a/n: i just like the idea behind the prompt so i thought i’d write it. and to @harrysgloves, thank you for the encouragement sent early this year! happy reading everyone! :)
content warnings: strong language, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of drug.
[usually, in the story, the gang leader will kidnap a person, right? this time, it’s the other way around]
“Are you a demon?”
She stops twirling the handcuffs in her hand and put it on the wooden drawer next to the bedroom doorway. For a beat, she doesn’t quiet know what to say because it is not the common “where am I?” or “who are you?” or even him trying to escape. But, only for a beat. Then, she straightens from where she is leaning at the door.
When he asks the next question, she pretends to not hear and calls for Ezra. If it is not for the real intention behind this, she probably would entertain his question and tell him if there is any angel in the room, if she is one, it would be an incarnation of Lucifer.
The younger boy comes as quick as she calls him and stands beside her at the doorway, waiting for whatever she has to say.
“He’s still in the cloud,” she says, eyes still assessing Harry who is lying on his back on the bed before turning her attention to the raven haired boy next to her. “How many did you use?”
“Just like you wrote in the note,” Ezra answers.
She hums and returns to look at Harry who is now looking at his hands, inspecting for who knows what and mumbling something. Well, she did want the drug to make him forget a little bit. But not to the point where he is delirious. In this condition, there is no way he can give her what she is looking for.
“Are you sure?” Her eyes return to Ezra’s confused ones. There must be something wrong somewhere. He did what she told him to. Maybe not in a way she had instructed it. “You do know there’s a point before the number five, right?”
When she said that the confusion in his eyes shifts to realisation and it dawns on him. That would explain it. He did not forget, obviously. He misread it. He should’ve given Harry a half of the vial, not the whole thing.
She let out a sigh, thinking how there is no undoing this now. She can only hope the effect of the drug will wear off soon. Besides her, Ezra looks like he is trying to say something but the words don’t come out. He gives up then, head drooping slightly, the tips of his ears are red.
“It’s okay, Ezra.” She gives him a small smile, trying to ease his silent guilt as he knows this plan is important to her. The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes but he doesn’t want to say anything, afraid that it will make the situation worst. Instead, he says his apology before leaving quietly and quickly after she dismisses him.
“Am I… on a boat?” Harry slurs.
At first, she answers him by shaking her head, hand grabbing the abandoned cuffs on the drawer while she strides over to him. The colour is muted in the room and she figures he can’t see much but the faint cold blue of the evening that is falling like a dusky curtain of the room. So when she stops a reasonable distance away from him, she answers him curtly, “No. Not anymore.”
The sight is a great pity. It is almost like seeing someone on the edge of falling off the pedestal. Who would’ve thought that there will be time when she can see a person who is deemed organised and calculated, feared in the underworld, be so weak. Unguarded. His once pressed, white dress shirt stained with dirt and blood.
Seeing how vulnerable he is in that moment; she can just end him then and there. That was the job after all. And she did pull the trigger that had sent brain pieces to fly everywhere before Harry landed face down on the flour sacks stacked on the boat with a thud, leaving white powder dancing in the air. Not really a way to go for a notorious gang leader if you ask her but the woman and the two men on the other side of the canal seemed content which made it another job well done.
Except that the brain blown was not Harry’s. And as far as the world, especially the Abramo who had delivered their order to end Harry’s life and insisted on witnessing it, is concerned, he is a dead man.
“Am I in hell?” His voice snaps her from her trance. She thought he slips out of his consciousness again when he went silence seconds ago.
This sod. She tilts her head, looking at him and shrugs. “Depends.”
There is something in his eyes and she knows he is trying to make sense of it all because she feels his resistance when she tugs his wrist closer to the bed post above his head. A part of him resurfacing, despising to be in such position. But his brain might still be too hazy to think through so he just let her cuffs him without much struggle.
“Oh! Kinky,” he teases, neck straining to look where his cuffed wrist is at which makes her scoffs. He then looks at her like he is taking note of her face, eyes narrowed.
