The sound of music echoing in dark weaving hallways did not reach the room immediately.

It was low, far too imperceptible to be caught. Unhurried, idle footsteps clicking on polished marble floor, velvet timbre whistling— in tune to the song, pausing every so often when it hit a pitch then continued.

Keys slipped into a keyhole, sharp twisting of metal and satisfied click, the noise was disrupting and loud as heavy metal doors swung open.

Gian stirred from his state of slumber, mind fogged over as he struggled to relieve himself from the webs of sleep.

The room was dark, far too black and for a moment he thought his eyes were still shut.

As sensations returned, so did the pain; swollen right eye leaking pus, hairline cracks of a headache forming between his brows. His gums ached from the brutal extraction of four incisors, three bloody stumps on his right hand where fingers once lay.

He was strapped to a chair, legs and hands bound. A rope fixed around his torso, pressing into bruised sides of broken ribs. A pink bow had been glued at the front of the rope.

Gian grimaced, each breath painful than the last. His hearing had dulled out, tinnitus ringing in one side from a burst ear drum and the coppery taste of blood with saliva slobbering ropes from the corner of his mouth.

Death had never felt more kinder in such a situation, and perhaps he was truly dead, expiating his sins in purgatory.

Perhaps the doors that opened before him, shedding slivers of white light that stopped by his feet, was heaven. The three men that silently sauntered in, with skill and precision, angels.

But it was not heaven.

And those were not angels.

The song was crystal clear now, and despite his wounded state, Gian could make out the words and tune. Frank Sinatra, That's Life.

Peace that calmed his body disrupted sharply as hypodermic adrenaline emptied itself into his carotid artery. Heart pounding, he blinked his one good eye warily, swivelling back and forth as the figures moved along the damp walls blending into darkness.

Fear was weakness. Fear would be his undoing.

He tried to ration his breaths and swallow the lump of mucus and blood clogged in his thickening throat, and he tried to swallow but could not— stilling at the familiar whistling sound that echoed along the hallway, tapping of a cane, shuffling footsteps as though dancing to Frank Sinatra.

The figure was approaching and his gut twisted, gasoline splashed into the spark of fear in his belly.

Gian's mask of courage shuddered as the figure stepped by the door, shoulder leaning on frame. His eyes froze over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of life and mortal warmth.

The man was still whistling, hat tipped over his face casting a shadow that wavered as teeth bared themselves in show of a smile and whistle. His foot, dressed in finest Testoni wear, tapped faintly in tune to the music.

That's life.

The man leaned for a drawn moment as they regarded each other, fine cane in his hand swinging back and forth, twisting up and down with expert ease. Tucking the cane beneath his armpit, he raised both hands and clapped twice.

A bulb flickered in above Gian's head, flood of murky white light blinding him momentarily and he grimaced with his eyes shut, pupils searing to adjust.

The figure sauntered in with music, gentle sways and sudden halts— dancing in perfect tune to Sinatra's guttural voice, the cane twisted in hand and tapped the floor once—twice—thrice.

He snapped his fingers rhythmically, sterling silver rings winking maliciously beneath the light.

Gian peered at his movements cautiously for he had every right to be. The light stopped short of the figure's feet, pristine and polished such that he caught glimpses of his own bloody, battered face.

The music was reaching its final peak as one of the men dragged out a chair before Gian, placing it just out of light's reach.

The figure slowly placed his cane on the seat then straightened, shrugging off the ankle length coat and draping it over the chair. Next was his cufflinks, golden Catholic crosses worth more than one kidney, and placed them into one of his men's awaiting hands.

Each movement was dramatic and drawn for a specific reason; to scare the fuck out of Gian. And he would be lying if he was not frightened.

The Corelli Crime Syndicate had finally caught him, a member of their greatest Crime family— the Luciano Syndicate.

They beat and tortured him, brutal enough to have him teetering on the brinks of abstract death, but not enough to claim his life.

No, that job was meant for the Leader.

The man who stood before him, luxuriously folding his dress shirt up to his elbows revealing tanned forearms inked with religious markings of the Catholic Church.

Beast.

A cold wind blew somewhere in him, lifting little leaves of terror and obscure fear.

Beast lowered himself onto the seat and set his cane by the floor, one long leg crossed over the other, lifting and falling to the remnants of Frank Sinatra.

