NCT Ten | Mafia

Driveway.

I thought it will be nice to give another update because I wasn't active during 4 months plus it soon it will be 2019. It would be nice have long ass ride of 1k+ word in one day. just suprice for you guy... 

Anyway, Have you check out of Ten's new debut in WayV (NCT China) OMG HIS VOICE IS SO LITTTYYYYY.. CHECK IT OUT TEASER PLUS PICTURE (LOOK THE ABOVE THE PICTURE OF TEN!!!) 

Anyway back to the story....................................................................................

Layla's P.O.V

'Get in there' 

He doesn't wait for me to move, he shove me in and shut the door. Then he goes round and pulls open the hood. 

Should I run? Could I?

The alarm still. He slam the hood, grab half dead guy, and drag him over the behide of van. I can hear the back door open, feel thumpas he throw the guy in. 

Why did I help? I put my hand on handle door. 

'Don't do it if you want to live.' He growl getting into the driver's seat. There's no way he can see my hand. It's like he knows. "You want to live, you do not move." He rips something out of the steering column. He works calmly, like a machine. Alarms and witnesses and murders, he doesn't care. And I can't help but be amazed, because I was out here crying because I called somebody the wrong name. This guy, he's cold as ice.

The van starts up. He peels out backward. He rams it into drive, and we're off.

"Show me your phone."

I hold it up. My hand is trembling. This feels surreal. Maybe it's a dream.

He grabs my wrist—hard. No dream. "Fire it up."

"Ow," I say.

He lets me go. I hit the button, and the thing lights up. There's red around my wrist. It's the other man's blood.

"You can't just kill him," I say, voice shaking.

My iPhone lights his face from below, illuminating the curves of his thick lips. I can see the quiver of the nostrils that form the base of his chunky nose, the thick lashes that line his huge green eyes. He looks like the devil—the devil as a primitive young thug, seething with hate.

And then he smiles. His smile is like nothing I've ever seen. As if he has so much hate and anger in him that it flipped over to a kind of evil beauty.

Again he speaks. "Fire. It. Up." (AN: CHILL IT OUT DUDE! YOU ARE SCARING HER! JEE- okay let it continues) 

Again I try to punch in my code. We're stopped at a light, and he's watching. I get it this time.

"Recents," he growls. "And if you even touch that door, I'll snap your little neck."

I stare down at my phone. He'll know I'm lying if I show him. He'll kill me if I don't. I hit recents and turn the screen to him. He grabs it and looks at the call history, showing no 911 calls, then up at me, his devil face red in the light. "Thought so." He shoves it in his pocket. The light turns green, and he speeds off.

I glance back at the unmoving shadow in the back of the van. "You can't just kill that guy."

"He's already dead," he says.

"I can hear him breathing. Drop him at a hospital. You've proved your point."

He turns to me. His wild fury has mass. Weight. It forces the breath from my lungs. "You think I've proved my point?"

There's this buzzing in my ears. Everything feels unreal, or maybe it's all too real. I try to say something, but my mouth is dry.

He doesn't even have tattoos like regular bad guys. He has some sort of design etched into his right forearm—crude scars that seem to form an X. When I dare to look a little more closely, I see that it's crossed weapons of some kind.

His voice is a rumble, as if it's surging up from an underworld of pure hate. "I could shove a meat hook in his belly and hoist him up and rip his teeth out one by one with pliers, and then cut off his balls and make him chew them with his toothless bloody mouth, and that wouldn't even begin to prove my point. Got it?"

I just gape at him.

"He wants to save himself, he'll give me a name."

"Whose name?"

"How about you stop worrying about him and start worrying about yourself?" He turns back to the road and keeps driving, staying exactly at the speed limit.

My heart pounds like mad. The man back there is making a horrible sound. The sound of a man crying out of a crushed face.

"Shut up!" he calls back.

I look out the window. A calm comes over me. "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"So far, you haven't shown you can follow orders very well, have you?"

"I won't tell on you," I blurt out.

He snorts.

We're heading west, out of the city. The party seems like a million years ago. They'll be sitting down for dinner now. Wondering where I am. Will they think I left?

The man's face is in shadows. Streetlamps flash over his face as the van moves along, revealing a nose carved out of granite and a strong jaw. I wouldn't call him handsome. He's too rough-hewn for that, like someone forgot to sand over the angles.

"Please—"

"Be quiet." His soft menace is directed at me this time. I shrink in my seat.

We're going into a run-down suburb, Westdale or Ferndale or something, a place with a lot of little tiny box homes. It's a place I never go. We wind through the streets, deeper and deeper.

It's hard to even look at him. That means acknowledging what's happening to me. This is real. I may never make it out of this alive. That's what I think when I turn my head to the side, glance at him from beneath low lashes. Which makes his gray Henley and dark-wash jeans seem way too ordinary. If this were the day I was going to die, wouldn't he be wearing something more dramatic?

But that's just wishful thinking from my panicked mind. He can hurt me wearing anything. I'm so deep in danger it's hard to breathe.

He slows on a far block and turns. The van headlights hit overgrown weeds and the charred remains of a house. The place burned at one time, long ago.

He circles around and goes into the alley behind it. He shoves it into park and does something to the wires that make it shut off. He turns to me. "I'm gonna get out and deal with this guy. If you move out of this seat, I'll kill you. And if, by some miracle, you manage to get away, I'm going to kill everybody you called on this phone in the last month. Can you guess how? I'll give you a hint. A meat hook is involved."

I suck in a breath. He doesn't bother to wait for my answer. He gets out, yanks open the back door, and drags the man out—I can tell by the thuds. More punching sounds come from behind the van. The groans and garbled pleas sound worse and worse.

I huddle in my seat, listening to a man get beaten to death.

Bile rises up in my throat. I have only a few seconds to decide what to do—throw up in the van or throw up outside. He's told me not to leave. He's threatened my life, threatened to snap my neck. But I have an entire lifetime of my mother's voice in my head. I have sixteen years of decorum forcing me to fumble for the door handle and push my way out.

  I make it two feet away before dropping to my hands and knees and throwing up in the weeds behind the place. For all I know, he'll kill me for this. For all I know, he'd have killed me for doing this in the van. 

He's insane.  

TO BE CONTINUES