"New York Harbour," Max ordered, and he slipped into the back of his father's limousine. The chauffeur, who had been standing outside, tipped his hat in response, then he closed the passenger door and took his own place in the driver's seat. When he set the vehicle in motion, it lurched forwards, but the ride slowly smoothened out as they took to the road. Behind the tinted windows of the Cadillac XTS, the bustling streets of New York gradually descended into twilight, marking yet again the end of another busy day.

Max leaned back with a relaxed sigh, crossing his arms—or atleast attempting to. The insulated down coat he was wrapped in was so thick and pudgy that it limited all movement, making him resemble the Michelin man. Albeit his Eskimo attire was a crime punishable by death in the fashion world, the temperature outside had plummeted to 'glacial' over the course of a couple of hours; he preferred not to risk pneumonia for the sake of looking good.

The interior of the limousine, however, was a different story. Maybe the chauffeur had an issue regulating his core body temperature or something because the man had raised the intensity of the heat to the extent that Max was practically melting into a puddle on his seat. He was tempted to lower the partition glass to talk some sense into the driver, but for once he was in a pleasant mood, and thus preferred not to annihilate it with trivialities. He resorted to unzipping his coat and chucking it on the seat across him, but when he remembered the consequences of his impulsiveness, he immediately gathered it up, wrestling it in place on his lap. His father's ominous words echoed in his ears:

Use my limousine to get home tonight, he had said, his benevolence a rare gift, but if I find even a single scratch on my leather seats, I will not hesitate to emasculate you.

Max subconsciously placed a hand over the crown jewels, quaking in fear at the thought.

He reached up and absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts careening off the potential nightmare towards the lunch with his father. The food was truly exquisite, as it emulated the true elegant and rustic nature of French cuisine. It had been a while since Max had been able to share a bite with him, as the two seemed to live seemingly disjointed lives, but he had felt a sense of accomplishment when his father had invited him out. He was proud of him, and although he hadn't used that exact word, Max could sense it in his actions. Although the confession hadn't eroded Max's bitterness towards him, it had succeeded to scratch its surface.

Words would never be enough to recuperate years of dereliction and anger, but it had sufficed for the duration of their rendezvous. Over a Blanquette de Veau and a Pot-au-feu, the bleak and cold afternoon was forgotten over meaningless talks of current events and their respective lives. At one point, Max had even brought up the strange encounter his father had had with his subordinate, hoping for an explanation. But his father's face had turned to a mask of stone, and so he had decided not to press any further.

It did give him food for thought as he wondered what their short conversation had been about. It could have been about Max's earlier denunciatory monologue, but at the same time, it could've been about something completely different, and worse. Either way, Max didn't dare bring it up again, as he feared that his father's explosive temper would get the better of him and cause a scene.

Alright, maybe his mannerisms were more refined than that, but at times his father's behaviour was highly unpredictable, so it was better not to play with fire.

Now, rather than going home as his father had instructed, Max was on his way to the harbour. He needed to discuss his recent findings with his cousin, and hopefully, get him to give him a list of the names of his underlings.

Max was pulled out of his reminiscing from the slow buzzing of the partition window rolling down, which revealed the illuminated road and the nocturnal traffic ahead.

"Sir, we are ten minutes away from our destination. Which terminal were you looking to check in?"

Oh shit, Max thought. Roman had told him what the name of the terminal was over the phone, but of course, right when he needed to remember it, it went over his head. His brows scrunched together and he pensively rubbed his jaw—he could feel the driver's expectant gaze shoot from the road to the rearview mirror.

"The container ship facility-" he snapped his fingers repeatedly, rolling the words around in his mouth in the hopes that the name would dawn on him.

"Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal?" The driver asked. The limousine angled off to one side as they turned into a different street. Max nodded slowly, the name familiar to him.

"Yeah, that's the one," he stated. He wondered how the driver could remember such a long-ass name, but then his question answered itself when he heard the robotic voice of a GPS. "Did you enjoy your lunch today sir? I've heard from Mr. Rubair that the food is amazing. Although I personally would never be able to afford the astronomical prices, I was told that-"

Maximilian raised a bothered eyebrow at the chauffeur's sudden chattiness. Maybe Max's father was the sort to converse with a bumpkin driver, but Max certainly wasn't. He decided to make a point of it right away. He lifted the armrest and pressed a button on the pad underneath it, a frown on his face. The partition window began to ascend, smothering any chances of further conversation between the two men.

Ten minutes later, the limousine glided to a halt, and the gentle whirr that had accompanied Max for the duration of the ride got silenced as the engine was switched off.

