"Mafia's African Rose

Edge of Dispair

       Standing in his office, I could feel the tension thick in the air. This man, who had just killed someone without flinching, now sat behind his desk, cold and unreadable. He was shuffling through papers as if I weren't even there. My stomach twisted in knots. I had never been this close to death, yet here I was, standing in the middle of a mafia boss's lair, waiting for my fate.

He didn't even look up from his work. It was as if I was invisible to him, a nuisance he hadn't bothered to deal with yet. I shifted nervously, my feet aching from standing for so long. I had no idea how long I'd been standing here—minutes, hours, it all blurred together. The sound of papers rustling and the ticking clock on the wall were the only things filling the suffocating silence.

I cleared my throat, but he didn't even glance up. The gun he'd casually toyed with earlier still sat on the desk, gleaming in the light. It was a stark reminder of what he was capable of, and the reason I was stuck in this position in the first place. My mind raced, searching for something—anything—that might save me.

"Sir, uhm... you were about to kill me, remember?" I said, my voice barely a whisper. My attempt at boldness faltered the second his eyes flicked up to meet mine. Dark. Cold. Empty.

He stared at me for a moment, then his gaze returned to his papers, as if I wasn't even worth acknowledging. A lump formed in my throat, and my heart pounded so hard I thought it might break through my chest.

I was supposed to be dead already, right? I had no idea why he was making me wait, but it was torture. My hands trembled at my sides as I fought to keep still. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I couldn't break down in front of him. Not yet.

Suddenly, his phone rang, breaking the silence. He picked it up without hesitation, speaking in rapid Italian. I couldn't understand a word he said, but his tone was curt, filled with authority. Even the person on the other end seemed to respect his power. I stood there, frozen, as he ended the call, not sparing me a glance.

"Sit," he commanded, finally addressing me.

I obeyed without a word, taking the seat opposite his desk. He continued going through his papers, ignoring me as if I were a ghost. The seconds dragged on, each one feeling heavier than the last. I couldn't tell if he was intentionally prolonging my suffering or if I was so insignificant to him that I wasn't worth dealing with.

I couldn't handle the silence any longer. "Are you... are you going to kill me?" I asked, my voice barely audible, cracking from the weight of fear and uncertainty. My eyes scanned his face, but it remained emotionless, cold like stone.

His lips twitched, but he didn't bother to respond. The gun remained on the desk, as if waiting to be used. And I sat there, waiting for the moment my life would end. 

Just end this already," I said loudly, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. He paused, leaning back in his chair as if he owned the world. His hands rested casually on the desk, and his gaze pierced through me, predatory and calculating.

"In a hurry to die, are we?" he smirked, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. I looked down, focusing on my sandals, wishing I could melt into the floor and disappear.

"I hate my life," I whispered, fidgeting with my fingers in an effort to distract myself from the fear clawing at my throat.

He chuckled, a low, mocking sound that echoed in the otherwise silent office. "Go on," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm not in the mood to kill a slave today. But mark my words, I don't take disrespect lightly. You'll die sooner or later."

His words sent chills down my spine, a reminder of the precariousness of my situation. I wanted to scream, to lash out at him for his cruelty, but all that came out was a small, shaky breath. I felt like a trapped animal, cornered and desperate.

As I stood there, the reality of my situation weighed heavily on me. I was a mere maid in a world dominated by men with guns and power, where my life was a commodity that could be discarded at any moment. The thought twisted my stomach in knots.

"Why do you do this?" I blurted out, my voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you hurt people like me?"

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his eyes narrowing. "You think you're special? You're just another girl in a long line of girls who think they can escape their fates. You're nothing but a pawn in a much larger game."

His words stung, cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. I felt my heart race, a mix of anger and fear bubbling beneath the surface. "I'm not a pawn. I'm a person."

He laughed, the sound harsh and unforgiving. "A person? Look at you. You're dressed like a doll, and you think you can stand up to me? How cute."

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting back tears of humiliation.

"You're not the first to think they can charm their way into my good graces. I assure you, it never ends well for them."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "What do you want from me? Just say it. I'll do anything, just let me go."

He regarded me with an expression that was almost thoughtful, as if he were considering my plea. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—maybe compassion or understanding—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Anything? That's a bold claim, Angel," he replied, the coldness returning to his tone. "But you should know that nothing comes without a price in my world."

I swallowed hard, the reality of his words sinking in. My life was now a series of transactions, a barter of my dignity for survival.

"Don't mistake my kindness for weakness. I may let you live today, but remember, I can just as easily take your life away tomorrow. Your existence means nothing to me," he said, returning to his papers, dismissing me as if I were an unwanted fly buzzing around his head.

As I stood there, the walls of the office closing in around me, I realized that my fate was sealed in a world that valued power over compassion. I was trapped, and no amount of pleading would change that.

For now, I was alive, but at what cost? The answer eluded me as I turned away, feeling more like a ghost than a girl, my identity slipping further away with each passing moment.