The Underground Mafia
Somewhere underground….
The room was heavy with silence. A silence that suffocated, pressed against the lungs, and made every breath feel like blasphemy. The place was grand but cold, built to intimidate rather than comfort. The air smelled faintly of expensive whiskey and the iron tang of old blood that no amount of paint could fully erase.
An odd looking man leaned back in a black leather chair, his posture deceptively relaxed, as though he had not a care in the world. A wolf in his den, poised and watchful. His eyes were pools of darkness, too still to be human, reflecting the light in a way that made them look like shards of obsidian.
To a stranger, he might have looked like a man at ease, enjoying a quiet evening. To anyone who knew him, the stillness was more terrifying than a drawn gun.
The door creaked open and a subordinate slipped inside, careful, cautious, each step measured as though the floor itself could betray him. He was not new to this world, his skin was already etched with scars, his hands calloused from violence but still, his throat worked nervously as he swallowed. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. He could feel the boss’s eyes on him before he even dared to lift his gaze.
“Boss,” he began, his voice soft, respectful, betraying the tremor he tried to hide. “One of our spies… he’s been killed.”
The boss did not move at first. He set the glass he was holding down slowly on the desk, the sound of ice clinking in the silence. He tilted his head, as though the news was neither surprising nor concerning. Then, with a low voice, he answered.
“I know.”
The word slithered into the room, coiling around the subordinate’s chest like a serpent.
The boss leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the desk.
His mouth curved faintly, but it was no smile. “He was meant to die. That little rat was bait, nothing more. A piece of meat dangled on a string.” His eyes gleamed with quiet malice. “And it seems he rattled Luca enough.”
The subordinate shifted on his feet. The silence pressed harder. He dared a shallow breath before adding, “Boss… I hear he’s taken a new wife. Word is spreading quickly.”
For a long moment, the boss’s expression did not change, but the air seemed to grow colder. He tapped one long finger against the desk, once, twice, as though measuring time itself. His lips parted slightly, and a whisper slid out, barely audible.
“What are they thinking?”
The subordinate glanced at the floor, unsure if the question required an answer. His instinct told him no, but the weight of silence forced words from his throat. “Boss, I think we should…”
The roar cut him off.
“You think?” The boss’s voice crashed through the room, low yet thunderous, vibrating with anger. The chair screeched back as he rose to his full height. His presence filled the space, towering, suffocating, making the subordinate feel like a child who had stumbled into a lion’s den. “You think? Who in this world gave you permission to think in my presence?”
The subordinate’s knees buckled instinctively. His hands twitched at his sides, as though ready to beg, but no words came.
The boss’s hand moved to the silver dagger resting on his desk. It gleamed faintly under the lights glow. Without hesitation, he gripped it, stepped forward, and in one smooth, merciless motion, drove the blade into the man’s left eye.
The scream that followed was raw, animal, tearing through the office like a curse. Blood spattered the desk, the floor, the boss’s cuff. The man clawed at his face, his body convulsing as the dagger twisted cruelly.
The boss’s breathing quickened, but his grin widened, a grotesque slash of satisfaction. He yanked the blade free with a wet sound that turned the stomach, and watched as the man collapsed to his knees, howling.
“Please… Boss…” the man gasped, choking on his own pain, his words broken by sobs and blood.
Mercy was not a word the boss recognized.
He crouched, bringing himself eye-level with the bleeding subordinate, his voice soft, intimate, as though speaking to a lover. “You thought you had the right to think. To speak strategy in my presence. You are nothing but my servant. My servant does not think. It obeys.”
The dagger then plunged into the man’s thigh, ripping through muscle and bone. The scream that tore out was higher, shriller, the sound of agony and despair mingled. Blood gushed, staining the carpet in deep crimson.
The boss laughed. A sound that was low, broken and manic. It was the sound of a man who found beauty in the sound of breaking flesh.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. “Look at you. Bleeding. Crying. Begging. And you wanted to guide me? You wanted to give me counsel?”
He drove the blade into the man’s ribs. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each thrust was methodical, precise, almost rhythmic, as though he were conducting an orchestra and the man’s screams were the music. Blood sprayed in arcs, splattering the boss’s hands, his shirt, the desk.
The subordinate collapsed fully to the ground, convulsing in a pool of his own blood. His voice cracked into incoherent whimpers, his eyes wide with disbelief, with terror, with the dawning realization that he had been dead the moment he opened his mouth.
The boss rose slowly, straightening to his full, commanding height. His dagger dripped scarlet, staining the rug as droplets fell one by one. He lifted his head, eyes closed, and threw back his laughter.
It echoed through the office, wild and untamed. A hymn of carnage. The chandelier trembled faintly as though recoiling from the sound.
When the laughter faded, silence returned.
The man lay motionless, his body mangled, his blood soaking into the expensive carpet. The stench of iron filled the air, mixing with whiskey and blood, thick enough to choke on.
The boss looked down at the corpse as though studying an abstract painting. His chest rose and fell in calm rhythm, as though the violence had been nothing more than a necessary release. He placed the dagger gently back on the desk, its blade still glistening.
With measured steps, he walked back to his chair, sat down, and reclaimed his glass of whiskey. He swirled it once, the almost melted ice clinking softly, and then he took a slow sip.
The boss leaned back, exhaling softly, his expression serene.
The office smelled of blood. The floor was painted red and the silence was absolute once more.
Luca? You’re beginning to piss me off!