I shifted around restlessly and finally sought refuge in my own cup of coffee, blinking at the milky-brown surface intently just to be able to avoid his relentless staring. "That's a pretty exclusive name I'd guess." I mumbled just to break my own stupor, trying to make conversation. A million questions raced through my head, but for the life of me I wasn't able to voice any of them, let alone form a coherent sentence without being pushed first.
"Tell me why the Mafia want you dead." he demanded amiably, pursing his lips to take another sip of his coffee. He sounded relaxed and conversational, as if he weren't talking about a plot on my premediated murder, and it made his question even creepier. My surprise must have shown on my face, because he fired another charismatic, toothbaring grin at me that made my dick throb in interest.
"You thought I wanted to kill you? Do I look like a sociopath that runs around killing jailbait for fun?" he purred, and I quenched the impulse to answer 'yes you do' with another mouthful of coffee, then started to look for my faculty of speech. I remembered his impatience for unanswered questions way too well, and a small part of me was outraged at the thought that maybe he already deemed me stupid or slow in the head.
"I don't know. Maybe they want to weaken my father by killing his offspring?" I offered, keeping my face straight and neutral.
"No, they would have threatened him first, and they would have left some kind of message for him if that was the case." he answered. His glare never wavered, demanding more information.
"Hey, don't look at me like that," I answered back, "the only illicit thing I ever did was buying drugs and paying with sexual favors. The Mafia don't do drugs." Well, at least that was what I always read and heard. Somwhere through our verbal exchange I had stopped fidgetting, but now I clung to my cup instead as if life itself depended on it.
The thought of being wanted by the Babylon Mafia scared me shitless. They had first shown up about 50 years ago, a strange and exotic mix of Indian and Asian culture with a very particular interest for human trafficking, smuggling and black annealing. In the last few years there had been rumors about Mafia members joining the ranks of police and taking over political functions. A dozen people had turned up dead, officials had proudly announced the forming of an anti-corruption squad, and then everything had gotten quiet. Quiet was not good. Quiet meant they had gotten so influential on the cities highest ranks, that noone dared talk about them anymore.
They could make people disappear. They could make me disappear. I just didn't know why they would have any interest in me.
Noom assessed me quietly for a few moments. I practically felt his gaze travel from my face to my neck, then to my naked, slim chest and further down, before his eyes snapped back to my face, staring at me over the brim of his cup when he took another sip. "I want to keep you around for a few days, but I don't want to end where you are now, having a bounty on your head and all that. They said 'kill him where he stands', and that's what I'd do under normal circumstances." He seemed to want to add something to that, but he didn't, and he stopped staring. It caught my attention.
"So why don't you? If you're a contract killer you shouldn't mind who you kill." I griped, unable to contain my grief on the thought of someone - anyone - wanting to kill me. I was used to being hated and rejected, even to recieving threats of violence and of course being subject to corporal punishment, but nobody had ever tried to kill me, or talked about killing me before.
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