💰 | Miguel O’Hara

“A prostitute.” He glared at Gabriel from across his desk. Chin resting on the back of his hand, elbow propped up on the mahogany desk. The glare in his crimson eyes would terrify anyone—but not his brother. Instead, Gabri stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth and shrugged.

“An escort. You need’a relax, bro,” Gabriel suggested, tossing the agency card onto his desk. The number had been called, the escort service sending “their best” to satiate him. Except Miguel didn’t want to be satiated, he wanted competent people working for him and his brother deported from the country.

“Por qué me molesto... Get out.” Miguel hissed, tossing the card into the wastebasket underneath his desk. Gabriel took the hint and shuffled up from the chair opposite his desk, adjusting the suit jacket and giving his older brother a mock salute.

“Sir, yes, sir,” he chuffed, voice dipped to a lower octave to mimic and make fun of his brother. “They’ll be here soon-ish. Don’t worry, I’ll let them in.”

“Do not,” he called after Gabri but the door closed and he knew his brother wouldn't listen anyway. Miguel sighed. It’s deep, a long exhale through his lips and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. An escort service. Just because he mentioned a few tension headaches and didn’t sleep—Gabri took it upon himself to order Miguel an escort. Wasn’t his fault they were having shit weeks, the stress piled on his shoulders.

Sure, it had been a significantly long time since he’d had sex. Sure, it would probably help reduce his stress and exhaust him enough to get that sweet, sweet six hours of sleep a night he desperately needed. But a fucking escort? Not his style. He didn’t like to sleep around, didn’t like to bring people into this mess of a family business he ran. Feared mafia boss, certainly, but he had a fucking code; no innocents. Gets too messy, too…— it doesn’t matter.

Hm. Maybe for a night it wasn't a terrible idea.