[POV: Venezia Casadei]
"You really are something, huh," Auden said strolling over to me, a dangerous glint in his eye. The look on his face was one of hunger. I'd seen it before on the bloodthirsty faces of Made Men just before they'd shot someone i...
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Death was a comfortable silence. There were no loud noises to pull you from the darkness you found yourself wrapped in; there was no light to illuminate the sins you'd committed, a reel playing on repeat in an attempt to make you feel an inkling of guilt.
It was a web of spidery fingers reaching out towards you like the fragile tendrils of the finest silk. Delicate and pulled taunt. Thin and almost invisible against the sunless scene.
Some may call it weak. The end of a fight. The inability to go on. Giving up.
Or some may call it strong. The end of a good fight. Able to go on until. The refusal to give up.
Regardless of what everyone believed it to be, to me it was routine. The end of an assignment, the start of another. The beginning of my day and the end of it.
Death was light, and death was dark. And the dark was a place I'd found so much beauty in, just as I'd found so much horror in the light.
It was a nightmare, but it was also a dream. Sometimes a wish, sometimes a need.
Sometimes it was a desperation.
How can I beckon him, I'd ask myself. How should I tempt Death?
Will my invitation be sent at the penetration of a bullet? Or does my guest prefer when he's invited steadily with the choking gasps of his victim?
I looked at the man in front of me.
Death was a comfort, but not at this moment. This time it was rancid and stale. The stench of salami and cheap cigars. It flowed from chapped lips and tar-stained teeth. It whirled and ran laps around my head at every spittle that landed on the carpeted floor.
How much better that death would be if it soaked past the heavy carpet to stain the hardwood floor. A crimson blemish so passionate that it'd never be lifted from the wood.
My fingers twitched as a spittle landed near the toe of my shoe. I watched as it fell, cocked my head as the thick woven fabric refused to absorb it. Then I looked back up at the source of such a distasteful form of death.
It wore classic Odessa colours, though the pudgy face now turned a blotchy red from laughing attested to why he wasn't in a soldier's uniform.
"You could be hitting the Don's daughter in doggy before the end of the week," he hollered, more deadly death drops erupting from his mouth. His large belly shook as he laughed and a hard hit was delivered to the back of the man that stood next to him.
Said man remained quiet, his jaw clenched in obvious irritation.
Good, so I wasn't the only one.
My eyes moved between the two, gauging their abilities to fight.
I paused at the quiet man, disregarding the other.
Unlike Pudge, this individual didn't wear the Bratva's colours, favouring instead a leather jacket over his all-black attire; the single eye tattooed onto his neck revealing itself between the lapels. He stood with the confidence of a killer, but he couldn't be more than eighteen. There was an air of stubbornness and rebellion that permeated the expanse circling him, like this was the last place he'd want to be. He was young, there was no doubting it.
