sketches, experiments and another adjective to make me look like I'm good

II, The Hell's Gunsmith

Hi, Ludwig here. Ludwig Lancaster to be exact.
You've read the title of this story, and you probably expect me to be dead, working for satan.
Now, for about the first part, as far as I can tell, I look very much alive, but about the second...
Plain and simple, my hell started two years ago, on the first of jenuary.
I was still a bit hungover from the night before, when the mob came into my house. Not by ringing at the doorbell, or knocking at the door: they just smashed it open.
Two seconds later two men, both dressed in black, one pretty tall and the other pretty short appeared in my saloon.
The tall one started talking: "lancaster?"
"Yes, it's me. But who are you? And why are you there?"
"We're here to give you the job of your life. Do you have a job, ludwig?"
"Y-yes, I d-"
"Wrong answer, quit it."
"No,why would I..."
And at this point the short one pulled a pistol and pointed it at me.
At this point I realized it was about to go messy.
They took me to what they called Don, and told me to treat the same way I woukd treat the pope, if not better.
So we were there, 4 men, of wich 3 mobsters, the Don sitting behind his desk in a room as big as my whole apartment. I can't say anything about the Don's aestethic preferences (litterally, I can't), but what I can tell you is that we 3 kneeled after the Don.
He was a pretty old men, probably in his 70s. He was wearing a white shirt, with a brown jacket. What really surprised me about him, was a patch he wore on his right cheek, but I knew I had best not ask.
He started talking.
"Lancaster?"
-not this again, please- i thought
"Yes" i answered
"I'm here to offer you a job, but don't worry, no crime involved, just for you. You're an engineer, right?"
"Y-yes"
"Nice, now." The don picked a shotgun shell, maybe a .410 "you have to build a gun aroun this"
I was shocked, even though I loved guns, and had designed a few one of them, but not for crime use.
He then handed me a sheet of paper, with the word "requirments" written on it
"You have two weeks to bring me a project, we'll talk about the rest"
"Fine" i said, out of my nerves "but what's the deal, how much will you pay me?"
All of them started laughing, until the Don told me "now you're alive, make sure to be alive two weeks from now too".
They brought me to my house, with a handful of shells.
I was still holding the "requirements" paper in my hands.
So many thing had happened, my brain hadn't even processed all of them.

I sat on the sofa, and opened the paper.
40 cm max
Suppressed
Pistol grip
Folding buttstock
Cheap
Easy to manifacture
Reliable.

My head was exploding, I knew why they had asked me for those requirements, and the reason was not creating a firecracker gun to have fun at new years' eve.
I tried to work on it, but how could I? I was giving them an easiest way to kill people!
Reluctant, as always, I put myself to work.
In two week the .410 carabine was ready. Integral suppressor, collapsing buttstock, pistol grip, short recoil operated, made out of simple metal.
It was a masterpiece, but I hated it.
I submitted my project, asking not to be contacted ever again. They accepted, but at the same time they wanted me to have an example of the gun itself, and to this day don't know why.
I left, thinking it was over, but I was wrong.
They all haunt me in my dreams. Fathers, women, children. They all died because of my gun. They all died because of me. 
I haven't slept in 5 days, as of now, even though I took any kind of sleeping pills on the market.
Yesterday the mobs brought me my gun, and a sack full of shells.
They told me not to say anything to the police, if I wanted not to meet satan in hell.
I don't think it could be that bad, after all, I have already met him on earth, haven't I, Don?