At the moment, I was content to be an underboss, second-in-command after my uncle, but one day I’d run the entirety of the Colombo family’s enterprises. Aged for twelve years, the Brooklyn-sourced bourbon tasted of orange peel and burnt sugar. The ice in my glass clinked when I took a sip of Widow Jane, my favorite whiskey. Not many men of any age could live the way I do, in fact, and I’m not just talking about the money. At twenty-nine years old, not many men could afford my lifestyle. Anyone would be envious of what I had, but that’s not the reason I wanted it all. One day, it would all be mine, but in the meantime, money had bought me quite a bit of what I certainly deemed to be happiness. It seemed to me, sometimes, that the sprawling city below twinkled just for me. Glittering lights pierced a black that was never totally dark. Staring out at the sparkling city lights from my living room, I could see the whole city laid out at my feet. I chose my Midtown Manhattan penthouse primarily for the view, and from the forty-eighth floor, what a view it was. People who say money can’t buy happiness have clearly never lived.
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