Page 4 of Felix

I head out into the city, searching for a decent bar where I can drown my sorrows. After scanning a few options, I settle on a dimly lit dive with a neon sign flickering above the entrance. Perfect. The more run-down, the better.

“Whiskey, neat,” I order, sliding onto a stool at the bar. The bartender nods and sets a glass in front of me. I take aswig, savouring the burn as it slips down my throat. Fuck, that’s good.

“Rough day?” the bartender asks casually, wiping down the bench.

“Try rough life,” I reply, taking another sip. “But today was particularly shitty.”

“Tell me about it,” he says, leaning in with curiosity in his eyes. He’s probably not expecting an answer, but I want to vent.

“Imagine being haunted by your past every damn day,” I start, my voice low and bitter. “And then having to relive it repeatedly because people keep asking you about it since you were stupid enough to write a damn book about it and claim it was fiction.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he says sympathetically.

“Damn right, it is,” I agree, finishing off my whiskey. “But the world ain’t gonna stop turning just ‘cause I’m hurting, so I keep going.”

“Another?” the bartender asks, gesturing to my empty glass.

“Fuck yeah,” I respond, slamming the glass on the bench. “Keep ‘em coming.”

As the afternoon wears on, I let myself sink deeper into the haze of alcohol, letting the buzz numb the pain that’s never far from the surface.

Finally, I look at the clock and realise it’s dinner time. “My favourite old Italian restaurant better still be open,” I grumble to myself as I slip off the stool.

“Thanks for the drinks,” I say to the bartender, feelingthe effects of the whiskey on my balance. I pay my tab and stumble into the cool evening air slapping against my face, taking some of the alcohol buzz with it as I make my way down to the harbour, craving some chilli prawn pasta.

Chapter Three

Felix Greyson

The phone vibrates in my hand, jolting me out of my thoughts. I glance at the screen and see Matteo’s name flashing on the screen. My heart rate quickens as I answer, knowing it must be important.

“Yeah?” I say, trying to sound calm and collected even though my pulse is racing.

“Felix, I need you to bring some cash to the Italian restaurant down at the harbour,” Matteo’s voice crackles through the phone, rough and gravelly. I can picture him standing on a bustling street corner, his dark hair tousled by the wind. The urgency in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and I know it must be something serious.

I let out a low breath before ending the call—another day in the gritty underworld of Sydney. Matteo Ricci, the kingpin of this city, calls the shots, and I am one of his loyal soldiers. My job description—cleaning his dirty money, collecting from his network of dealers, and taking care of any obstacles that come our way. Gender holds noweight in this world—as long as I get my cut, I’ll do whatever is necessary. It’s a twisted reality we live in, but it’s where I thrive. The adrenaline rush of danger and power courses through my veins, fuelling my love for this sick existence.

As I approach the highly coveted restaurant, my mind swirls with thoughts of my past and how it brought me to this moment. Years of violence and bloodshed have moulded me into the ruthless enforcer for Sydney’s most feared man. The intoxicating power and control that comes with this position is like a potent drug, coursing through my veins and leaving me constantly hungry for more.

The weight of the cash-filled bag slung over my shoulder is reassuring and intimidating, like a loaded gun ready to be fired at any moment. I confidently stride down the bustling street, feeling like a predator among the unsuspecting sheep. Inside the bag lies fifty grand, just waiting to be cleaned at Matteo’s Italian joint by the glittering harbour.

As I walk into the restaurant, the tantalising aroma of garlic and tomato sauce wafts towards me, causing my stomach to growl in hunger. Stepping inside, my eyes immediately find the short, bald man behind the bench with a bushy moustache—the owner.

“Here’s the cash,” I say, dropping the bag onto the polished wooden surface.

“Thank you, Felix,” he responds with a grateful smile. “You staying for dinner?”

I nod eagerly in response, already imagining the delicious Italian dishes that will soon grace my taste buds.

“Your usual table, Felix?” the owner asks, leading methrough the bustling dining area to my preferred spot—a cosy booth tucked away in a corner.

The dingy restaurant is quiet, save for the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of silverware. I slide into my designated corner booth, back pressed against the wall. It is a perfect vantage point, giving me a clear view of the entire room. No one will catch me off guard here.

With trained eyes, I scan the other patrons like a predator assessing its prey. Most are weak and pathetic, but at least they are adults. Adults make their own choices, and I can handle that. It’s the kids who make me nervous, with their innocence and potential to be manipulated.

“The usual, Felix?” The owner’s familiar voice breaks through my thoughts as he sets a steaming plate of pasta before me. “Enjoy.”

I don’t recall ever seeing a menu in this place. The owner always makes me whatever he pleases, and I simply eat without question.

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