Maybe he is remembering how she looks like so it’s easy for him to instruct his men to hunt her down once he gets out of there. If he is able to walk out there alive that is.
If he wants to.
If she lets him.
Because, even though as organised and calculated of a man Harry is, this time, she has the few steps ahead.
///
“Now, really,” Harry starts. Sitting up becomes more of a task when one of his hands is cuffed and his brain feels like it is rattling against his skull with every move he makes. “If you wanted to see me so badly, we could have just meet up.”
When he woke up minutes ago, he thought he was in his bed until his senses kicked in and it hurt almost as his throbbing head. Since then, he has been trying to get out of the restrain that tied him to the bed post on top his head and figures out what is happening, where is he. Out the window, it is pitch-black.
He probably is in hell; his brain had decided to land him there.
In retrospect, it is as surprising as it is expected. To be in hell, that is. After all of the deals making, bloods spilling, life taking, fists colliding, he knows there is a place for him here. Only that he expects that it would be overwhelmingly hot and full of screaming human, or what’s left of them. Where he is now is opposite of that. The cold nips his skin and the silence is unnerving. Maybe hell is not all fire and brimstones.
“I tried,” the woman says. Her voice is smooth.
That smooth voice is a good sign. It shows that this person is still able to tolerate whatever deal that he can make out of this. But it is not necessarily safe.
“You are a busy man.”
In between the lack of conversation, he tries to place her somewhere and everywhere but he has never seen her before. Moving up to find a more comfortable position, the movement has caused a dull throb behind his head that makes him wince. Somehow, it also unlocks a sound of gunshot and his gaze flicks to her. At the foot of the bed, she is unfazed.
“You shot me.” His voice rumbles lowly; somewhere between amusement and danger.
“That what was asked for.” It is stated oh-so-matter-of-factly and he accepts it.
He is in no place to make a fuss about it since enemies, like friends or business partners, are made along the way. If anything, he is a little bit bewildered at the attempt of keeping him alive and he doesn’t like not knowing what brought him here. Well, aside from someone ordering this woman here to kill him, but he is not dead though, which makes the motive behind whatever this is, is more questionable.
“Am I dead? I am in hell?”
The questions are supposed to be echoed in his brain but his slightly hazy state betrays him which caused the words to left his mouth unfiltered. The words then hang in the air and it makes him internally cringe. Her unamused face certainly doesn’t help with the situation. “What?”
“I never really thought people like you believe in afterlife.” To be fair, he never really thought about it himself. He is too busy living his life here. Not the one after. “And that is the second time you ask me that question,” she continues.
“So, I am alive.” He swears his mouth is really trying to destroy all the reputation he has been building all these years of being a gang leader. Fearless, self-assured and all that but he conceals the uncertainty in his voice with a smirk. “Why? They didn’t pay you enough for you to complete your job? Maybe you are afraid my men would take revenge on my death?”
She raises one eyebrow, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and he takes that as a sign to probe further, “Sentiment, perhaps?”
“They paid enough. A vendetta is the least of my concern. And no, it’s not sentiment.” With every answer to his question, she takes a step closer until she stops at his side.
“Then you’re holding me for ransom? It would be a huge amount of money, although, I don’t think my accountant would be so happy with that much money flowing out –”
“I have more important purpose for you than death or money.”
If it’s not him or his money, so it might be for her own benefit. The thing about Harry or he would like to think so in this way about himself is that his concern when it comes to being in a situation or making a deal is he will be leaning unto anything that benefits him the most. He tolerates as long as he is presented with a mutually beneficial outcome. In this situation, it is no difference. She wants something from him and he wants her to let him go.
“Interesting.” A smirk on his lips is now blooming into a full smile as he tilts his head. “Maybe you can uncuff me first and then we can carry on with our business?”
If she hears him, she is purposely ignoring his question and diverts her attention to reaching whatever it is in her trouser pocket. When she pulls something out of it, she holds a picture of a man at an arm length. Its creased lines showed that it has been folded and unfolded multiple times.