Neither spoke as the song came to a final halt, seemingly ending his inevitable fate with it.

It was futile making out Beast's face as he sat in darkness, the only part of him visible was his foot and rings which edged by the circle of light encroaching Gian.

When all was silent, Beast shifted slightly and Gian tensed instantly, gaze shifting towards his hand which slipped into his pocket.

Gun.

He waited, breath tight and suffocating.

Rustling sounds.

"Gian," he had never heard Beast's voice. No one had. None except those closest to him. To majority, he remained an anonymous figure, a phantom.

When he spoke his name, it held a thick intonation, Sicilian accent that shrouded each syllable heavily with endearment.

Gi—an

Gian blinked as Beast leaned forward expecting to face a revolver, only to freeze at the sight of a lollipop.

Blueberry lollipop.

"Ne vorresti uno?" would you like one?

The offer caught him off guard and he stared at the calloused hand for far too long, slender strong fingers, a scar on his palm— "No, grazie."

"Sei securo?" are you sure?

Gian's head rose and fell tentatively.

Beast leaned back into the embrace of darkness and unwrapped his lollipop, slipping it into the warmth of his mouth.

Gian listened to the silent moving of candy on teeth, mild sucking noises as it pressed into his left cheek. He waited.

"Come stai?" How are you?

Fractured ribs, raptured spleen, missing teeth, swollen eye, mauled out hand— "Fine." Weakness before men was never tolerated. Not in this life.

Gian inhaled a measured pained breath, his chest rattled with blood. Internal bleeding. "You?"

"Non sto bene, Gian," Beast sighed dramatically, "in effetti sono abbastanza deluso da te."

I'm not fine, Gian, in fact I am quite disappointed in you.

Gian grit his teeth, wincing as his gum throbbed intently.

"l'attuale deplorevole stato in cui ti trovi è il risultato del tuo rifiuto di parlare e, per questo, sono deluso eppure leggermente sorpreso dalla tua resilienza."

the current deplorable state you are in is as a result of your refusal to speak, and for that, I am disappointed yet mildly awed by your resilience

"Thank you." Gian muttered holding his gaze with the man's. Despite the current circumstances, he could not help but feel slightly god—like at speaking with Beast.

A conversation that compiled beyond three words, the most he had ever spoken since the incident. Beast was a man of few to no words and prefered anonymity above everything else.

For Gian to be spared and visited by the head of Corelli Syndicate could only mean one thing— he was desperate.

Desperate for information that Gian possessed and for that, Gian silently thanked God for his position. It did not spare him the brutality, but it did guarantee the continuity of his life.

"Tell me, Gian," the low timber in beast's voice, coercing with endearment. A temptation. "cosa vorresti in cambio della location?"

what would you like in exchange for the location?

Gian did not have much time to mull over a bargaining concept, neither could not show his hesitance, "I walk away free."

Beast's head tilted to the side.

"I get a new identity, passport, social insurance number, bank accounts— everything."

The silence was edged.

"That and five million dollars deposited into three offshore accounts with different identities and paper trails. All for me." Revealing the location of his rival cartel, the family which Gian worked with, was a death sentence.

One he knew he could not escape, nonetheless he word be spending his last days swimming in luxuries he could never afford.

If I go down, let me bleed on Gucci.

"Most importantly," Gian leveled his stare with the hidden man, "I need your oath not to harm me in any way." A man's word was held higher than his status.

The silence drew itself. Gian listened to his heartbeat, moth—like and struggling between his shattered ribs. Anxiety thinned his veins yet with it came mild courage. Confidence that his freedom, though bleak, was somewhat guaranteed if he played his cards right.

Beast would not refuse.

He could never—

"No."

Gian blinked and stilled. The words siphoned through him like a bucket of frigid water.

"W—what?"

"No." Beast spoke mildly, bored even, and held a hand out as one of his soldiers approached and held out a gun.

His gaze moved frantically between the gun in Beast's hand and silver bullets emptied from the barrel onto his hand. The nausea came sharp, saliva piling between his cheeks, "You cannot kill me—"

"On the contrary, Gian, io posso." I can.

"If you kill me the location will not be revealed."

Beast slid three bullets into the barrel at random spots, spun it sharply and jerked his wrist as it snapped back into the gun. He did not speak.

"You can't kill me—"

"sì, posso." yes, I can

"The coordinates," his words came desperately, eyes feverish, "do you not need them?"

