh?" my father looked up, confused. "What about it?"
"An advertisement, Dad," I said. "I need help writing something that will make people flock to our firm and hire us."
"Business is tough, is it?" he said as he made another mark on the paper in front of him.
"Incredibly tough," I said.
"Broke, is this a thinly disguised request for a loan?" he said as he pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.
"No, Dad, it's not," I said, knowing full well that it was. "It's a request for help writing a persuasive ad that I can use to drum up more business."
"Kid, never play poker," he said shaking his head. "You're a terrible liar. I'll get the checkbook, but you're going to need to tell me exactly what you need."
"Just one month's rent," I muttered. "I can swing the rest."
"Are you sure that's all you need?" my mother called from where she was bent over the sink. "Tony, give her more than just rent money. Add phone and electric and groceries. No, better yet, I'm going to cook meals for you. That way I can give half to you and half to your brother."
"Mom, Teddy eats at the fire house," I reminded her.
"Well, he still has a few days off, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, but he spends them at Gina's," I said. "And, I assume that he knows how to cook for himself by now."
"So do you, but I still like to feel needed."
"Alright, I've got the checkbook. Lay it on me, Brookie," my father said as he came back into the kitchen. "How much do you need?"
"Just one month's rent, Dad," I repeated. I knew that I needed much more than that, but I already felt guilty about the fact that my parents had footed the bill for my undergraduate education and my law degree, so I didn't want to ask for more than I could justify in my own mind. I could put off paying the electric bill for one more month and cross my fingers that business would pick up.
"Brooke, I know you're not telling me the whole truth," my father said as he filled out the check, and then ripped it out of the checkbook and handed it to me. "So, I'm going to use my own discretion."
"Dad!" I protested as I looked at the check. He'd given me six months rent plus expenses and then added a cushion. "You cannot give me this much money!"
"I can do whatever I like, thank you very much," he said as he tucked the checkbook in his back pocket and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'm a grownup."
"Thank you," I said softly as I walked over to w
here he and my mom stood and hugged them both. "I'm going to make this work, I promise."
"Brooke, we know you're doing the best you can," my mother said. "We want to help you as much as we are able to."
"And since we can't take it with us, it just makes sense to use it now," my father added.
"Don't even joke about that," I warned.
"I'm not, I'm serious," my father said. "We might not always be able to help, but if we can, we will."
"Thank you both," I said as I hugged them again and then headed out the door. "You're the best."
"Sure, sure, you say that now," my father, laughed as he waved me off. "Dinner next week. We'll pick the place and you meet us there."
I waved at both of my parents and headed out to my car. I needed to deposit the check and pay my late rent before I headed over to meet with Roger and Jordie at the office and decide if we could salvage our business.
CHAPTER THREE
Dax
"Sir, you're going to need to leave your weapon at the door," Dozer said as I watched on the club's closed circuit security system. This was the monthly meeting of all Southern California kingpins, and we had a strict rule about no weapons in the meetings.
"Man, that's fucked up!" Mario yelled at the camera. He was new to the game, so he'd have to learn. I watched as Dozer bent his 6'7" frame so that his face was level with Mario's.
"That might be true, my friend, but that's the rule," Dozer said as he held out a plastic box for Mario to deposit his weapon. "You want to argue with me?"
"Nah, homie, we cool," Mario said as he dropped his gun in the box and leaned back from Dozer's intimidating stare. Not many people were foolish enough to try and tangle with a Samoan man the size of a refrigerator. Dozer smiled, tagged the box with Mario's information, and then put a lid on it and added it to the stack of weapons he'd already collected.
"Welcome to the meeting." Dozer smiled as he turned and allowed Mario to enter the main floor of the club. "Please help yourself to food and drinks at the bar. Mr. Malone will be starting the meeting in fifteen minutes."
