WARNING!!
This story contains violence, gangs, and most likely consensual sexual content at some point.
I do not own TVD.
Also, Sloane's face claim is Rihanna.
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"I am not in danger, Skyler! I am the danger. A guy opens his door and gets shot and you think that of me? No. I am the one who knocks!"
—Walter White, Breaking Bad
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Chapter One:
Respect The Hustle
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Maybe I could've been a better person.
I mean, it surely wasn't that hard to be a good human being.
You tell little white lies that wouldn't hurt anyone if they found out. You have to be loyal. Smile at people. Be nice and share with the other kids. Sweet. Humble.
Forgiving.
Sure, 'nice' had never been my default— but, I definitely could've tried harder.
Maybe that's how I ended up in this situation in the first place. Some sort of cosmic retribution bullshit for all of the not-so-great things I've done.
I had to admit— in retrospect, it was all too funny to find Miguel humping my now-naked cleaning lady, Mila, into the back of my brand-new Lexington salon sofa.
And, that's not even the funniest part.
I've been sitting on the corner chair for at least a few minutes now, letting the confirmation stew— and they don't stop the animalistic slapping of skin until they hear my lighter flick a few times in an attempt to light the cigar in my mouth. Wild blue eyes flick towards me, and I see the moment when Miguel realizes just how fucked he is.
"FUCK!" The handsome Miguel exclaims, jumping off of the hunched form of our pretty little maid like it burned him to even touch her in the first place. "Jesus Christ— Sloane!"
Covering the one thing that kept our marriage going with one of my nice throw pillows, Miguel falls on his naked ass on what-used-to-be our marble floor.
The maid, on the other hand, must've been in some sort of a pleasured daze for the last few minutes, because she has only just now noticed that I'm here as I take another thick drag of the cigar. Pursing my lips derisively, I frown down at the cigar, double-checking the label.
The tobacco tastes stale.
Rolling my pretty green eyes, I glance over again at my perspiring husband— unimpressed, to say the least.
"Oh, don't mind me. But, honey," I Chile in a nonchalant tone, but I can hear the venom starting to seep into my voice, as well as my accent. "I'd hoped for a better show considering what we do. I could have just googled this amateur shit."
Mila struggles to cover her tits whilst hiding behind the couch.
Oddly enough, I'm feeling very 'God catching Adam and Eve after they bit the apple.'
"It's.. It's not what it looks like," Miguel stutters out, clearly already aware of the price for disloyalty.
"You sure? You really sure, baby?" I ask, finally feeling the first vestiges of irritation starting to curl around my gut like a python, "Because, what it looks like is that my pathetic, stupid husband is thinking with his other motherfucking head, and is spoon-feeding a mole information— you bitch-ass doormat."
Mila's large doe eyes widen cartoonishly, her attempting to make a run for it, but she stops pretty quickly when the marble bust in front of her shatters into shards of ivory. The smoking Glock is still in my hand, and I promptly grind out my cigar into the arm of the chair, making a mental note to get it replaced as I stand up gun still pointed at a now-trembling Mila. Miguel looks like he's about to have a heart attack, twice as sweaty as the position I caught him in.
Mila's hands raise as she turns to glare bitterly at me.
"Oh, careful, boo," I quip mockingly, more than ready to never see another trace of this bitch again. "You're lookin' a bit skittish over there. I'm sure a hole in your billboard forehead will help air out some of that anxiety you're feeling."
Miguel's pretty blue eyes continue to the stare down the naked maid's form in shock.
"W-What? What is she talking about?" He asks angrily, and I see the vein underneath the large, ornate tattoo on his neck start to pulse.
I don't bother making eye contact with stupid, instead keeping my gaze and gun trained on Mila.
"Exactly what I said. This bitch got you going deaf? No wonder you were cheating if she's that good on the back of my goddamn couch," I finish with a slight growl, before a sheepish grin crosses my face. "Oh, well. You were shitty at dusting it, anyway. The Rowans couldn't send any better? Shit. They're scraping the bottom of the barrel if you're their acting talent."
Miguel is now turned away from Mila, large tanned hands running through his thick brown hair anxiously as he whispers expletives. My lovely little mole looks after his muscled back with teary eyes as my finger curls around the trigger again.
"Not gonna use your magic on me, witch?" Mila sneers, obviously showing her Rowan stripes.
I could've been a good person.
"I use my magic against people, not bitches."
She shuts her eyes tightly, waiting for the bullet— but, it doesn't come. Busting out laughing at her scared face, I see that her face is now very confused. Miguel is used to the way I run things, however, so he knows better. He takes off to try and run for the patio, but I'm on him the second he does, not hesitating as I unload two bullets into his leg.
