Erased Evidence
1498 Words
Wallace yanked me out of the car, and I let out a pained gasp as my ankle throbbed. He glanced at my legs, his smirk cruel. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. Our boss will take care of you himself for what you’ve done."
I froze. Zavi. Of course. How could I forget that it wasn’t Fraser’s men who were supposed to handle this, but Zavi himself? But I didn’t kill that man! All I did was give him a few shots of vodka, and I didn’t know the damn guy wasn’t strong enough to handle it. He didn’t even look that weak. I had no idea he wouldn’t be able to hold his liquor, especially after all the gamblers I’d seen throw it back and still walk out of the bar. But still, he was... gone. I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t breathing. How had that happened?
We climbed the stairs, my ankle throbbing with every step, and reached an elevator. I hadn’t noticed it before, hidden away in a corner of the house.
The elevator door slid open when we reached the rooftop. There he was. Zavi. His back was to us, his long black jacket billowing as he stood, a glass of wine casually held in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket. He must have known we were coming.
A quiet whimper snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned my head to the side and saw a girl, bound to a chair. Her eyes were blindfolded, but I could tell she was straining to free herself, desperately trying to make sense of the situation.
Zavi turned, his expression unreadable. He sipped his wine, the perfect picture of control.
I dropped to my knees, panic surging through me. "Master, please… I didn’t know I killed him. I swear, I just gave him shots, I didn’t know he wasn’t strong enough! Please, I’m sorry… please spare me." My voice was raw, the desperation clear. I didn’t care if I was begging—I wanted to live.
Wallace snorted. "You could’ve just done your damn job, b***h. Isn’t that what I told you?" He shot me a look, a mix of anger and satisfaction. It stung, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Zavi.
I opened my mouth to snap back at Wallace, but the cold gaze from Zavi silenced me. His eyes, icy and unblinking, pinned me in place. It felt like he could see right through me.
Then, in a single smooth motion, he drew his gun from his jacket pocket, and my heart skipped a beat. Oh god, he was going to kill me. I could already feel the cold weight of death in the air. Wallace’s smirk deepened, almost gleeful, as though he’d been waiting for this moment.
But instead of aiming at me, Zavi turned toward the girl in the chair. Her face was covered with a sack, and I could only imagine the terror in her mind. She must’ve heard everything, but couldn’t see a thing.
And then, the gunshot rang out.
Bang.
I screamed, my breath catching in my throat as the sound reverberated in my ears. I’d never seen someone die before—not like that. The sound of the gunshot echoed in my mind, the sight of the blood splattering the ground haunting me. I was frozen in shock, my body unable to move as the reality of what I had just witnessed set in.
Zavi tucked his gun away, his face impassive. He turned to Wallace. "Take her back to her room. Clean up this mess."
Wallace was frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. He hadn’t expected this—none of us had.
Without a word, he grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. I yelped in pain, his grip tight, like he was trying to punish me for something I couldn’t control. His eyes were full of rage and something darker, something I couldn’t quite place.
"You’re not wanted here," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This is the least I can do to hurt you. But I’ll make sure you don’t survive here. You won’t last long."
There was something else in his eyes—something like jealousy. Was it because Zavi favored me over him? Was that why he hated me so much?
I didn’t have the answer, but I had a feeling it wasn't over.
---
The Narrator's Viewpoint
The hotel lobby was a war zone of nerves. Men paced, voices murmured, sweat slicked on brows as they exchanged glances filled with dread.
Then the doors burst open.
A man stormed in, his fury so palpable it felt like the temperature in the room spiked. He wasn't just angry—he was boiling.
And everyone knew why.
"You let her escape?" His voice was a crack of thunder.
The entire room flinched. No one dared to speak.
"A girl—" he spat the word like it was filth on his tongue, "A single girl killed our boss, and you let her walk out of here alive?"
Silence.
Pathetic. They all looked pathetic, their heads bowed like schoolboys caught breaking the rules.
The boiling man exhaled sharply, shaking his head in pure disgust. Then, his voice dropped—quieter, deadlier. "Listen to me very carefully," he said, slow and deliberate. "If you don't find her by this time tomorrow, I will kill you. And not just you—everything you love. Your wives. Your children. Your mothers. Your homes."
One of the men swallowed hard. Another one’s hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for his gun—though even he knew that was a death wish.
The room crackled with tension. Someone was about to die.
And then—
"There's no need for that."
Wallace.
His voice was smooth, measured, a stark contrast to the rage radiating from the boiling man. He stood near the entrance, flanked by two men. One of them held a suitcase. Both of them looked like they were waiting for a command.
The boiling man turned, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Wallace, ever the picture of composure, didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Let's talk with maturity."
The boiling man's jaw tightened. He clenched and unclenched his fist—an old habit, a barely restrained instinct to resort to violence. But Wallace had a point. There were rules to this game, after all.
Slowly, the boiling man stepped back. A pause. Then, with a sharp nod, he motioned for Wallace to sit.
The two men took their places on opposite sides of the couch.
Wallace’s companions remained standing, their eyes locked onto the boiling man like hawks waiting for the kill order. The air was thick with unspoken threats.
"What exactly do you want to discuss?" the boiling man asked, his voice still tight with anger.
Wallace sighed, his tone carrying the weight of diplomacy. "I'm sorry that our delegate harmed the leader of your group."
Silence. Then—
"Are you sorry?"
The boiling man’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
His fury ignited again, burning hot, unraveling the thin thread of patience he had forced himself to hold onto. "Is this some kind of child's game to you?" His hand slammed against the table. "Does sorry cut it?"
The room stilled.
Wallace, to his credit, remained calm. He barely blinked at the outburst.
He understood something the boiling man didn’t—control was power. And right now, Wallace held all of it.
"We have her," Wallace said simply.
The boiling man’s expression shifted, anger giving way to something else.
Suspicion.
Wallace leaned forward. "We have her," he repeated, "and we’ve taken care of it. We deeply regret what happened."
A slow, calculating silence stretched between them.
Then, Wallace’s man stepped forward, placed the suitcase on the table, and unlatched it.
The lid popped open.
A sharp gasp broke through the room. Someone turned away. Another covered his mouth. A few staggered back, the stench hitting them like a punch to the gut.
Inside the suitcase—
A body. A woman. Or what used to be a woman.
Now, just a collection of sliced-up pieces, wrapped neatly like butchered meat.
The boiling man inhaled deeply, staring down at the gruesome display. His expression? Blank.
Then, slowly, he nodded. "Good."
Wallace didn't react. He just extended a hand.
The boiling man smirked, shaking it. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
As they stood, one of Wallace’s men leaned in, whispering something into his ear.
"Sir, we checked the cameras. Everything from the room is erased."
Wallace gave a single nod.
The boiling man stepped back, his gaze lingering on the suitcase for a second longer before turning toward his men.
"Get rid of it."
No questions. No hesitation.
The deal was done.
Wallace adjusted his cufflinks, then turned on his heel, his men following closely behind.
- Writer
