What’s your story?

CASSANDRA

~*~

I sat slowly, and he finished his cigar in its entirety before speaking to me, making for very awkward minutes.

“What’s your last name?”

“Edw—“

“Your real last name.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, “It’s Thorne.” I croaked out.

“Cassandra Thorne,” he mused, “What do you do, Cassandra Thorne?”

“Freelance,” I quickly added. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Photography? Writing? Modeling?” He probed further and rolled his hand around at the wristwatch while he droned on. “Assassinations?”

The heck!

“I-I write.” He raised an eyebrow, I obviously had an interest, and he was waiting for more. “I’m a journalist.”

The corners of his lip hitched up in a lopsided smirk, “I’ll bet this would be a hell of a story.”

I looked down at my lap, he was definitely going to shoot me now. I could still make a pitiful argument for my life, insist I would never tell, throw out the word ‘I’ll do anything’, and so forth. You know, the things they all say when the head of the motherfucking mafia has set their targets on them.

“Not that anyone would believe it anyway.” He kicked his feet off the desk suddenly and sat upright, he leaned over the desk with a glint in his eye. “I mean, really, an entire establishment underground? With electricity, and water, and people? What would we call this? A bar? A home? A brothel? A s*x dungeon?” He chuckled, “Oh, the Tabloids would enjoy this all night.”

He was right, of course, if I brought this story to the papers I would probably be laughed at at the office. But, if I got it investigated, took a drill through the ground, had proof, shown the world…

“Have you any proof?” He asked and laced his fingers together before setting them down on the table.

I shook my head.

“That phone of yours, had you sent any pictures or messages before I destroyed it?” He questioned.

“Don’t you think they would have found me by now if I did?”

“Oh, no, dearest Cassandra, they’d never find you.” This, too, seemed to be laced with a threat. “So now, what do I do with you?”

“I could just stay,” I added quickly. It beat the hell out of trying on a pair of cement slippers anyway.

He was quiet for a few moments, the clock on the walk clicked loudly, creating the most cliché scene I could have thought of. “It’s late, you should go back to sleep.” He said finally and pulled the phone to his ears.

“I’m not quite sure whether I know how to get back to my room from here,” I admitted.

“You’ll be in my room until I figure all of this out,” he said simply, “I trust you remember the hallway that led you here?”

I nodded, feeling awful and terrified. I was a reporter. He was a mafia member. The two of us together? Well, my kind loved him, but he detested mine. My job made his peaceful life hell. And now, here I was, open for him to make my life hell.

Just as I touched the doorway, his hand found my wrist. I hadn’t even heard his footsteps, but suddenly, he had pulled me back inside the room. I faced him again as we were only inches apart, he caught my chin with his thumb and index finger and tilted my head up. My heart completely stopped, and for a moment, we welcomed silence.

“Nice chin you’ve got…” He mused. I wish I had a smart-*ss remark, but I was rendered completely speechless. “… But I think you’ll live.” He tilted my head in different directions, catching a look at my face from different angles, “Does it hurt?”

Ohh…

As I stared right back at him, I could tell he was waiting for me to say something. Did he think I could speak now? Impossible!

“Casandra?” He sounded impatient. He likely wasn’t used to people making him wait for what he wanted.

“A-a bit,” I stammered and then swallowed hard. “Could be worse.”

“I’m sure it could.” He said and again, I felt like this casual remark was laced with threat. He released my chin and I staggered backward like an imbecile. “Goodnight, Cassandra.”

“G-goodnight,” I said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement, and for a moment, he seemed amused by my weird actions.

I self-consciously made my way back to the short hallway, I could feel his eyes on me the entire time and had to fight to keep from pulling at the hen of the shirt to cover me more as I walked.

I wasn’t sure I could sleep, I was so exhausted before that all I could think of was to rest. But now, the realization of the situation was sickening. Now he knew my job. My entire life revolved around finding the best story there is. Many would kill for this opportunity. Hell, just a few weeks ago I would have killed for this. But now, as I lay here in the Mafia king’s bed, inhaling the scent of mint, rich tobacco, and gunpowder, all I could do was wait for the bullet to strike through me. I mean, it had to be coming, right?

I lay in my bed for a long time, just waiting for death. By the time the light flipped on, I was ready for sleep. I was feeling exhausted again and mentally spent.

“Rise and shine, beautiful!”

I woke up, it wasn’t Christiano. It was a different fellow. I searched my mind for him. I had seen him often, but we’ve never communicated. I don’t think I’d ever given him a drink before. He was just… there.

“Are you like… a bodyguard or something like that?” I asked without thinking.

“Something like that.” He said and gave me a once over. It was pretty interesting, to see one of the working girls in the boss’s bed, and with his shirt on, even. Okay, second thought, he probably slept with all the workers here. “Let’s go,” he motioned me forward.

I gulped and followed him slowly.

Christiano was perched in his office again, his suit back on, and it looked dapper as ever. Perfectly dressed and perfectly calm. Not a wrinkle to be seen on that perfectly tailored suit of his.

“Why Cassandra!” He exclaimed, acting as though he were surprised to see me or something… I was shocked he didn’t throw in a ‘fancy meeting you here’ too. “Take a seat, beautiful.” Yeah, as if I had a choice.

I sat with little reluctance, and then we waited in silence for a long time. So long that it grew awkward and painful. I shifted uncomfortably in the seat and toyed with the end of the shirt I wore.

“Tell me, Cassandra. What do you think of me?”

Huh…?