Classified || 2 || ✔️ mature

04 | Lilac

TEN MONTHS EARLIER

The darkness of the room conceals me, calms me.

Excites me.

My pointed leather boots tap impatiently against the expensive Italian rug at my feet, the fabric squelching with every tap.

A lock clicks into place, the study room door swinging open on flawless hinges.

My finger tightens on the trigger as the lights flicker on.

I cross my legs like a lady as the man pauses in his steps, his dark murky blue eyes scanning over my face before falling to the cleavage I'd conveniently left on show. A smirk pokes at my lips as I run my eyes sensually down his form.

His own trail down my body, the heat in his gaze growing hotter and hotter until it abruptly freezes, and he stumbles back like he's been shot.

I follow his gaze lazily.

My legs uncross and the rug sinks under the pressure once more, blood bubbling around my boots.

It's a bitch to remove.

The body lay peacefully against the Italian carpet, the maid uniform stained red with her blood. Black sheet of hair clumped over her open throat, emerald eyes staring unseeing at the roof.

I do feel sorry for the maid. She's going to find her uniform missing and her mistress' dead body wearing it.

Maybe I should leave a tip for the troubles.

My focus darts back to the man in front of me, his dark hair slicked back from his face. Body reeking of cigar smoke.

"Oh, don't look so glum. You're about to join her." I say to him as I straighten.

"Do you know who-" The man replies unfazed, eyes flicking back to land on mine.

"Unimportant. " I cut him off as I lift my gun, "I have some questions and you're going to answer them, aren't you?"

"I-"

"Just nod your head if you understand."

With gritted teeth, he nods, and my lips lift at the corners with mirth, "Good, now, let's get on with it."

I take a step forward, tapping my finger just slightly against the trigger and watch him as he analyses me.

"Samael Coffer?"

"Who?" The man coos, dark blue eyes alight.

"Don't play dumb, its unbecoming of you. You know him. I know it, you know it, so just play along, got it?"

I take another step forward, circling to his right slowly.

"The money your family supplied him, do you know what happened with it?"

"I-"

He stops and I lift a brow, pointing the gun steadily his way.

"No."

"Wrong answer."

"I don't."

I pout, looking down at his fiancé's body, "Okay let's pretend I believe you."

I tap my foot, humming.

"Why would a known criminal organization supply money to the head of a secret division of Agents?"

He doesn't reply, so I continue on, waving my free hand towards his fiancée's body. "She knew and by default that means there is a possibility you know."

"What-"

"She told me a lot, anything to save her life." I kick the lifeless body. "Not good to have within La Famiglia." I shrug. "You can thank me for getting rid of the liability, by telling me the truth." I lift a brow his way.

He doesn't look at his fiancé's body, his uncaring eyes on me.

"I knew."

There is no loyalty in this family.

I look at him as if he is stupid, "Yes, we've been over this."

"But I didn't condone it."

"It doesn't matter what you say now, by continuing to supply the funds after your uncle was indisposed elsewhere, you signed your own death warrant."

"I'll retract the funds, tell my father to pull out of the deal."

The muffled sound of the gunshot soothes my senses, bathing the room in an eerie silence.

The bullet lodges itself between the man's glistening blues, his body slumping against the wall before sliding down, his blood painting the wall with streaks of crimson.

"I don't give second chances." I speak to the dead room.

Nobody answers, not that I expect them to.

I bend, retrieving the small empty vial from my pocket, refraining from looking at the logo printed on the side and pry open my victim's mouth, shoving the vial down his throat.

Standing up, I shove my weapon back in the duffel on the desk top. Whistling a tune under my breath, I heft the bags weight in my hand and walk between the two bodies, looking down at them in disgust, a melodic tune kissing at my heels as I hum along, walking down the stairs.

" As I lay me down to sleep,

I will not scream; I will not weep.

If he should die, before he wakes.

I pray the Lord, his soul to take.

'cause I am, I am.

A Little Wicked

I am, yes, I am.

Hands red, hands red

Just like you said.

I am, I am.

A Little Wicked

No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne.

No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne "

I hum the rest of the tune under my breath as the door of the house shuts softly behind me.

The night air grows colder, the devils' fingertips flinching along my exposed hands and caressing my face, brushing blood-red hair off rosy cheeks.

A sense of relief lifts from my shoulders, a tendril of shadow joining the others at my feet as I walk under the streetlight.

My hearts pounds steadily, a staccato rhythm bouncing in a gilded cage.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, the unmistakeable feel of someone's eyes on me.

I twist my head slightly to the side, trying to find the culprit but only shadowed houses leer back at me.

Turning left, I stroll down the street before taking a right and finding my car - or the car I'm currently using.

A small, barely working Honda in need of a little - or a lot - of maintenance.

I quickly unlock it and hop in, fastening my seatbelt as I watch the mirror for movement behind me.

When no movement is made, I start the car, flick on the lights, and drive away.

All the while, being unable to shake the feel of that piercing gaze.