Going After Heaven (Mafia Romance)

Chapter Three

Boom!

The bullet ricochets against the metal wall of the elevator behind him.

He was quick, too quick. Like he knew the precise moment I was going to pull. 

He was quick to swerve in a fluid motion, pushing my gun to the outer side of his waist and pulling me into his chest.

His eyes search mine for whatever,  for a quick while, and my chest heaves.

He's calm. His calm licking me up and steadying my breath.

He walks away from me and pushes the elevator button to resume its motion.

We stay quiet.

I'm assuming he got the message. My message.
"Do not fuck with me"

The elevator stops and we both step out. I swallow a bile and turn to the corridor by my left leading to Gael's office.

I exhale and take bouncy strides to Gael's office, leaving the madman to his multi-verse of madness.

The door to Gael's office opens and I walk in.

Gael's back is to me. He's sampling a charcoal portrait on his wall, with his hip flask in hand.

"Yes definitely" he baritones.

He takes a sip from his flask, turning in my direction.

His face curves into a smile and mine clone his. He's a tall man, but slender. He's got whitish-gray hairs matching his eyes.

I drop my gun on his mahogany desk as he spreads his arms open.

"I will talk to you later," he says to the caller and taps his AirPod to end the call.

Still smiling, I walk to him and wrap my hand around his body, letting my head drop on his chest, against the silk fabric of his white button-up shirt. He plants a peck on my forehead and I giggle.

He's the only father figure I have now and he made it clear twelve years ago that I don't have to be stiff when it's just the both of us.

He made it clear, he is still the same Gael that would take me to horse races and cheer me even if I'm competing against his son.

He still makes me soup when I am sick. And he always has packs of chocolates in his pocket for me.

He said it has something to do with keeping the child in me alive. If he knows I bury that child alive every day.

I dip my hand into his pocket and fish a pack of chocolate out before walking to sit on the red sofa in his office.

His office is wine and black theme. Sofas and gloomy charcoal portraits line up the walls. His mahogany desk which only ever has his bowler hat, a pack of cigarettes, and an ashtray on it, is facing the door. Just like the guns below it.

This office is for underworld businesses, so there's a bar instead of shelve with drinks of all sorts and pots of whatever the fuck you want to smoke instead of books.

"Heaven" he smiles some more and walks to sit behind his desk.

He leans into the armchair and I cross my leg over the other.

"Gael" I spread both hands out on the sofa.

This is my signature sitting position for underworld business discussions.  The only missing piece is my cigar between my fingers.

"I am five minutes late," I say, prompted by a charcoal portrait of a bamboo forest that also serves as a clock.

"Something important came up?" He picks up his pack of cigarettes.