This must be it, Max thought as he began to slip his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He heard a knock on the passenger window and then the door swung open, revealing the stony-faced driver. Max waved him away, and the man begrudgingly moved aside.

Max stepped out of the vehicle and his nose wrinkled when he inhaled the marine air. The salt was already clinging to his skin which crawled with viscosity.

"I'll be back in an hour, two hours tops." Max said. He crossed his arms behind his back and turned with a pretentious sneer to look down at his driver, taking in his mousy features. Max took a couple of steps away when the driver spoke up, raising a gloved finger in the air.

"But-my shift ends in an hour," he squeaked, his previously conversational self simmering down. Max sighed dramatically, lifting his shoulders and shaking his head. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet to finger through a sheaf of hundred dollar bills. After pulling one out, he walked back to the limousine to hold it up between two fingers.

"Can you tell me how much this is?"

The driver blinked with perplexity, his thin lips puckering as if he had just eaten something sour.

"One hundred dollars, sir."

"If you're here when I'm back, it's yours," Max stated simply, turning his back on him without waiting for a response. He knew he'd agree to it.

"Of course! I'll be here as long as you need, sir," the man called out after him, and Max smirked.

Knew it.

He'd make sure to fire him the next time the vermin crossed his path.

-:-

I call my office space the 'shack', Roman said when Max had inquired about the location of their meeting. He hadn't bothered to ask about its appearance at the time, quite stupidly. It was especially a problem since a 'shack' for Roman was anything smaller than a Manhattan penthouse, the pompous bastard he was. So now Max found himself wandering aimlessly down one of the dozens of roads that snaked around the stacks of multicoloured containers, not bothering to look at the time—it was probably past eight by now anyway. The containers loomed over him menacingly, the names of the corporations that owned them jumping out at him like a jack in the box. With every glance, he silently reassured himself that they weren't capable of just toppling over and squashing him like an ant at any given moment.

It was an irrational fear, but it was still there, and it kept him on his toes.

The loud buzzing of his phone jolted him out of thoughts, and a ringtone began to play intermittently. It was a mixture of a xylophone, cymbals, and drums—it sounded like a percussion festival in Max's pocket. He promptly reached into it and scrambled to unlock it, bringing the phone to his ear.

"Sup." Calm and collected.

"Hey primito, just calling to make sure you're still alive since, you know, you're late by half an hour."

Max rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. It didn't take much for Roman to sap the life out of him, "Frankly, I have no idea where the hell I am."

"Thought so," A pause.

So...

"Listen, I wanted to ask you something."

"No, you listen to me! I'm out here, freezing my ass off, while you're in your so-called 'shack'-" His fingers were frozen solid around his phone.

"What are you wearing?"

"What?"

"What. Are. You. Wearing?" Roman repeated, pausing after every word as if he were speaking to an imbecile.

Max stopped in his tracks, a scowl on his face.

"Why do you want to know? So you can jerk off to a mental image of me? That's kind of fucked up. Wait, not kind of, very."

A dramatic sigh on the other end.

"No. So that my man doesn't snipe your ass."

If this was a movie, then this would be the part where the camera panned to said sniper, giving the audience a view of Max through the telescopic sight, and the red laser dot on his target's forehead.

"What?!" Max shouted, "You have snipers on me?! What's wrong with you?"

"Calm down," Roman snickered, "I told them I was waiting for you, so they won't shoot unless I tell them to."

"Once I get my hands on you I swear to God-"

"Okay since you're being difficult, I guess I'm just going to have to hang up."

Max could picture his cousin bringing the phone away from his ear and bringing his finger down towards the "end call" button in slow-motion.

"Blue coat, jeans, and beige Tims. I'm literally the only guy stupid enough to walk around here at this time of night," Max had begun to walk again—if he was going to be taken down by a sniper, it would have to be while he was moving, not while he was standing around like a fool. Roman's voice suddenly sounded very far away; he was probably relaying the information to his men.

"Alright, you're in the clear. See you soon!" Roman said in a sing-song voice.

This guy really was a man-child.

"Wait-" Max still had no clue where he was meant to go.

"What," Roman spat, a little too aggressively. "Shit, sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound like that—what's up?"

"I still don't know where I have to go..."

"Right. Well, you're close, just keep walking in a straight line—you'll know it when you see it."

What-what the what?

"Oh, and remember to wipe your shoes when you come in."

The line went dead.

The asshole had to add that snide remark, didn't he? He just had to, or his tiny little heart wouldn't have been satisfied.

Max envisioned Roman on his knees, pleading for his mediocre life to be spared. Max wrapped his hands around imaginary-Roman's neck, and tightened his fingers around it, strangulating him.

-:-