Vincenzo rose from the leather chair with a slow, deliberate grace that belied the storm raging in his mind. The Persian rug muffled his steps as he crossed the expansive chamber, his back turned to the standing Grayson. Reaching the small, polished bar, he selected a heavy crystal tumbler and a bottle of deep, crimson liquid. The glug of the fine wine pouring was the only sound in silent room. He didn't turn around as he swirled the wine, watching it catch the low lamplight, the plan already calculating its next phase in his thoughts.
"Tell me again, Grayson," he said, his voice a low, even tone that still managed to carry an implicit warning, "Is the information about the younger son of the underworld boss unequivocally correct?"
Grayson, a seemingly impassive pawn in his deadly game, flinched almost imperceptibly at the flat, cold edge to the question. Vincenzo took a slow sip, his internal monologue a sharp contrast to his calm exterior: Wrong information means a complication, and complications mean a mess. I despise messes. If he failed me, even a pawn, he knows I show mercy to no one.
"Yes, sir," Grayson's voice was barely a whisper. "Our sources have confirmed every detail. He will be at the location we discussed, precisely at the time stipulated."
A faint, cruel smile touched Vincenzo's lips as he turned, his eyes as dark and cold as the wine in his glass. "See that it stays that way."
***
A crushing silence fell over the chamber, heavier than the velvet drapery, after his initial, unvoiced warning. The only sound was Grayson's sharp, involuntary gulp, the bob of his throat a frantic, solitary movement in the oppressive stillness. Vincenzo, without breaking eye contact, merely gestured toward the grand double doors with a slow, deliberate hand. His silence carried a warning even now, a promise of swift consequences, as he dismissed the trembling man with a final flick of his wrist.
Grayson, a figure of silent obedience, bowed low, the picture of compliance, and backed out of the chamber, the grand doors closing behind him with a soft, padded click. The very second the sound faded, his chilling deep voice cut through the air, each word ringing with a cold, metallic precision, "Keep watch on every move of the underworld boss. Every move." Vincenzo didn't wait for answer, simply tilting his head back and downing the full glass of wine in one swift, unforgiving gulp, the empty glass slamming onto the mahogany table like a final, apathetic period to the conversation.
***
He moved through the chamber hall with a predator's grace, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as if the world outside- the frantic searches of the police, the smoke still clinging to the air from their futile efforts, their pathetic scrambling for the "S-level mission" consignment suitcase- was an amusing spectacle designed purely for his entertainment. Reaching the office table, he paused, his handsome face twisting into a cold, cruel smirk that spoke volumes of his disdain for law.
With an almost tender, cold precision, he opened the last drawer. The object nestled within wasn't just any simple gun; it was a trophy. Vincenzo remembered the movement he'd snatched it from the holster of a flustered police officer, while the men in the blue had been choking on the smoke, looking utterly lost. The memory of their helplessness was a sweet addictive to the cruel plan already solidifying in his mind. The gun was a symbol of his superiority, and today, it would sing a song of his making, a prelude to the true mission that had just begun: retrieving the consignment suitcase and orchestrating a masterpiece of chaos.
***
Vincenzo's hand slid into the already opened bottom drawer of the office table. His fingers wrapped around the cold, steel grip of a handgun whose barrel had been peeking out, almost beckoning him. As he drew the weapon fully, his eyes, dark with a cold resolve, stared into the middle distance. "The law," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely escaped his lips, "Has become a mere plaything, a jester's cap worn only by the higher-ups and the powerful."
He broke the silence with a chilling finality. "Tonight," he continued, looking down at the weapon as if it held the power of fate itself, "I'm going to rip that cap off and reveal the dark secrets they've kept hidden. This," he said, raising the gun slightly, "is no longer about justice; its about balance. Eliminating the underworld boss's youngest son with this very gun will be the final nail in their coffin, the linchpin of my plan."
With the gun now secure in his hand, a ghost of smile touched his lips as he envisioned the evening's cruel design. He holstered the weapon discreetly and walked out of the office room, moving with a silent, measured stride down the long, dimly lit hallway. The soft glow of the overhead lights reflected off his polished shoes as he approached the grand, imposing double doors of his chamber, ready to step out and execute the meticulous, ruthless plan that had been playing in his mind for months.
***
Vincenzo paused at the doorway slightly, a silent dark silhouette framed by the dim light of the corridor. For a moment, he simply stood, a phantom of anticipation. Then, as if an unseen force tugged at his thoughts, he turned back into the sparse confines of his chamber. His eyes found their target: the stark white mask, a new aquisition from today's briefing, hanging innocently from a hook in the corner.
A slow, cruel smile began to spread across his face, a predatory expression that streched the skin around his cold eyes. He didn't just want the underworld boss's pathetic son dead; he wanted him to die with the bitter, twisting misunderstanding that his own father had sent the executioner. No peace, not even in death. That was the point of the mask, the ultimate, personal twist of the knife.
***
Vincenzo reached out, his fingers closing around the cold porcelain. The smile widened into a wolfish grin as he contemplated the delicious irony. He adjusted the mask over his features, his breath fogging the inside for a moment before he stepped out, his footfalls measured and silent.
"Tonight, the son learns a final lesson in loyalty," he whispered to the empty air, his voice a low, rough murmur. "From his father, with love."
He walked out of his chamber with that wide, cruel smile hidden beneath the white mask, ready to execute his mission and ensure the victim's final moments were filled with the intended, devastating betrayal.
To be continued...🤍