Virtue In Vices: Hacked Affections

04-Scilian Defence 01

I pace through the room all morning, the restless energy of my sleepless night pulsing through my veins. How could I sleep? It is as they say, "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't." And here I am, caught between two devils, the known and unknown conspiring against my peace.

The room gives off the feeling of both haven and prison. My mind races, all of my thoughts clashing with each other —plans, fears and the dread of what's to come. The silence of the guards outside makes it worse, and it makes me miss my old company. The new ones are just shadows, silhouettes of the menace lurking just out of sight. Occasionally I hear their footsteps echo on the marble outside, every step feels like a promise of my impending doom, just thinking about it makes my stomach churn, If they don't kill me I think I might die just of anxiety.

I sit on the edge of the neat bed, afraid to ruin the perfect bedding. The lady from before came in earlier to fix the room—again. She barely even looked at me but when she did, the look she gave me felt unsettling.

I count my breaths and think about what would happen to the baby if this is really the end of the road, it's not long before I finally hear voices, hushed and dull but a conversation nonetheless and I rush to the door. "Take the key" one says,
"You keep it"
"Fuck" I wonder for a moment why none of them wanted the key, that was a dumb conversation. My question is answered when I hear the sounds of shoes clicking on the floor, steps distant but purposeful, there should be around two of them,I conclude.

Before the footsteps can even get closer, the key scrapes in the hole as if delaying the ominous people that approach would cause the world to end. One of the guards prys it open as I step aside, moving as far away from the door as I can. This time I leave the pen on the bed. I've met my fair share of mafia leaders and it would not only be foolish to aim a weapon at this one, it would be a death wish. So I compose myself instead.

The next two seconds are the longest I've known before a man steps into the room, his eyes are focused on me from the moment he enters, cold grey eyes that send a shiver down my spine but the feeling of familiarity of them is even scarier.

Slowly the shock of recognition hits me like a physical blow as I stare back at the tall man, his shiny shoes clicking with each deliberate step towards me, his tailored suit clinging to his muscular build, long hair tied back gracefully. His face is shockingly familiar, yet the man standing before me now is a stark contrast to the one he reminds me of. I realise the charming ease about him must have been a front because now it is replaced by an icy resolve. This man before me is colder, more calculating.

My heart beats wildly in my chest as he surveys me with hollow grey eyes, and there's no glint of recognition, no trace of warmth. He's meticulously composed, his presence so commanding and measured that it makes the hair on my body stand.

As his steps come to a stop a few steps away from me, a chilling realization dawns on me causing me to feel faint. His name resurfaces in my mind, he is Damien DeLuca. A wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me as another piece falls devastatingly into place; he is undoubtedly the father of my unborn child. I am carrying the child of a ruthless man who doesn't blink an eye before taking a life, definitely would do the same to me if he simply feels like it.

I let out a sharp breath as my hands instinctively go to my stomach, folding my arms casually in front of it. The thought makes my head spin, a tumultuous mix of fear and something unreasonably like anger brewing within me. Why anger? Maybe it's the sheer audacity of fate to play such a cruel joke on me, or maybe it's directed at him, for the man he is, for the world he belongs to, and how it all entangles with the fragile new life I am bound to protect.

The painful silence doesn't stretch any longer as he finally breaks it, echoing the first question he had ever asked me, a question now heavy with a different weight, "Name"
I recognise the question for what it is—a tactical move, an assertion of power, a reminder of who controls the room.