Not always as they seem...

In the works..I'm not sure I like this one, so I might redo it. Have an opinion? Let me know, I'd love to hear it!

Inspired by:
Old Software Re-imagined by PHerbert


Walking from the sunny sidewalks into the alley way, it took a few seconds for Mark's eyes to adjust, but it didn't matter, he knew exactly where he was going. About seventeen feet in, past the dumpster and the old car there was a dark hollow in the side of the old Caberet Hotel. A dark hole just wide enough for a man and not quite as tall. Waiting just beyond the alley view, a heavy steel door guarded the unknown. Mark knocked four times on the solid black door and stood just to the side as it squeaked open.
"Good evening Mr. Castro, sir. It's a pleasure to have you back in town."
"Yes. Are they here?"
"Upstairs, sir."
"Good"
Mark stalked around the corner with an air of ownership, not bothering to remove his designer sunglasses. The elevator was lit only with a bare bulb, dangling from the car ceiling. Mark strode in and turned around. Centering his weight as he looked straight ahead, Mark tapped the last button in the elevator-Penthouse. The folding frame doors closed noisily as the service elevator began to rise, faster than most do. Mark liked things fast.
On the streets, Mark was Sir Castro, a tycoon of sorts. He owned New York in a way much more powerful than any stupid piece of paper could enable. He owned the people. They came to him, begging sometimes. He was never one to turn away a street boy, simply because he didn't have to. Mark rarely had to worry about enforcing his position as boss. He gave directions, and everybody followed. No questions. No problems. Everyone knew that if they ever were to mess up, the large man they called "sir" would see to it they never spoke again. Or, at least, everyone felt that way. Mark had never had to do anything of the sort, but he knew the intimidation helped his employees. Whenever he heard a rumor about his own temper; Mark would simply look straight at the speaker through his black shades, smiling through his dark lips to expose the gold caps. The speaker usually shut up pretty fast.
Stepping out into a dark hallway, Mark gave a swift hand motion and another man came out of the shadows.
"Clear them out. All of them. I want it empty tonight."
"Yes, my lord, exactly as you desire." The man answered with a devilish grin that said he knew what Mark was after. Or at least he thought he knew. A few scroungy looking twenty-somethings slinked out of the door down the hallway. That door hid the apartment where his people stayed. Not that any of them ever needed to. In the few weeks since Mark had been in the city, he had realized that all of the black men in his corner of town had two "places". One was for the girls. the other was simply a meeting house, a place for them to gather, to do their work. Or feel as though they were. These rooms were the latter kind. No one ever slept there, but sometimes they would stay late into the early morning. Talking, mostly.
His suite did not open into theirs, but he knew that when he was around, they expected a certain atmosphere, and he was not ready to keep up the dangerous pretense tonight. He needed his world to be empty.
"Tell Martin he can go home."
"Yes sir."
"You too."
"Yes, sir"
Completely empty. When the hallway was dark once more, Mark strode to the door on the other end. He stood for a moment in front of the door. Producing a key from his pocket, Mark opened the heavy door and stepped inside. Closing it behind him, he leaned against the frame and sighed. Glad to have this night alone, he was quick to remove his glasses and jacket.
He walked to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk, then sat on the couch in front of the computer and opened his email. Mark's story was not what they thought it was. Mark was, as they knew, the son of Tyronne Castro, lord of the Cuban drug rings. It was Tyronne who owned people. They did everything for him. Mark's father had once lived in this New York suite. People had made it available to him. He had created a following. A scandal, a circle, a web of people. All working for the name of Tyronne Castro. Most of them had never met Tyronne. A few of them had now met Mark.
Mark was not a drug dealer. He never had been into that. When he was little, his dad was never around. He knew what he did, everyone did. But Tyronne never came home to visit. Somehow, he was always there anyway. When Mark was 19, his father had shipped him out to New York, to take care of business. But Mark knew what his father was, and he knew what he didn't want to become. When Mark arrived in New York, he cleaned out the suite, stripping it down to the bare, clean lines that existed long before Tyronne filled it with his garbage. Under a new name, Mark applied for school and was working in the subway. Not that he needed the money. The money came from everywhere.
Mark didn't take the money. He kept it in bunches around the apartment, to keep up his look. He sent thousands home to his father, once a month or so. He needed to wait only a few more months. Until he could get his feet really under himself. Then, he would go missing. Not from the city, but from his father's life. He was making arrangements now, to make his father think he was fine for a while, but it would not be him sending home the checks.
He had the power to do it too, he could do anything. He knew that. Tyronne knew that. Tyronne had made that. But Tyronne's version of "anything" was not the same as Mark's. Mark wanted the good 'anything'. Tyronne wanted the fun. Mark would use Tyronne's 'anything' to protect him from his father's anger, when he found out that Mark was no longer leading his rings. But that would be a few years. Mark had a few years. To live his life before he could forget the past. And he would.
Mark walked to the bank of windows, leaning against the metal frames and looking out into the city. His city. New York. Soon he would be free, and never have to look through these cursed windows again.
He was Tyronne Castro's son. But he was not Mark Castro. Not as he seemed. Soon, not at all. Soon, he would be someone else. Someone new and free and right. Someone ready to do things. He was that someone now. Just not to the others. He must remain not as he seemed, in order to survive. 'But this is alright', he thought to himself. 'Everyone has a mask. It's just time I take mine off'. Almost.