Mors

6

"You'll be my secret weapon," he replied, and my brow furrowed in confusion. A secret weapon? That was even crazier than a "businesswoman."

"My personal secretary," he continued, and I blinked. That was... a normal job. A dangerous one, no doubt, but something I could understand.

"My confidant," he added, and a nervous gulp escaped my throat. The words sounded so intimate, so disturbingly personal. Did he even realize how that sounded? Probably not. He didn't seem to be a man of emotions, except maybe for anger and a cruel sort of amusement.

"My w***e," he finished, and my eyes bugged out of their sockets. The word hit me like a physical blow. What the hell? Me? His w***e? Never. Absolutely not.

"You're crazy!" I screamed, the sound echoing in the opulent room. I could handle being his secretary, maybe even his "secret weapon" if that meant something other than murder, but his w***e? That was a line I would not cross. "I will not be your w***e!" I shrieked, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror.

He raised a single brow, a silent question in his gaze: Do you remember the deal I offered you? The memory of his two options—be his w***e or a public one—flashed through my mind. As horrifying as both were, I was forced to concede that the first option, while still a form of hell, seemed like a slightly better choice. I'd be dealing with one monster, not a hundred. At least in my mind, that was the logic I clung to.

He watched my internal debate with an unnerving calm, as if he were observing a fascinating insect trapped under glass. He was so relaxed, so completely at ease with this situation. Of course he was; his life wasn't on the line.

"What do you mean by 'secret weapon'?" I asked, completely ignoring the last, most terrifying word he’d said. I figured if I didn't acknowledge it, maybe he’d forget about it. Or at least, I hoped he would.

"You'll assassinate for me. You'll do all the dirty work," he replied, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. As he spoke, his hands moved behind me, searching for something. His fingers brushed against my hips, then my backside, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he was touching me, but then he cupped my rear, lifting me off the desk as if I weighed nothing.

"Found it," he muttered, pulling a cigar from a hidden compartment. He set me back down on the desk, a little to the right this time, before lighting the cigar with a Zippo. My cheeks burned with shame and indignation. He could have just told me to move. He could have picked me up by the waist. But no, he had to be as degrading as possible.

He nudged the contract toward me with the smoking cigar. "Sign it." The hat on his head cast a deep shadow over his face, making him look even more terrifying. I averted my eyes, not wanting him to think I was ogling him. I picked up the pen, my hand shaking so badly I could barely form the letters of my name. I was signing my life away to the devil. I knew it.

"Now what?" I asked, my voice coming out as a nervous squeak instead of the strong, defiant tone I was aiming for.

"Back to the cells," he said simply, standing up. I followed his lead, scrambling off the desk.

"What? Why back to the cells?" I blurted out, trailing after him. He said I was going to be his secretary. How could I do that from a dungeon?

"You'll see," was his infuriatingly short reply. I bit my tongue to keep from yelling at him. What was the point? He wasn't my friend. He wasn't even a human being as far as I could tell. He was a monster.

It didn't take long for us to arrive back at the familiar, dark staircase. A sudden, deep chill shot through my body as we descended. The air grew colder, heavier, and the smell of rot returned.

"What are we doing here?" I choked out, my body shaking with a fear that felt even more potent now than before.

"To prove your loyalty to me, my mafia," his low voice boomed, echoing in the silent, suffocating space.

"How will I prove it?" I asked, my eyes darting nervously around the dungeon. My instincts were screaming at me. I didn't trust him. He could be leading me to my death right now, a slow, painful one.

He stopped, turning to face me so suddenly that I had to halt my steps to avoid crashing into him.

"You'll kill a traitor for me," he said, the words slipping from his lips so casually it was sickening. This was probably a regular Tuesday for him. For me, it was a nightmare.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. He ignored my refusal. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun, a different one from before. This one was black, sleek, and terrifyingly real.

"Take it. We'll go inside, and you'll shoot the traitor. If you want to make him suffer, you can. It's your choice how you'll kill him," he said, tilting his head slightly, as if he were giving me a gift.

"No," I repeated, firmer this time. I would not do this. I wouldn’t become a monster like him. I would never turn into what he wanted me to be.

"So we're going to do it the hard way?" he sighed, shaking his head as if I were a difficult child. I wanted to scoff at him, to tell him he couldn't make me do a damn thing, but the defiant spark in me was already starting to die.

He smirked, and I felt a fresh wave of fear. He looked like a demon, pure and unadulterated. He took my hand and, in one swift motion, twisted me around so my back was against his front. He forced the cold metal of the gun into my hand. I tried to refuse, to drop it, but he clamped his hand over mine, his grip like a steel vice.

He forced me to walk down the dark hall of cells until we stopped in front of one with a closed iron door. I had a terrible feeling about what was behind it. My premonition was confirmed when he opened the door, and the view that greeted me was a scene from a horror film.

A man was strapped to a chair, his head bowed. I could see the scars covering his body, the brutal marks of torture. Blood was still oozing from fresh cuts. I noticed one of his ears was missing, his fingers were chopped off, and his fingernails were gone. I was about to vomit when he lifted his head.

A gut-wrenching scream tore from my throat as I stumbled backward. His eyes were gone, gouged out, and his lips were peeled back from his teeth, leaving a grotesque, bloody mask. I tried not to gag as my eyes scanned his body, only to find he was naked, and his testicles had been slashed in half.

I spun around, trying to escape, and crashed right into the solid wall of his chest. I had completely forgotten he was there. He gripped my arms and turned me back to face the tortured man, who was whispering something in a low, choked voice.

"You'll have to speak up," he taunted the man, a cruel smile on his face.

The man opened his mouth, and more blood rushed from the wound. My eyes widened in horror. His tongue had been cut out, too.

He moved away from me, circling the man like a predator toying with its prey. My hand twitched around the gun, a part of me wanting to turn it on him.

"Oh, right, I forgot you can't speak," he tutted, a sickening mockery of sympathy. He was so engrossed in his cruel game that I took a slow, silent step back, then another, inching towards the door.

"You should have known better than to betray me. Now you have to pay for it," he said, spitting the words at the man. His voice was a cold blade, and I kept moving. I was so close to the door.

"It won't open, so don't bother," his voice cut through the air, startling me. I froze, my hand just inches from the metal door. How did he know what I was doing? Did he have eyes in the back of his head? I didn't want to find out.

"Come here," he motioned for me. My legs felt like lead, but I went. I had no choice. He pulled me to him as soon as I was within arm's length.

"Shoot him," he whispered into my ear. I shook my head, my silent protest an act of pure defiance.

"Do it, or I will kill you," he hissed, pressing the cold barrel of the gun to the side of my head. Tears sprang to my eyes.

"No," I choked out, my voice thick with sobs. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn't.

"No?" he ground out, and I felt him click the safety off. The sound made my body tremble uncontrollably.

"You have one last chance," he said, his voice as cold as death.

With a final, broken sob, I raised the gun. My vision was a blurry mess of tears. I could barely make out the man in the chair as my trembling finger found the trigger. I squeezed it, and the world dissolved into a cacophony of sound.

"Good girl," he praised, and I watched in a detached daze as the man in the chair slumped forward, dead. The gun fell from my hand, clattering to the floor. My knees buckled, and I would have collapsed, but he caught me, lifting my broken body into his arms. I buried my face in his chest, sobs wracking my body as he carried me out of the room.

~•~