The Devil In A Suit
1064 Words
I wake earlier than usual, the events of last night replaying in my mind like a broken record. Over and over again, I see the man’s head snap sideways. I see the blood. I hear the crack of bone. And then those eyes — cold, merciless, terrifying.
I gasp and sit upright in bed, my chest heaving.
Morning light spills through the cracked blinds of my tiny apartment, but it does nothing to chase away the chill creeping through my bones.
It wasn't a nightmare.
It was real.
I witnessed a murder.
And the killer…
He saw me.
Or at least, I think he did.
My heart pounds harder at the thought. I press a palm against my chest, trying to calm myself, but my pulse refuses to slow.
"Get it together," I mutter under my breath.
I can't afford to fall apart. Not now. Not ever.
With a shaky breath, I push myself off the creaky mattress and head for the bathroom. The tiles are cold beneath my feet, and the shower sputters before finally releasing lukewarm water. I scrub harder than usual, as if I can wash away the lingering fear clinging to my skin.
It doesn't work.
By the time I step out, steam fills the tiny space, fogging the cracked mirror. I wipe it with my palm and stare at my reflection.
Pale.
Tired.
Scared.
I hate it.
I quickly dry off and slip into the only decent dress I have packed in my small bag — a simple grey dress, slightly faded but still wearable. I smooth it down, ignoring the faint stain from last night that refused to come off.
My stomach twists.
Last night again.
I grab my bag and leave before my mind can spiral any further.
The early morning air is crisp as I step onto the street. New York is already waking up, the distant sound of honking cars and hurried footsteps filling the air. I pull my jacket tighter around me and walk briskly toward the restaurant.
My day job is at a fairly popular restaurant in the heart of town, and I make sure to arrive earlier than everyone else. Compared to my night job at the bar, this place is a blessing. Better pay. Better tips. And most importantly… less drunk men trying to grab me.
I arrive minutes before the other workers, greeting the manager with a polite nod before tying on my apron.
Soon enough, customers begin to trickle in.
Then they pour in.
Within an hour, the restaurant is packed.
The clatter of plates, chatter of conversations, and the smell of fresh coffee fill the air. I move from table to table, balancing trays, jotting down orders, and forcing a polite smile even when my feet begin to ache.
Time passes in a blur.
Eventually, the rush slows.
I finally get a break and collapse onto an overturned bucket near the kitchen, pulling out my phone. My fingers scroll through job listings, hope flickering in my chest.
Better pay. Better hours. Better life.
That's all I want.
But an hour passes.
Nothing.
Every listing requires experience I don't have, qualifications I can't afford, or availability that clashes with my current jobs.
I sigh heavily, rubbing my temples.
Just as I'm about to give up, a tray drops beside me with a loud clang.
"Table four," one of the waitresses mutters before hurrying off.
I sigh again, pushing myself up.
Duty calls.
I lift the tray and head toward table four.
A man sits alone, legs crossed elegantly beneath the table. A large newspaper shields his face, completely hiding his features.
I blink.
Who still reads newspapers?
Shrugging it off, I place the tray down carefully.
"Your order, sir—"
I turn to leave.
"Pytka."
I freeze.
The single word sends ice coursing through my veins.
My blood runs cold.
My mind flashes back to the alley.
The blood.
The fight.
The limp body.
Those eyes.
Slowly, I turn around.
He lowers the newspaper.
And my world stops.
It's him.
There's no doubt about it.
He's even more terrifying in daylight.
And impossibly handsome.
Dark hair falls carelessly across his forehead, partially shielding sharp, slanted eyes that lock onto me with predatory precision. His jaw is sharp, his lips set in a calm, almost bored expression.
He's dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the crisp white shirt underneath unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of tattooed skin and chiseled muscle.
He looks powerful.
Dangerous.
Untouchable.
And he's staring directly at me.
My throat goes dry.
"I'm sorry sir, I didn't get that," I whisper, pretending not to recognize him.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips.
"If you say so, pytka." His voice is deep, smooth… and terrifyingly calm. "Now, you're going to walk outside the restaurant. There's a limo waiting. I'll join you shortly."
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
Kidnapping.
In broad daylight?
Here?
No.
No way.
I take a small step back, my body screaming at me to run.
"I'm sorry sir, but I don't know you."
His hand slips into his pocket.
Then he pulls out a gun.
My breath catches.
He doesn't even try to hide it.
His other finger presses lightly against his lips.
"Be a good girl," he murmurs softly. "Do as I say. Or I pull the trigger."
The world tilts.
He's serious.
Completely serious.
I swallow hard, my hands trembling.
No one notices.
Customers laugh.
Plates clatter.
Life continues.
While my world crumbles.
I nod faintly.
Then I turn and walk.
Each step feels heavier than the last.
My pulse roars in my ears as I push through the restaurant doors.
Outside, a sleek black limo waits at the curb.
My stomach drops.
The driver steps out immediately.
He's tall.
Broad.
Tattooed.
Another dangerous man.
He opens the back door politely.
I hesitate.
I glance back at the restaurant.
At the street.
At passing strangers.
Someone.
Anyone.
Please.
But no one looks my way.
No one notices.
No one cares.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes.
Left with no choice, I slide into the back seat.
The door shuts behind me with a heavy click.
And just like that…
I know my life is about to change forever.
I sit quietly, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, waiting for the devil to join me.
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