𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞

2|| The Job

Celeste / January 10
•••

Words have never served me well.

That's why I'd resorted to violence at an early age, and that's why I'm currently smashing the silver heart locket that Lester had given me for my birthday three days ago with a hammer on his desk.

Again and again the force of the metal crushing against the delicate jewelry lessens the rage within me. With each smash, the dark cloud in my head clears a little more.

I take a deep breath, finally having calmed down right until-

"Celeste, darling, please let's just talk about this."

-he decides to speak.

I look away from the broken birthday gift and find Lester sitting across the desk. His eyebrows are pinched together, a hand is pulling through his dark red hair and he holds a cigarette between his fingers.

The leader of the Irish-American mafia, and he fits the part in every sense.

He looks so put together, acts so put together, talks so put together.

And I'm standing here in front of him in nothing but a ridiculously small white blouse and a flimsy black skirt with John Elsner's blood staining the fabrics. A hammer in my hands, lenses in my eyes and a wig on my head.

I didn't even have the time to turn back into myself again. All I could focus on was-

"Darling, please sit down and let me help you with your disguises."

He stands, but I wave him off.

I know he's being nice and I'm being the opposite, but I don't want anyone near me.

I sit down and put the hammer on the floor before I start to take out the bright blue lenses that cover my grey irises.

"I'm assuming he's dead?"

He doesn't have to ask me questions like that, but considering the situation and my outburst I think it's safe to conclude that he wants to talk about a different subject first so I can calm down.

I answer with a nod, before grabbing the documents I'd stolen from John Elsner's office.

"This is everything I could find. He sold recordings of at least two of your meetings to.." I narrow my eyes at the letters, my died-down rage getting fueled momentarily by the sight of just one name. "Dante Alessi."

The youngest Don the Italian mafia had ever had and despite his age, the man played the field like he'd been doing it for a lifetime. He was smart, strategic and a real pain in the ass.

At least 80% of my jobs involved me killing someone working under him. No matter how much Italian blood I spill, no matter how ruthlessly maimed I leave my victims and no matter how many times I have to spell out to him not to cross the Irish – he just keeps on doing it anyway.

My life would be so much easier and less busy if that two-eye-colored man whore would get murdered just like his parents already.

As expected, Lester's body tenses in what I can only assume to be irritation after he hears the name. My interest piques, but I decide to let it go considering he never really answers me when I ask about business.

I'm just here to kill and go, not for sharing the contents of my brain and the heavy wedding ring inside my pocket is proof of that.

I start to undo the pins above my hair, trying to remove the blonde wig gracefully, but when it comes off I know my straight black hair is not looking up to what a normal person would deem presentable.