The Score by Bethany-Kris

because it’s in my territory. Simple math, make it work. I want my cash by the end of the month, and it’s not a part of your regular tribute.” Anton turned to the young kid, maybe only twenty-two, who’d stayed silent in the corner. “And you, who are you?”
    “Joshua,” the boy mumbled. “One of Viktor’s boys.”
    Yes, Anton figured that. Every brigadier essentially controlled a brigade of men who ran the streets, handled the products, and paid their captain. If they were lucky, quick, and smart, they could move up the ranks. It wasn’t easy, it often took a long while to get off the streets, but it happened if the man showed potential.
    “Your friend who got shot, is he okay?” Anton asked.
    Joshua shook his head.
    “Sorry to hear that, but that’s dealing on the streets when you’ve got enemies, kid. Do you use?”
    “Not meth.”
    “Chemical at all?” Anton pressed.
    The kid nodded. “Not serious use, it’s mostly recreational. You can’t expect to turn a profit if you’re only selling to feed an addiction.”
    Joshua was a smart kid, but he could get a hell of a lot smarter.
    Anton flicked his knife closed and tossed it back into the drawer. “Well, I suggest if you want to stand in my office for a different reason someday, you don’t ever touch a chemical again. Got it?”
    “Got it … Boss, is it?”
    Most street thugs never got the chance to stand in the same room with the head of the family. They heard them talked about enough, sure, but meeting them was a whole other ballgame.
    Anton smirked at the kid. “It is to you.”
    “Boss, then,” Joshua said quickly.
    “All right.” Anton leaned over his desk and pressed the conference button to call own to the bar. “Now, let’s get some drinks. On the house.”
    ***
    Anton rested back in the booth. The calmness sweeping his senses barely registered as unusual, but somehow, he knew it was. He was never this relaxed inside a venue with well over two-hundred drunken bodies moving around him.
    “Boss?”
    Drumming his fingers to the tabletop, Anton was vaguely aware of the heat that bloomed under his fingertips at every tap and moved up his digits. Fuck, that sensation was great. He rapped his fingers again just to feel it spread.
    “Boss?” someone asked again.
    Anton wasn’t in the mood to talk. The spotlights rounding the moving wave of people were far too interesting and had caught his eye well over a half an hour ago. Melting into his seat and watching the rhythmic movement of the rays, he almost felt dreamlike. As if he had no weight. Like there was no substance to his self, or the things around him.
    Maybe his thoughts, though.
    Those had to be real.
    “Jesus, Boss, look at me,” Rory snapped.
    Anton glared in his bull's direction, aggravated that his mood was being interrupted. “What?”
    “How much of that shit did you swallow?”
    “What?”
    “The meth, how much of it did—”
    “Shut up,” Anton ordered, turning back to look at the lights again.
    Rory didn’t make sense, Anton decided. He’d merely tasted less than a pinch of the meth and washed it back with a drink. It certainly wasn’t enough to make him fly, or get his mind jumbled up. Anton might not have used anything strong in a long while, but a blow of powder wasn’t going to get his mouth sticky like wet cotton, or make him crave a joint something fierce.
    No, he was just drunk.
    “I need to go lay down,” Anton muttered under his breath, the decision coming as quick as the last thoughts had gone. No worries. No cares. He was tired, unbothered, and his nerves felt really, really good. “Yeah, in my office.”
    Rory’s brow furrowed across the booth. “Want me to take you home?”
    “I want to lay the fuck down.”
    “Boss, look at me,” Rory repeated.
    Anton waved him off, already leaving the table.
    It seemed like a blink and Anton was in his office.
    A blink.
    Staring at the large decorative clock on the wall, he tried to figure out what