He is about to take it from her hand to inspect something scribbled at the corner of the picture but she retreats her arm half way, still holding it between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you know him?”
“You know, we could’ve discussed about this over a meet up or dinner. The cuff is really unnessa –”
“Just answer me.”
If she has been quiet this whole time, passive, this is the first time he sees her reacting. The smoothness in her voice now has an edge to it, her eyes are hard and piercing; a presage of storm. He presses his lips together and answers with a nod.
“I need you to talk to him,” she says. The picture is folded and put in her pocket again.
He cocks one eyebrow towards her. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“I know only you can reach him.”
That is true, to a certain extent. The last question he has now is that will doing what she wants him to do benefits him too, so he asks in the way that he usually does. “What if I won’t?”
Like a fired bullet, her fist catches tight in the front of his clothes and then her hand finds his throat, knocking his head hard against the headboard. He juts his chin up almost defiantly and grabs her wrist with his free hand.
He pushes her wrist away but it is a futile effort as he can feel how her fingers reach near the particular throbbing part at the nape of his neck, digging in.
“Fir – first the cuff. Now, you are tr – trying to choke me? Take me, fuck, take me on a dinner first, at least.” He grins despite his choked words and his ragged breath.
“You fucker,” she spats, eyes darken, “this is all a game for you, isn’t it?”
The storm he predicts reaches him and he is trapped in it as she pushes him impossibly further into the headboard, her fingers tightening around his neck while his loosens up around her wrist. He is whirling little by little, the full smile reduced to a tug at the corner of his lips.
“The Abramo was right when they come to us, to me, to launch their vendetta. You are a cocky piece of shit and the only place you deserve to be at is at the bottom of the cold, murky canal with a big gap behind your head!”
“Do you regret… no – not killing me?” He chuckles but it sounds strangled.
“You are making it really easy right now,” she snarls.
Maybe it is the restriction of breath or the warmth of her breath fanning out over his face against the coldness of the room but there is a glint in her eyes. He had been in near-death’s hold before but this feels like he is being thrusted into one without warning as he witnesses a sinister gleam in her face. She has been waiting for this moment. However, before she can end it or start it, she let go of him and strengthens herself up.
“Although,” she sighs, backing away. “I believe your mum and sister won’t find it that easy.”
It takes him minutes to be able to focus on her again, blinking and gasping a little. Her eyes are still boring into him. In between relief and dismal and the ringing in his ears, he notices her settling into the unfazed demeanour she was in before until –
“Dotty and Dusty will probably going to miss you too when you’re gone.”
His stills.
Nobody. Nobody knows about the cats.
Rivals targeting his family is a part of his work hazard and he always makes sure they are under his protection. It is such trivial matter. It is only cats’ names. But to know it specifically holds a certain power against him because it either means that she had been in his house before or it means that she has been in close proximity with either his mum or his sister to know about that much information.
And at that moment, whatever security he puts his family under, it is not safe anymore. His stomach bottoms out and she is delighted to see him in that way to say the least.
“What do you want?” He grits his teeth, moving forward to fight and the cuff clinks against the headboard because of the sudden jerk.
“There’s only one thing that I want.” Her voice is smooth. She is back at the feet of the bed again, now, with a faint smile on her lips. “But I need you to be able to hold up a proper conversation first before we continue with the business.”
It is not much of a mock or provocation but he still feels a squeezing of terror and of anger. His jaw clenches. “I am talking to you now, don’t I?”
She is already walking towards the door, leaving him struggling to stand up behind her. The bed legs scrap against the wooden floor as he pulls the bed along with him when he tries to grab her arm or shoulder or hair but she is already far away from his reach.
“Not enough,” she says while sparing him a look over the shoulder.
When he realises he is not going to go anywhere, not when he is still restrained to the bed, especially, not when the wood under his feet begins to warp, he fell back on the bed, eyes squeezed tight to block the sharp pain of his head. Defeated.
“Get a good rest. I need you fresh first thing in the morning,” she says before the door shuts.
Wherever he is, be it in the real world or the after, this is hell.
