Eros: A Game Of Wits (A Mafia Novel)

1. No Talking With Strangers

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Please note that this book is not completely edited, so I apologize in advance for any possible mistakes. I will deal with them after the book is close to completion.

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The light in the room was blinding. The walls were a pale dark gray that reflected the emotions of the young man that sat down quietly in the middle, waiting for this ordeal to be over. His forested green eyes were tired as he scanned the room for the fiftieth time in those past hours.

The men in black had ordered him to sit on the chair across from that alleged mirror which cruelly reflected his wearily pale, battered reflection. The youth knew better than that and he had no problem staring back at it. They were watching him through this glass, inside a dimmer room. He hadn't failed to notice the small cameras hinged to the top of every corner either.

He had watched many movies of that sort but nothing was like this.

His hands weren't tied to the chair but he knew he couldn't escape, even if he tried. The place was like a maze, he wouldn't just waltz out. From the small glimpse he managed to steal as they transferred him, he was hinted that they were underground- windows were nowhere to be seen and the elevator they took went downwards.

His face was bruised from the interrogation he had endured these past six hours, as the men questioned him of what he knew with endless grins looking down on him. He was far too proud to comply and he surely would do nothing to put his family at risk because of his mistake: his curiosity. His chuckling wasn't helping his situation but he couldn't help but find it comical how they still believed they could coerce him to talk.

He chewed and licked the inside of his cheek as he waited for them to burst inside at any given moment. He could taste the copper tang of his blood, coming from his gums and busted lip but he'd gotten used to the bitterness by now.

Blood was dripping from his forehead, the river tickling its way down his brow, vexing him. He couldn't care less, though. The blood was coating red his matted with sweat hair. Even then it didn't completely conceal the ginger highlights in his light brown curls.

He took a shaky breath, thinking that his end was near and every breath could easily be his last. They would be the ones to decide his fate; his future was in their hands- if he had any.

Right now the only thing he was really fretting over was his sister's reaction of the inescapable fate of his. She was the one thing he would never want to lose, even if it meant her losing him.

He smiled to himself.

He'd been in captivity for two days already. Today; November the 3rd will be the day remembered as the day he died and, regrettably, is also the day his sister turns nine years old. What he will repent most is not being there to see her grow and thrive. Not being able to chase away any boys that try to woo her... Perhaps his little brother might actually take that responsibility from his hands and watch over her instead...

The young man frowned. Him and his brother hadn't parted in the way he would have chosen. As always they had once again argued about something meaningless.

The door, suddenly, opened to reveal the familiar old, irritable faces he had grown to hate looking at. Those faces belonged to the men that were present during his interrogation these two days of inexplicable 'fun'; for them that is...

They were all at least twenty years older than him, burly and muscular, with mockingly black, formal attire and ridiculous red ties contrasting to their dark scowls clouding their faces. Apparently, they all appeared the same, with short haircuts and round faces and let's not forget the scowls that wrinkled their faces. Who would forget?