Double Agent

○ four ○

The pain in my head is blinding. I can barely make out my surroundings through the haze of my vision. He remains silent, but I know that's not all there was to the conversation. I'm sure he's burning to crack me open, to get all he can out of me before he kills me. He has to.

Despite my irritation for the suited man in front of me walking with long quick strides, I can't help but be almost grateful he hasn't asked me to explain anything about who I am, why I'm willing to sell my family out now. I don't think I'd be able to handle the pressure.

I'm more worried that my family will try to hunt me. They find ways, and their corruption knows no end. I'm not safe anywhere, and when they do get their hands on me I know I'll be completely bruised and battered once they're through with me. My one job was to stay safe, and right now the safest option is investing in the discretion of the British Secret Service. Their existence sends another question turning in my mind. What business do they have in America and with the Italian Mafia?

My steps are clumsy and awkward as I trail behind him. The building is modern, but at the same time showcases pieces of old money, from the tapestried chairs in the lounge to the chandeliers that hang in the large hall. The lights are too much on my eyes, and the haze is so consuming I don't even bother to admire.

He comes to a stop next to a double doored entrance, leaning down so that a tiny contraption on the wall can scan his eye. The doors retract, and we step into a small space. The doors cut the light out upon their closing, and the silence consumes us. His gaze is focused on his phone, where he types a few things. He pauses to look upwards.

"RTA, obfuscate."

The platform moves upwards, the lights on the rim of the floor glow white. I can see the top of the shaft as it moves up, and just as we pierce through it, it opens, and the platform rises to the ground level of the room we're just landed in. Effortlessly, he steps off, and I do the same, and the platform drops back down, the tiles readjusting to cover the hole in the floor. We seem to be in a wine cellar, with the walls lined with every possible type of bottle of liquor possible. All expensive, from the looks of it. Back home, they find the cheapest they can get and drink all they can.

We walk through another set of doors and I come face to face with a layout of tables dressed in white tablecloth, fizzy champagne bubbling from slender glasses. Men in suits and ladies in dresses eat dainty portions of food. Low hanging chandeliers bathe the backlit ambiance in gold. Gold accents line the walls.

A fine-dining restaurant.

My brain can't process anything, but in that moment I just stop and stare. He has walked off without me, and I hurry behind as we enter a common lift. He presses the emergency button almost in morse code, and the lift sinks, going lower than the floors present. I walk out into a black tar, smooth polished car park. Rows and rows of black, red and white cars line the lots.

He stops next to an empty parking lot.

"ECHA, car." He pockets his phone, checking the time on a black watch.

For a second, nothing happens. Then the carpark floor splits, and a black car appears from the abyss below. Shiny, sleek, dangerous. A chevrolet corvette, steel accents glinting, but it looks modified. I take it all in, suppressing myself from asking where the car came from. Sure, in our mafia we had a few fancy cars, but most of our other cars were transport vehicles, used for illegal substances and trafficking.

He opens my door and nods his head inside. I enter, sitting on warm black leather seats, watching the dashboard screen light up with 'Welcome'.

He gets in and upon closing the door, the seatbelts slant downwards and click automatically, the car rearing back to life. He steps on the gas and the car surges forward, with power I am no longer surprised about, given all that I saw today. He turns the steering wheel, large hands clutching the wheel with ease. Leaning back, he accelerates right towards a wall.

I cringe, sinking into my seat as I brace for impact.

The ceiling lowers, making a connecting road as we drive up and out of the carpark into open air. He swivels quickly, and we join the masses of cars lighted in the night sky.

He drives confidently. Quick, smooth and patient, the silent hum of his car in the background.

I force myself to not fall asleep. He doesn't appear to want to speak to me, and neither do I want to speak to the man that's eventually going to kill me. The silence is a relief from the yelling and the chaos back home. Street fights and break ins were common even among our own, as we had different classes that got treated differently. Those that were treated with a low level of respect often lashed out.

He rests his elbow on the centre console as one hand rests leisurely on the wheel. Looking sideways, he cuts past someone with flattering ease, turning into the driveway of a tower of mansionettes. Tall and intimidating, brightly lit and accented with glass over the black and white of the building. The building is modern and sleek.

He halts at the entrance of the building. Unbuckling his seat belt, he crosses over to open my door, waiting for me to get out.

"ECHA, tint and park."

The windows of the car turn black so that the inside of the car is invisible. The car drives itself down into the well lit car carpark at the corner.

The glass doors of the building open as soon as we near them. A suited man behind a tall, white counter nods his head at the tall man in front of me.

"Evening, Mr Ford."

"Alan." he nods his head.

The waiting area is large and spacious, hand crafted chairs and intricate sofas form convoys around teak coffee tables. Tapestried cream curtains cover large windows, barely obscuring the dim view of a well tended lawn surrounded by trees and beyond that, the city skyline.

I enter another elevator. I'm starting to get dizzy, and all I want to do is sleep. But I won't be able to. I hate depending on others, and the idea that I will have to rely on him for food and accommodation makes my heart clench with unease. It's pathetic, but right now he holds the biggest card ever, my life.

He presses the 30th floor, the highest.

The exit from the lift leads us down a long, accented corridor, where we stop, once again, before another double door. He types in a passcode, and the doors open automatically.

Into a penthouse suite.

A large seating area of black sofas surround a darkwood coffee table, where a few books are stacked. In the corner, a mahogany bookcase, with a few encyclopaedia britannicas lined up inside. An accented brown rug is thrown over the pale parquet of the floor. The walls are a clean white, and once again, a few minimalistic chandeliers hang from the ceiling. A little bar is against the furthest wall, a few bottles lining the counter. A few pictures fill up the bare spaces of the walls. In a sectioned area, painted a dark oak is a table, a pool table and a few beanbags.

Floor to ceiling windows dress one entire side of the house. The night city skyline completes the view. He walks to the bar and pours himself a glass of something, shaking it around as he takes a sip. Loosening his tie, he takes it off his head and throws it on one of the couches, followed by his blazer. The first two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, and he leans on his hands over the bar table to stare at me quietly.

I haven't been around grandeur for a long time. My old room was in a basement with the other helpers of the house, in a converted broom closet. I had a clean mattress that I stole, and one of my fathers old pillows. I spent most of my time in the basement. I'm grateful I had a place to stay every night. Sometimes I hate myself for complaining. There were people that didn't have houses or families.

I stand awkwardly, running the tips of my fingers up and down my arm as he throws back the drink and swallows.

He says nothing as he disappears into the kitchen then retreats up a spiral staircase, not sparing another glance in my direction. I swallow, not knowing my place.

My tired legs give out and I sink into the comfort of his pristine couch. My eyes close, burning unbearably.

My sleep is dreamless yet troubled.