Necessary Evil
Chapter Eight
FF#268: A big bag of money.
Max Giambetti considered himself a pretty loyal guy. After all, if you wanted to survive in the business, you had to be. There were no if's, and's, or but's about it; if you weren't loyal, you were dead. The problem for Max was that he wasn't sure exactly who he was supposed to be loyal to, and, even though he always tried to do his job to the best of his ability, he had a feeling his confusion on the loyalty front would someday lead to his downfall or, worse, his demise.
First, there was the doc. If anyone deserved his loyalty, Alan Morgan did. He had taken Max, a streetwise punk of a kid, and gave him the chance to lead a good life. With a younger brother to support and little to no marketable skills, Max had turned to a life of petty crime after barely graduating from high school. He made enough for him and his little brother to get by on, but they were, by no means, comfortable. One day, he had made the poor decision of trying to pickpocket the wrong man, but, instead of either turning him into the cops or dealing out his own form of personal punishment, Doctor Morgan had offered him a job as a runner for the Corinthos-Morgan organization, and, being no dummy, Max had taken the older man up on his very generous offer.
Through hard work, dedication, and loyalty, he had risen in the ranks quickly, moving from being a runner to a security guard to one of the top bodyguards in the entire, expansive organization. He lived in a company provided apartment at Harbor View Towers, dressed in impressive Italian silk suits, drove insanely fast sports cars, and had enough money left over to help his little brother start a gym – a legal, honest, no strings attached gym. Not only was he good at his job, but he also liked what he did. The PCPD was crooked, and, although Max was never naïve enough to claim that he, his coworkers, and his bosses were straight as an arrow businessmen, he knew that they did more good for the small, harbor town than bad. They kept drugs off the street, they helped give prostitutes a second chance, and, unlike some of their competitors, they generally left the women and children alone. If it wasn't for the doc, he would either have been dead, in prison, or still lifting wallets and hotwiring cars, so, with that in mind, he felt a sense of loyalty to the medical professional.
Then there was the boss himself. While Max would never go so far as to say that he and Mr. Corinthos were friends, he did respect the don and was thankful for the job the Puerto Rican continued to pay him to do. Sure, the man had a temper, but, generally, he was an easy guy to work for. He worked hard, played hard, and expected his men to do the same thing. Who was Max to argue with that logic? Plus, as everyone on the eastern seaboard knew, Michael "Sonny" Corinthos was one of the most powerful figureheads in the underground crime circles. His name alone could instill fear into the common pimp or coke dealer, and his very appearance oozed confidence, strength, and it demanded respect. There was no way Max could not treat his boss with loyalty, and, if he even thought of the idea, he knew his body would be found a few weeks down the line with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead and a bullet hole drilled straight through his heart, executed mob style. While Alan Morgan had earned his loyalty, Sonny Corinthos demanded it.
Finally, there was Jason. Unlike the two older men, the young, future heir didn't earn or demand loyalty. Max gave it to him willingly, gladly, simply because they were friends. Despite the fact that they had grown up on opposite sides of the tracks, Jason had never treated the bodyguard any differently than he would his beloved Grandmother. They shot pool together, drank beer, and worked out with the other men at Milo's gym. Just as he knew Jason would do anything for him, Max would lay his life down for the older blonde. There was a camaraderie that existed between them, a brotherhood, and, instead of being forged from indebtedness or respect, it grew from shared laughter, knowing, mischievous smirks, and all-night poker tournaments.
The problem was though that Max was left with an unshakable loyalty to three very dissimilar men, men who believed in running the business differently, men who often disagreed with each other, men who, if it wasn't for their common bond of the mob, would probably have absolutely nothing to do with each other. So far, they had never pitted him against himself; their differences had never become so harsh, so defined, that he had been forced to choose sides, but he knew that day was rapidly approaching, and, when it did, Max had no idea how he would respond, whose loyalty would outweigh the others'. At that point, all he could hope for was that the tentative peace the three heads of their family had somehow brokered between them would last another day, giving him another twenty-four hours to figure out just exactly where he stood. Unfortunately, as he defended from his position by the door and watched both Mr. Corinthos and Doctor Morgan pace the length of the penthouse waiting for Jason to arrive at their previously scheduled meeting, he knew that it was a definite possibility that the calm would erupt and be destroyed that very afternoon.
Sonny was pissed. Despite the fact that he had asked his future heir to meet him at one o'clock, somewhere between his first cup of morning coffee to his first tumbler of morning scotch, the mafia don had changed his mind. Instead, he wanted Jason there earlier, but, unfortunately for Mr. Corinthos' barware and Max's eardrums, Jason's cell phone had been off, and no one could reach him. Because he didn't have a guard and because he refused to check in like a child, the blonde could often disappear for hours, days even, and no one would be able to find him except for the doc, but, apparently, whatever means the physician had of tracking down his son had failed that day, because, instead of being irrationally angry like Sonny, Alan appeared worried and downright nervous.
He had slipped out an hour before and returned almost immediately without Jason in tow, a first for the mob doctor. So, now it was simply a waiting game. Either Jason would arrive and the meeting could commence, or, before the younger man could join his older counterparts, Sonny would lose the tenuous control he had on his temper and simply explode. Max got his answer when the door to the penthouse was thrown open and his blonde friend ambled in as if he didn't have a care in the world.
