Mors

5

He unlocked the cell door with a heavy clank and crooked a finger at me. "Follow me." I took slow, hesitant steps out of the cell, my body rigid with apprehension. His towering frame ahead of me was like a wall, blocking my view and making the path ahead even more of a mystery.

We walked up a series of dark, winding stairs. The air grew slightly less foul, but the sense of dread only intensified. At the top, a massive, rusted iron gate stood sentinel. The man pushed it open, and the squeal of protesting hinges was like a scream in the silence. Two enormous guards stood on either side, their arms crossed over chests that looked like boulders. They were statues carved from pure muscle, and I felt a chill run down my spine just looking at them. A light push from one of them could send me flying.

I was no fool; the man in front of me was no ordinary man. I needed to figure out his identity before I could even begin to form an escape plan. For now, I would lay low and follow his every command, a puppet on his strings. As we moved, I tried to burn the route into my memory—every twist, every turn, every landmark. Just in case he decided to throw me back into that cell, I’d have a map in my mind.

We passed through what I assumed was the back door of a house. The sight that greeted me was astonishing. Maids in impeccable, knee-length pencil skirts and crisp white shirts bustled about, their movements silent and efficient. The guards were equally polished, dressed in tailored suits and dress shirts. What struck me most, however, was the way everyone moved around the man in front of me. It wasn't simple politeness; it was something else entirely. It was a careful, calculated deference, a mix of fear and respect. To me, he was the last person I would ever respect

We navigated a labyrinth of hallways, each one more opulent than the last. My mouth kept hanging open in silent shock.

The art that decorated the walls screamed wealth and power. The furniture looked like museum pieces, and the sheer scale of the house was dizzying. Is he some kind of a businessman? It was the only plausible explanation, but I knew just how dirty that world could be. My experience at the five-star hotel I'd worked at was proof enough. The hotel was famous for its A-class service and luxury suites, but only the regulars knew about the "extra" services it provided.

The so-called "maid girls" were trained to provide s****l favors. If a guest commanded it, they’d get on their knees, spread their legs, and take whatever was offered. They were treated like living s*x dolls. The hotel's public image was one of professionalism, but behind closed doors, it was a brothel. Men would use these girls and then toss them aside with some cash. I thanked my lucky stars I was a chef and had nothing to do with the VIP section besides cooking for them. I couldn't even imagine living that life, forced to do such things just to survive. I knew what it was like to be on the streets with nothing, and I didn't blame them for doing what they had to do. Some people would judge them, but it’s easy to lecture someone when you’ve never been in their shoes.

My thoughts were interrupted when the man in front of me slammed open a large door with a gold handle. I jumped, startled by the noise, and a jolt of pure adrenaline shot through me. I was still alive, at least for now.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. I watched as he closed the door behind me and locked it. My heart rate spiked. Why is he locking it? Is he going to kill me now? But that didn't make sense. Why would he go to all this trouble to offer me a job just to kill me? He wouldn't waste his precious time. This must mean that whatever job he was about to offer me was something that had to remain a secret. Or maybe my brain was just getting too creative to handle the reality.

He sat down in a plush chair as if he owned it—which, I realized, he technically did. His cold gaze fell on me, and I felt a chill run down my spine, a familiar shiver that was becoming a permanent part of my life whenever he was near. The coldness in his stare was unnerving. I could only imagine what would happen if I ever looked directly into his eyes.

I shakily lowered myself into a chair across from him.

"Not there." I flinched at the calm, almost bored tone of his voice. He reminded me of a panther—silent, deadly, and always in control. I scrambled back to my feet, waiting nervously for him to point me to the correct spot. He tapped the top of the large mahogany desk between us. He doesn’t want me to sit on his desk, does he? I waited for him to smile, to say it was a joke, but his face remained impassive. This man had never heard a joke in his life.

With trembling legs, I approached the desk. He pushed his chair back slightly, spread his thighs a little, and watched me with predatory eyes. I leaned onto the edge of the desk, and when he didn't protest, I carefully sat my behind down.

The next five minutes were an eternity. I had to force myself to stop fidgeting under his deep, unwavering stare. He was observing me like a lab rat, and I hated every second of it. Finally, he broke his gaze and leaned forward. I let out a squeak of fright, but he just smirked and pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer. He handed it to me.

I was terrified to read it, but I knew the gravity of the situation.

One wrong move could lead to my death, and I had to be careful. I unfolded the paper and spent the next hour reading the contract over and over, pinching myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming.

"This…" I breathed out, disbelief thick in my voice. He was asking me to sign my life away. The question was, was I desperate enough to sell my soul to the devil just to live? Yes, yes I was.

I looked down at the contract again and, despite knowing the answer, I had to hear it from him. "What does this mean?"

"It means you are bound to my mafia. You are swearing Omertà, the code of silence. Your loyalty now lies with me," he explained, the words carrying an underlying threat that made my blood run cold. I knew that if I signed this, my life as I knew it would be over. My name would be forever in the criminal book. But I would live.

"What does my work entail?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My life was on the line, and I had to know everything before I made my final decision. I wouldn't foolishly dive into something that could be worse than death itself.

~•~