THE CEO

 

THE CEO

III

Cayman Islands

In the middle of the Caribbean’s deep-blue breath, where the sea turns silk at dusk, lie the Cayman Islands—three small emeralds scattered across a vast, sun-warmed velvet cloth.

Grand Cayman rises first from the horizon, a quiet queen draped in mangrove lace. Her shores curve gracefully, collecting secrets brought in by wandering tides: a message in a bottle, a conch shell shaped like a lung, the lost whisper of a storm. At night she glows—streetlamps shimmering like fireflies caught in amber—and the breeze carries the scent of salt and hibiscus through streets where roosters walk as if they own the dawn.

Cayman Brac stands apart, the stoic sentinel. Its limestone bluff stretches toward the sky—a rugged spine on which the wind plays its ancient flute. Here, the world feels both older and sharper; caves breathe cold stories, cliffs fall into cerulean depths, and fishermen speak of the sea as if it were an old friend with a mischievous smile.

Then there is Little Cayman, the quiet poet of the trio. With fewer people than a modest village and more iguanas than any census could bear, it dreams in turquoise. Time moves differently here—barefoot, unhurried. The waves write soft verses on the sand, erasing them only to begin again, as though crafting the perfect line. And beneath the water, coral gardens glow like the stained glass of some submerged cathedral, were stingrays drift like gentle thoughts.

Together, the islands feel like a trilogy of moods—regal, rugged, and serene—held together by the warm pulse of Caribbean sun and the rhythm of tides that never tire of returning. Here, even the horizon seems to lean in closer, as if it, too, longs to stay.

Simon Crawford stepped out of his hotel room with his suitcase. He wore a silk blue shirt with a golden chain across his neck. The weather was tropical and serene. A warm wind passed by him refreshing him instantly. Palm trees were decorated and could be seen from miles away across the curb.

He put on his black Ray ban shades and entered a taxi. The Cayman Islands was the hub of all his contacts, his rich friends who played golf with him and offered him trust turning their dirty money clean in such beautiful countries.

But on this day, he had a very important meeting with the don himself Luigi Mangioni head of the American Mafia crime family. Luigi was an ancient man; his head was covered with white hairs that looked like snowflakes. His skin was wrinkly and was slow to speech but aside his physical challenges he was very mentally sharp.

At his old age he could have a forecast of all his business both legal and illegal and give a stern direction. His four sons went to the most prestigious of schools all Ivy League Universities. But only one Dante Mangioni would inherit his fathers’ empire. He was tall and lithe and seemed to always dress well on any occasion. His hair was black as night neatly combed backwards shiny and elegant. He would in time become the next Don of America. But he was too rash always leading by impulse rather than logic. Nevertheless, he was calm and collected whenever around his father.

Simon Crawford entered into the Don’s estate, the taxi cab rode into the establishment after Simon passed all the security checks at the huge gate. The guards were heavily armed to the tooth with semi-automatic rifles holding huge security dogs at bay. Inside the establishment were acres and acres of land stretching towards a private beach far as the eyes can see.

He entered the huge mansion completely gob smacked by the Don’s opulence and exquisite taste. The foyer was decorated with a beautiful waterfall fountain that reached the high ceilings as if reaching for the stars. A double staircase presented itself that lead to the main office where the Don was.

Surrounded by the Don’s bodyguards he was escorted to the office. The stair case was covered in a white marble prefab with golden strands of actual gold. There by the office were more guards but the Don dismissed them with a whisper.

“Simon my son” said the Don embracing him warmly.

“How is New York?” asked the Don.

“Cold…” he said with a sigh.

The Don’s white hair stood up and for a moment he looked uncomfortable.

“Leave us” he said to the rest of the sicarios of which they obliged.

“My money is being tracked by the cops” he said pointing his fingers at his laptop breaking the ice.

Luigi was vexed by his new findings that his money had to be wired into a secret location that only Simon knew. It was too risky and now that he summoned Simon all the way from New York he would get answers the easy way or the hard way.

“There is a reason why I moved all the way to the Cayman Islands, I wanted my money close to me as I have mentioned before. Not stolen away from me!” he shouted.

“The Cayman Islands account has been compromised. We have a mole it could probably be a connection to the Mexican cartel.” Said Simon frankly.

“Those damn Mexicans I gave them a piece of the pie and this is how they repay me!” said Luigi coughing frantically as he covered his face with his silk handkerchief.

“Who is this I here about a protégé? The kid from the Bronx” he asked.

“Frank Giovanni is an important cog in the company. I am grooming him to be an absolute asset in the organization,” said Simon.

“Do yourself a favor and leave that boy alone before he turns like you…” said the Don waving a hand to dismiss Simon.

Was that a warning?

What did he mean by “turn into”?

Was his life in danger?