"Where the hell have you been," Sonny demanded instantly, clenching his fists and glaring at his soon-to-be replacement.
"Out."
"Now, Jason," Alan pleaded with his son. "We've already had this discussion. You can't simply run off anymore. You have commitments here that have to be met, obligations to live up to, duties to carryout."
"I'm well aware of that," the blonde in question stated as he went to pour himself a glass of water but, instead, found all the crystal smashed and ground practically to powder underneath his motorcycle booted feet. "And, like I promised, I'm here for our meeting. In fact," he retorted with a slightly sarcastic tone to his voice, "I'm even a little bit early." Lifting up his watch and turning his wrist around for both his father and Sonny to see the time, he smirked. "Would you look at that? 12:58."
"Enough of this," the Puerto Rican demanded, slicing an arm through the air as he bellowed his order. "I've had just about all of your disrespect that I can handle, Jason. When I say jump, you say how high. When I say sit, you ask where. And when I call you on your fucking cell phone, you answer before it even has a chance to ring. Is that clear?"
"What if I don't have any cell service?"
Despite the fact that the question was meant to be taken as a joke, Sonny simply growled in response, "then you never go anywhere that doesn't get cell reception."
Narrowing his gaze to match that of his mentor, the younger man wondered out loud, "should I just go out right now and buy myself a leash and collar? I'm your heir, Sonny, not your lapdog."
Flipping over a table, the mob boss shouted, "you're any damn thing I want you to be until I'm either dead or retired and living on the island."
"Don't worry, boss," Alan spoke up, attempting to pacify the rapidly unraveling don. "My son understands this, but, just like you, he's determined. In the end, it'll be a good trait for your successor to have, but, until the day that Jason takes over officially, we'll just have to be patient with him and help him learn when the time is appropriate for him to be willful and when it isn't." Turning beseechingly to his only child, the doctor pleaded with his eyes. "Right, Jason?" The only response he received was the blonde exhaling harshly and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Now, why don't we get down to business? Sonny, wasn't there something you wanted to give him this afternoon?"
Several moments passed as the Hispanic man evaluated the pros and cons of taking his personal physician's advice. Eventually, his good sense won out, and, without a word, he crossed the length of the penthouse, unlocked his middle desk drawer, and retrieved a finely carved, lavish wooden gun box.
"Since it has been decided that you'll be attending meetings with me in the near future," he explained to Jason, "I figured it was time for you to have this."
Slightly belligerently, Max heard his friend point out, "I already have a gun, the same one that I've been training with at the shooting range since I was thirteen."
"Yes, but this one is unmarked."
With a wrinkled, strained brow, the blonde asked, "and that matters exactly why?"
"Sometimes," Doctor Morgan clarified, "meetings don't go exactly as planned, and, when that happens, we have to use any means necessary to get them back on track. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"
"I understand," Jason admitted through a tightly clenched jaw, turning away and leaving the gifted gun box in his mentor's still outstretched hands. "And what if I refuse?"
Without hesitation, Sonny stated, "you won't; you can't."
Whirling around in a fury, the younger man practically screamed, "I don't like guns. I don't carrying them on me, and I certainly don't like using them."
"Neither do I," the Puerto Rican smiled in agreement, his previous anger being replaced swiftly with amusement. With both dimples on display, he joked, "they ruin the line of my suits, and gun powder on my shirt cuffs is a bitch to have cleaned. But guns are more than an accepted part of this life, Jason; they're a requirement, an essential tool, a necessary evil. You'll get used to carrying one eventually. Now, here," he insisted, shoving the box into his heir's grasp. "Your first meeting is next week. From now until then, I want you to spend all your waking moments with this gun. Take it to the range, practice with it, become used to the feel of it in your hands until the point where it's no longer a foreign object you're holding but an extension of your arms."
Resigned, Jason went to do as he was told, but, before he could leave the penthouse to retire to his own, Sonny's voice stopped him once again. "Just one more thing." Once the younger man was turned around, the mafia don pressed, "if there's ever a time that I can't get in touch with you again, I'll find the person whose death would hurt you the most and use that very unmarked gun right there in your hands on them. Do I make myself clear?"
The slamming of the thick, practically impenetrable door was the only answer the don received. Pleased with the way the meeting went, Sonny went off towards his kitchen, leaving his bodyguard alone with his doctor.
"Max," Doctor Morgan motioned for the younger man to come to his side. "I have a job for you."
"Yes, sir," the Italian quickly accepted.
"I want you to do a little investigating for me. I want you to find out everything you can about one Elizabeth Imogene Webber."
"Is there anything in particular that I should be looking for?"
"No, no," Alan waved off, dismissing the guard's question. "It's nothing like that. You see," he explained, grinning slyly, "it appears that she has something of my son's, and I want it back."
"And what about Mr. Corinthos, sir," Max wondered out loud, looking in the direction in which his boss had retired. "I was supposed to be his guard until 7:00 when Adam was coming up to replace me."
"Just do what I ask, son," the doc requested, slapping the younger man on the back in a friendly manner, "and leave Mr. Corinthos to me."
As Max made his way out of the penthouse and onto the elevator, he realized that his previous fears had only been strengthened by the short meeting he had stood in on. Trouble was brewing between the three most powerful men in their organization, and, before it boiled over, he knew he was going to be caught in the scalding crosshairs. He only hoped he would be able to survive the burns.