"I do."

"Well let's settle for the bargain then."

"No."

Gian fell silent, chest rising and falling rapidly as his chest squeezed. Perspiration shined on his forehead and upper lip, soaking his brow and trailing down his temple.

"You can't kill me," his whisper was measured, gauging for a reaction.

If he killed him, he would never know their location.

Beast leaned forward on his seat then, hat tipped over half his face revealing the lower half— curved lips and three day stubble pressed onto a sharp jawline. The lollipop shifted onto his other cheek.

"You wouldn't dare ki—"

The gun shot rang loud.

Gian screamed in agony as pain sheeted from his raptured knee. It was excruciating and blinding as spots obscured his vision. Gian gripped the seats arm rests and jerked back and forth, teeth sinking onto his tongue mauling it.

The bone of his knee broke from skin and material, alabaster and white jutting sharply into the air. Strands of flesh and blood soaking through the floor.

A bead of blood splattered the corner of Beast's of mouth. That hardly fazed him as he stroked the tip of his tie, raising it for inspection.

"How unfortunate," he hummed mildly disappointed, "you got blood on my new tie."

"Fuck you!" Gian spat with a trembling voice.

The smoking barrel raised to Beast's smirking mouth, "Buy me dinner first, yes?"

Gian slumped forward, lips parting as pants and slobbered drool with blood dripped out. "F—fuck you."

The gun was pressed on his right knee, finger idly stroking the trigger.

"Quali sono le coordinate?"

what are the coordinates.

Gian was silent. He was foolish to believe his life could be bargained for the location. If the life of a wealthy snitch could not attained, he would die a loyal man.

He raised his head and leaned forward, the action was faster than either could comprehend— gurgling a mouthful of phlegm and blood, he spat it onto the man's cheek.

It landed with a wet splat, trailing along his cheekbone, tracing jawline and dripping onto the cement floor.

Beast smiled.

Then pulled the trigger.

The pain was blinding, shards of bones falling, flesh ripping— Gian's mouth parted to scream but Beast was faster.

The mafia boss shoved his lollipop into the man's mouth and grabbed his jaw, slamming it shut.

"Non, Gian," Beast spoke cooly, fingers pressing into either sides of his cheek stilling the violent tremors, "you do not have permission to scream."

Blueberry and blood and tears was all he could taste, staring into fiery black eyes that loomed above him.

He breathed sharply, swallowing lump after lump of agony.

His jaw was released and he slumped forward only to press back as something cool was pressed between his brows. A gun.

"è rimasto un proiettile." one bullet left.

Beast cocked the gun, " cinque secondi," he sung cooly.

"Cinque..."

Sweat dripped into his eyes.

"Quattro..."

He wouldn't dare.

"tre..."

He had no one else.

"Due..."

It was all bluff.

"Un—"

"Marco Avenue!" Gian's voice rang out, desperate and high, "six five zero, Chatham Street."

Silence.

Gian opened one eye and peeked at the figure above him, scrutinizing him for any signs of deception or hesitance.

"Sante," Beast spoke and one of his guard's approached, the gun still pressed between Gian's brows.

An iPad was produced, coordinates typed in. Less than five seconds passed before the guard held the screen up to Beast's face, light brightening the sharpness of his features and scar.

Beast nodded. The guard stepped back.

Gian gazed at the man, pleading stare. "Plea—"

He pulled the trigger.

Gian flinched.

Nothing.

Beast's laughter was short as he stepped back and opened the barrel showcasing no bullets. Gian could have sworn he kept three bullets.

He dropped the gun and walked for the door.

"Wait!" Gian called after him and his steps faltered, body half turned to regard him, "What about me?"

"E tu?" what about you?

His tongue darted out, licking chapped busted lips, "I told you the coordinates, what do I get?"

Beast's mouth moved— slow imperceptible smile that curved wickedly, "My tigers have not had their afternoon meal."

And with those parting words, he left the room, Gian's outrageous horrified screams cut off as the door slammed shut.

Beast walked down the hallway as Sante, his consigliere, caught up to his side. "What do we do now?"

His Italian was thin and Beast reached for the wet wipe held out for him, wiping blood from his hands and nails.

Handing the wipe back, he glanced at the Casino on the iPad's screen.

"Save the man's head, we will send them a gift."