Mors

3

"Excuse me!" I called after them, my voice swallowed by the echoing hallway. But they didn't stop. They didn't even turn around. They just kept walking, their footsteps receding until they vanished behind a heavy, unmarked door. I told myself it might be the bathroom I was so desperately searching for, even though a part of my mind, the part that was still a little bit sober, knew that was a lie. Still, the need was overwhelming. I decided to follow.

Hesitantly, my hand trembling a little, I wrapped my fingers around the cold door handle. I opened it just a crack, peeking my head inside. The space wasn't a bathroom at all. It was some twisted hybrid of a private office, a bar, and a den of iniquity, all rolled into one. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigar smoke and something else I couldn't place—something metallic and sharp, like a hint of blood.

In the corner of the room, on a plush leather sofa, sat three men. The one in the middle, however, was impossible to ignore. He was a vision of lethal elegance, dressed in clothes that screamed wealth and danger. A hat was pulled low over his eyes, and leather gloves encased his hands, which was ridiculously big. A cigar was nestled between the fingers of his right hand. A cynical part of me wondered if I was supposed to find this display attractive.

I couldn’t make out his entire face. The dim light, coupled with the shadow of his hat, hid his features in a shroud of mystery. But the parts I could see—a straight, aristocratic nose, lips set in a thin, hard line, and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass—were enough to send a jolt of alarm through me. He wasn't the kind of handsome that made your knees weak; he was the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The kind of handsome that made women terrified and yet unable to resist. He was the literal embodiment of a walking red flag, and every instinct in my body screamed at me to run.

My eyes followed his gaze, and my breath hitched. Two men were holding the man I'd seen earlier, the one who had disappeared with them. He wasn’t unconscious, but he was close. His face was a canvas of bruises, black and blue and swollen. His clothes were torn, and what I could see of his exposed skin was a roadmap of cuts and welts.

“Did you think you could outsmart me?” a dark, resonant voice boomed through the quiet room. It was not loud, but it filled the space with a chilling, palpable menace. A shiver of pure dread ran down my spine, and my skin prickled with goosebumps. The evil in his tone was undeniable—a cold, ruthless malice that warned me of the predator in our midst. My eyes found a shiny, silver gun resting on a low table, its expensive gleam a sinister promise.

I let out a sharp, involuntary gasp as the man who'd been standing near the door suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the room. He slammed the door shut and locked it with a sickening click. My drunken haze finally began to lift, replaced by a dawning, bone-deep terror. If I were sober, I never would have followed them. If I had, I would've been running, not walking, away from this place. I would’ve changed my name, my address, and maybe even my face just to get away from him. Instead, my drunken stupidity had sealed my fate.

My gaze was drawn back to the man with the hat. He leaned over and whispered something to the guy sitting next to him, who glanced at me before nodding and leaving the room without a word.

“Bring her here,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. I swallowed, the sound loud in my ears, as the man who'd dragged me in began to pull me towards the sofa. I kept my eyes on anything but him, a frantic part of my mind trying to avoid his terrifying presence.

I let out a small, quiet sigh of relief when he turned his attention back to the battered man.

“I haven't gotten an answer,” the man with the hat said, slowly raising the cigar to his lips. He exuded an aura of absolute authority—the kind of man who commanded respect, whether it was given willingly or taken by force. He was a shark, and fear was his chum.

“No, capo. Ti prego, perdonami. Non succederà più,” the beaten man cried out, his voice choked with sobs. I tilted my head, wondering what language he was speaking. It sounded Italian.

("No, boss. Please forgive me, it won't happen again.")

“No, it won’t happen again,” the man drawled slowly, a puff of smoke erupting from his lips as he spoke. He picked up the silver gun and, with a casual flick of his wrist, disengaged the safety. He aimed it directly at the terrified man.

“Because you won’t be alive to make that mistake again,” he said. And then he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening. The man’s body went limp, a crimson stain spreading across his chest. I let out a scream, the sound tearing from my throat, horrified by the cold, casual brutality of it. There was no hesitation in his movement, no shake in his hands, no regret in his eyes. He even let out a cruel, humorless laugh as if the act of taking a life was nothing more than a minor amusement.

“Oh, e mi prenderò cura della tua puttana,” he added, his voice dripping with venom. The other men in the room joined in his laughter.( "Oh, and I'll take good care of your whore.”)”

“Cosa dovremmo fare con il suo corpo, capo?” one of the men asked, gesturing to the dead body. ("What should we do with his body, boss?")

The man looked up, his gaze finding mine. I recoiled, taking a frightened step back, only to bump into the solid chest of the man standing behind me.

“Dargli da mangiare a Sidero,” he said, his eyes locking with mine. I felt like I was staring into the eyes of death itself, and it was here to collect my soul. ("Feed him to Sidero.")

“Va bene, capo,” the two men replied, their voices filled with a chilling obedience. They began to drag the body out of the room, but not before sending me a lecherous, predatory look that made my skin crawl with disgust.("Okay, boss.")

“Did you find everything?” he asked, and I stared back in utter confusion. Just then, the man who had left the room walked back in, a file in his hand. The hat-wearing man took it and began to flip through the pages.

“Interesting,” he muttered, his voice so low I could barely hear it. He closed the file and stood up. If he was intimidating while seated, he was absolutely terrifying standing. I could feel my knees shaking, and I had to fight the urge to crumble to the floor.

He walked up to me with a predator’s confidence and bent down, his face now inches from mine.

“You’d make a good puttana,” he smirked, the word a poison on his lips. I had no idea what it meant, but the dark look in his eyes told me it was something terrible, something that promised a special kind of hell for me.

I squeaked, my body rigid with fear, when he slowly raised his hand. My terrified reaction seemed to amuse him, and he let out a dark chuckle, putting the cigar back in his mouth.

“You know what to do,” he said, the words a cold command. And then he turned and strode out of the room.

I let out a yelp of pain as something hard slammed against the side of my head, a flash of blinding light and pain. My vision blurred, and through the haze, I saw the object that hit me: the cold, hard butt of a gun. My legs gave out, and I sank to the ground, my body heavy and useless. The last thing I registered before the darkness consumed me was the stark, horrifying thought that this was not the end—it was only the beginning of my personal hell.

~•~