Chapter Text
Mafioso's hand tightened around the base of his gun. He didn't stick his finger in the trigger just yet. He was counting down. He set it back where he...found it.
30
29
He looked up. Why the fuck did he look up. Contracee was hanging from the ceiling. Bile formed in Mafioso's throat. His boy. His fucking boy. He stared at them. Swallowing. He ran a hand through his hair. It's fine. He can find more. He can find more goons.
28
27
26
25
He groaned. He grabbed the chair. He got up onto the chair. He undid the rope. Contractee's limp body collapsed to the floor with a gross thud. His neck was covered in ugly bruises. Mafioso stared. What drove them all to do this? A mass suicide? What the fuck was the point? A cult? No - Consgilere would've rejected that so quickly. He glanced next to the limp body of Contractee. His chest tightened.
24
23
22
Mafioso stared at Caporegime's body. Unmoving. The wedding band on his finger shined under the light of the setting sun that came through from the blinds on the window. The blood was looking on the top of Caporagime's head. Mafioso kneeled down next to him, tilting his head. The bully wound went through his chin. He wondered if the bullet made it all the way through or was stuck in Caporegime's brain. His eyes were rolled back. Mafioso reached down and closed Caporegime's eyes. His sunglasses were askew and on the floor next to his head. How badly did it hurt? Maifoso has lost goons before, so why does it matter now? Is it because they've been with him for so long? No. That's stupid. He doesn't do connections. His bunny ears were pressed back flat against his head. He shook his head. Ridiculous. He stood up.
21
20
19
18
17
16
Mafioso walked over a few feet. Soldier's body was limp. His hand was coated in his own blood. Mafioso reached down. He grabbed the knife from Soldier's hand. Tossing it next to the gun. Soldier had a deep slit starting from each side of his throat. His death must've been the longest. There was so much blood. Mafioso had seen people slit their throat before. But this hurts. It hurt his fucking chest. His heart? No. He's not weak. He's not fucking weak. He had to look away before he...puked.
15
14
13
12
11
10
Mafioso had to bite his tongue down hard enough to draw blood. He stared at Consgilere. His eyes burned like they hadn't before. Blood was still dripping from Consgilere's mouth. If Mafioso had gotten here just minutes ago, maybe he could've done something. But no. He ran late. He didn't help him. Didn't help his fucking boy. His fucking son! No. That's ridiculous. It was...a boss and employee relationship. That's all it was. Right? Right. He didn't have personal relationships other than...Itrapped, he supposed.
9
8
7
6
5
Mafioso grabbed the knife.
4
Mafioso held the hilt tightly. He took in a breath before stabbing the knife deep into the center of his stomach. He pushed on the knife until it dragged down. He groaned in pain. He yanked the knife out and it splattered blood onto the floor.
3
Mafioso grabbed the gun. His hands were shaking. No. That's wrong. His hands were steady. The steadiest they'd been in years. He let out a small breath. He racked the gun.
2
Mafioso held the base. Just as he had before. He pressed the end of it to the right side of his head. His eyes sweep over the goons. He put his finger in the trigger.
1
He pulled the trigger.