He did not fail. He never failed . . never failed Karen Page [@sevenbulletsavior] rather. They failed her, but in the world of cut throats and starvation of power, the scales held the tendency to tip in favor of one side or another. Naturally it was his task and the task of people like him to keep the scales balanced in their favor, however there was little fun in the constant lull of victory. Contenders had to rise proud and belligerent for Benjamin to experience the thrill of felling them from root, to stump, and to head.
Nameless men beneath Karen and beneath him had lost control of the docks, and as reprimand he sliced off the tongues of three foot soldiers. Their hands still had work to do . . unless they wanted those limbs forfeited as well. His actions created no friends. He, like failure, did not need friendship or comradery, not when he answered to Karen at the end of each night; the bright cunning in her blue hues all the companionship he required. The docks would be reclaimed; he held no doubts about that.
The news of the chaotic night still had to be settled over the skyline of Hell's Kitchen, and for all the depravity of blood being shed only two hours prior, Benjamin approached as clean and proper as a Wall Street banker. Dressed in one of his finest suit in hues of black and charcoal, showered and dried, and presenting the news point blank. He did not fail her; he did not think as much even as nails raked against his scalp and slender digits grabbed what little blonde hair was neatly styled atop his head.
It was not a punishment for every moment of intimacy between employer and boss was a moment to cherish . . to engrain in every facet of mind and heart. Benjamin felt his pulse hitch with a heady excitement but such a pleasure was stealthy sedated from his appearance. Blue eyes were drowning in each other. No matter how hard Karen tugged or which way she manipulated his head, stern yet subservient gaze remained on her face. The only person who mattered in Hell's Kitchen.
