Requested by @CountryQueen2001 Sorry for the waiting!
Warning: Mafia!Italy portraits the worst side of Italy. Keep this in mind.
Enjoy!
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« ...I trusted you, yet here you are. Crawling back to me. »
His voice was smooth and deep, not a hint of discomposure transpiring from it. He rolled those bitter words delightfully between his lips, savoring them like fine liquor; like they were bullets inside the cartridge, ready to leave the cold iron to meet their opponent's soft skin. Words that were brought to life with the only intent to kill, to wring a soul between cruel coils and crush it at last. Words that were wisely weaved together by their vicious creator, who was now contemplating an old man's crawling form, a deprecative grin on his scarred face.
A polished glass of Vecchio Amaro del Capo was firmly held in his left palm, the amber liquid slowly swaying from one side to another without spilling a single drop - It would be a pity to waste such a unique drink. The mobster's slender fingers cradled the liquor with zeal, not letting go of the spindly stem. He brought the glass to his white lips, calmly savoring the bitter flavor as it oozed down his arid throat, piercing and withering the delicate walls. He brushed a few resin-like droplets that stained his candid lips with the back of the hand and smirked at his foe's display of submission.
His right hand was fidgeting with a 38 caliber revolver, the deathly barrel pointed now towards the poor man's bald skull, now to the gold-inlaid roof, now to the overly expensive rug that muffled the aching sound of his black loafers as they unceasingly - but never hurriedly - tapped on the wooden floor.
« Signore, I beg you please... I did nothing wrong I swear! I've always been loyal to your seignory, you should remember that! »
The desperate man argued, spitting as he tried to grasp that feeble glimpse of compassion he hoped to dwell inside his once-boss's body. He tossed and turned as two sturdy men gripped his flaccid arms, preventing him from running away. He felt their breaths on his sweaty shoulders, they smelt like cigarettes and whatever alcohol those faggots could afford. He raised his gaze to meet the mobster's sharp one, his onyx orbs looked like two black holes intent on sucking his life energy into their core, forever to be held captive.
An evil chuckle escaped the Italian's wet lips as he stopped fiddling with the gun, pointing it directly at the unhappy's forehead, watching as his skin turned pale and his mouth began to dry out.
Silence filled the room along with the already present smell of smoke and alcohol, permeating the walls as well as the four men's mouths. None of them dared to speak, none of them dared to break the blissful sound that characterized the special moment preceding a man's death.
The sound of nothing.
Because after the loud, ultimate shot, nothing was to remain.
« I "should" nothing. I owe nothing to you, I'm the master of my own self and I'm your master as well, or at least I was until now. »
The tall one bantered, loading the gun, thrilled and pleased as he saw every hope abandon the oldster's yellowish eyes.
The sound of a trigger that was being pulled hollowed his brain, digging deep into his thoughts.
YOU ARE READING
Countryhumans One-shots!
General FictionHi! This is a collection of one shots (+ a few non-fiction additions). It might be old now, but it's still very dear to me and I hope many of you old and new readers feel the same. Anyway, I hope you enjoy your stay! Here you can find: -CH x Reader ...
