Heart Of A Mafia

SMOKE'S POV

Stepping off the plane in Oklahoma City, I felt the weight of the past eight years lift slightly. Prison had been a cage, but now I was free, ready to rebuild. The city was unfamiliar territory, a blank slate for my operations.

I hailed a taxi outside the terminal. The driver, a middle-aged guy with a friendly demeanor, greeted me.

"Where to, sir?" he asked.

"Somewhere decent to stay," I replied. "And a bar where I can get a good drink."

He nodded. "I know just the place. Name's Charles, by the way."

"Smoke," I said, settling into the back seat.

As we drove through the city, I noticed an abundance of churches. Their steeples seemed to pierce every other block.

"Lot of churches around here," I remarked.

Charles chuckled. "Yeah, we got more churches than convenience stores. Folks around here like to hedge their bets—pray on Sunday, sin the rest of the week."

I smirked. "Guess that covers all bases."

"So, what brings you to Oklahoma City?" Charles asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Business," I said curtly.

What kind of what he asked?

I leaned forward, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "None of your fucking kind of business

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough, Smoke. Just making conversation."

"Good," I said, leaning back in the seat, eyes locked on the road ahead. "Drop me at a hotel first. Come pick me up at 6. We’ll hit a bar after that."

Charles glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Alright, boss. I know a spot. Decent rates, clean sheets, no bed bugs—most days." He grinned, like he’d cracked the funniest joke in the world.

I didn’t laugh. "Just get me there."

The ride was quiet for a while. I watched the city roll by—brick buildings, rundown diners, and way too many churches for one place. Crosses on every other corner like the city was in a constant state of repentance.

Then I saw it—a weed shop beside a pawn shop. Neon-green leaves glowing in the window like a beacon. “Green Haven Dispensary” the sign read. Clean, flashy, and out of place on a block that looked like it hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade.

leaned forward, tapping Charles on the back of the headrest. "Who owns that spot?"

He glanced at the shop, then gave me a shrug. "Green Haven? No idea, man. Probably some local dude. Why?"

"Who runs the city?" I asked, eyes still locked on the shop as it faded into the distance.

Charles frowned, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. "What you mean, 'who runs the city'?"

I leaned forward, my voice lower, firmer. "Who calls the shots, Charles? Who do people answer to when things get hot? Somebody's always on top."

He blinked a few times, lips pressing into a thin line like he was running through a list of possible answers. "Man, I dunno. This ain’t one of them mafia movies. Folks here just live, work, and try to stay outta trouble."

"Pull over," I said, voice sharp.

Charles glanced at me in the mirror, confused. "What? We ain't at the hotel yet."

"Pull. Over," I said again, slower this time.

He muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, easing the cab to the curb near the dispensary. I didn’t wait for him to ask questions. I was already out of the car, my boots crunching against the gravel-strewn sidewalk. The cold air hit me, sharp and clean, but I barely felt it. My eyes were on that door—Green Haven Dispensary—glowing like an invitation.