Yowling in pain as the gunshots ring out, he collapses back onto our white marble floor with a hard resounding smack, and the floor surrounding him starts to stain red.
Rolling my eyes as I hear Mila's naked footsteps making a break for the foyer, I strut over to Miguel groaning on the floor, careful not to get any blood on my red bottoms. Squatting down, I meet his eye level just as he remembers that there is something to fear other than the blistering, fiery pain in his most-likely-shattered knee cap.
For just a moment, I let a bit of the very small amount of softness that I had acquired for Miguel over our four-year marriage. I look down on him— not hurt, but angry and disappointed.
Scoffing, I sigh, "You pretty, pretty bastard. Why'd you have to go and ruin a good thing? You could've been sitting at the top with me, baby."
Miguel's eyes are angry and bitter as they glare back fiercely at me, "I'm not stupid, Sloane. You don't have room at the top for anyone but yourself. You selfish bitc—!!"
It's much easier to be a bad person.
I cut him off by shoving the Glock hard against his cranium, hopefully jogging some brain cells so that he could remember who the fuck he was talking to.
"You wanna see a bitch? I'll take your pansy-ass outside right now so everyone can see how I deal with disloyalty. That'd be the really bitchy thing to do, right? I'm sure you'd know all about being a bitch," I growl, finally starting to snap as my temper flares brightly in my stomach.
The shuffle of heavy footsteps approaches then, and I stand straightening out my knee length black and gold dress as several of my boys show up with— to no one's surprise— the cleaning lady.
"Back so soon?" I ask rhetorically, only getting a loogie on my nice floors that she was supposed to clean today. Darius is the one spelling her still with his magic, but his ringed hand swings down hard across Mila's face at the disrespect.
"Real classy," I sigh, pulling my phone out of my pocket when it buzzes twice.
Quickly reading the text message, my brow furrows slightly as my other boys drag back Miguel from the patio door. As I re-read the message to verify what it says, I blink pleasantly at the good news.
Waving my hand, I quickly order, "Miguel Castellos is guilty. Mila Jackson is also guilty— but, make sure hers is loud. Spectacles need to be made. People need to find out. Capisce?"
Darius nods, quickly instructing the others to take the traitorous two away. Mila continues to struggle against the strong magic binding her as Miguel continues to yell blasphemies my way.
My fingers snap almost subconsciously, summoning my driver and door man, Mr. Hutchins, to my side. The black elderly man smiles at me warmly, and I can't help but return it.
"Where to, Mrs. Castellos?" He asks in that familiar gritty voice that I have appreciated since I was a child.
"Oh," I quickly sigh, "It's Ms. Carmichael, again. And, we're going to be taking the plane."
Blinking his aged dark eyes at me, his salt-and-pepper brows furrow briefly before he just nods, probably realizing that must've been what all of the shooting was about.
"Good riddance," he growls out, looking up at the portrait of me and Miguel besides the portraits of my parents, and my parents' parents, and so on. "If I may speak freely, ma'am— I'd say he's a paper man. You can do much better."
A loud laugh leaves my throat, and I pat the older man on the back warmly as we walked out of Carmichael Manor's double-doors.
"Let's move. Mystic Falls is in the middle of nowhere, and we're gonna need to get driving as soon as we hit the runway."
I can see the obvious question in my driver's eyes, but he doesn't ask, and I don't answer. He's a lot like Miguel in that way; he always knows when he doesn't need to know. And the text that I received definitely qualifies as the 'boss' level of a need-to-know basis.
Mr. Hutchins opens my limousine door after we descend the manor's lavish entry staircase, and I primly take my seat in the back. Realizing with a groan that I have left a perfectly average Cuban cigar on my burnt furniture, I huff, grabbing another one from the display of them in a champagne glass.
Quickly lighting it as I take a puff to soothe my racing heart, I once again pull out my phone, re-reading the picture attached to the message.
Message: I am very eager to meet you in Mystic Falls. Signed, E.
(Picture) Please join the Mikaelson Family this evening at 7 o'clock for dancing, cocktails and celebration.
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Hi! Welcome to KINGPIN, and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I know it's short, but I wanted to make sure this was actually an interesting concept before I poured my heart into it. Therefore, if you'd like me to continue, please let me know.
I'm insecure lol.
One more thing: Sloane WILL be paired with someone by the end of this, and it will be a Mikaelson. I just haven't picked who yet, so let me know who you're rooting for!
Thank you for any likes or comments!
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