Everything about Edwards & Co. glittered with riches.

    The skyscraper was one of many, arching high above the city and glittering black like an onyx gem. There was no company logo, or architectural design that revealed who its owner was, but the paparazzi frequented the place like flies.

    It was the employees, that raced in and out of the building, that were a dead giveaway.

Mr. Edwards had very selective tastes.

Uniforms must be chic, cleaned to perfection. No wrinkles, no untucked shirts. Everything neat, and sleek, and tidy.

The secretary of the building was an exception.

A woman ran down the sidewalk, pushing past people and dodging bicycles. She kept a hand over her hijab, the pink fabric fluttering as she tried to pick up the pace. Running in heels—especially when you were late—was no easy task.

"Excuse me—" she shouted over the city chaos, weaving through people. "Excuse me!"

She clutched her briefcase to her chest and stumbled to a halt near Edwards & Co, spotting the paparazzi crowding at the entrance. Dread pooled in her gut, and she groaned, biting her lip.

Mr. Edwards would not be happy.

The secretary used her briefcase as a shield and pushed through the crowd, yelping when bodies knocked into her.

"Hey!" yelled a man. "Watch the camera!"

The secretary scowled and shoved a man aside. "You shouldn't even be here!" she barked.

The entrance was in sight.

The secretary stumbled over to it, narrowly dodging a man's bulky camera, and tugged open the glass doors. Paparazzi lit up at the motion, but before they could rush inside, a guard in all black blocked the entrance.

"Stay back," he said firmly, letting the secretary through. Once she was inside, the guard shut the door to block the crowd, and the secretary let out a grateful sigh.

"Thank you, Tyler," she huffed, taking a moment to catch her breath. She looked down at herself and yelped in shock. "Oh god! How do I look?"

Tyler spared a glance at the paparazzi peaking in, then turned to the secretary. His brows rose at the sight of her.

"To be honest, Tali? Rough," he laughed. "If Mr. Edwards sees you like that—"

The secretary, Tali, cursed. "What time is it? Shit, if he knows I'm late again—"

"I'll cover for you," said Tyler, glancing out the glass doors. "You have some time, especially with the pap blocking the way."

"Okay—okay—" Tali ran a hand over her face and rushed off. "God, and I have to make him coffee, too—"

Her heels clicked on the lobby floor, adding onto the noise of the building. Other employees raced to and fro, their faces stern or harried, their hands full of papers or files.

Tali circled around the front desk and set her briefcase down, fumbling to open it. She pulled out a clipboard while fixing her hijab, and a handful of pens while she fixed her outfit.

"I hope you have that coffee ready!" came Tyler's voice, which bounced off the walls. "He's rolling in now."

Tali could tell. Even with the clamor and chaos of the city, anyone could hear the growl of that car engine.

The secretary cursed and raced over to the complimentary cafe, which was reserved for visitors. She quickly made a cup of coffee, her heel tapping impatiently.

"Come on, come on..." she urged.

As the coffee machine whirred, a black Maserati parted through the traffic and slowed to a stop in front of Edwards & Co, the tires crunching on the asphalt. The engine roared, and pedestrians turned towards the sound, eyeing the car with envy.

The paparazzi lit up at the sight of the car, shifting with life, fingers itching and cameras at the ready.

"Well," said Mark, a bodyguard dressed in all black. He put the car in park and glanced out the tinted windows with a sheepish grin. "Looks like you've got company again, sir."

Mr. Edwards slid on a pair of sunglasses and looked up from his phone, his lips curling in distaste.

"How great," he cursed under his breath, glaring out the car window. "It's become an infestation."

He stowed his phone away and smoothed down his all-black suit, gave himself a glance in the mirror, and slicked back his raven hair.

"One of these days," said Dark, "I'm going to install proper security for this place."

Mark chuckled, and he pulled the key out of the ignition. The purr of the engine died, and the crowd outside lit up with a hunger.

"Oh, lighten up, sir," teased Mark, slipping on his own pair of sunglasses. He checked his holster, making sure the gun was still in place. "You've got admirers."

"Admirers is an understatement," scoffed Dark. "They're starting to get out of control."

Mark exited the car and circled around the front. He rushed towards the passenger side and opened the door for Dark right as the paparazzi rushed forward.

"Edwards! Mr. Edwards!" came their cries.

Mark offered a hand, but Dark dismissed it. He slid out of the car and buttoned his suit, squinting at the flurry of camera flashes.

"Come on," breathed Mark, hovering a hand over Dark's back.

There was always one strict rule with Mr. Edwards.

No touching.

"What are you working on now?" yelled a voice. Camera flash.

"Any new projects?" yelled another. Camera flash. A hand reaching out.

Mark veered Dark away from the man, keeping the paparazzi at a distance. They buzzed around them like flies, throwing questions and flashing pics. Even pedestrians slowed around them, lighting up with recognition.

The doors ahead swung open, held by Tyler. Mark turned his back to Dark and shielded him with his arms, keeping the crowd back.

"Go home, you guys," Mark shouted over the noise. "That's enough, that's enough."

    Even as Dark and Mark stepped inside, the flurry of camera flashes didn't cease. The paparazzi crowded around the door, trying to get a good shot even through the tinted windows. Mark scowled at them, and Tyler shut the doors violently, glaring out at them.

    "They get pushier every time, don't they?" huffed Mark. Tyler smiled at him.

    "I'm starting to think we need more guards," he said.

    Dark's dress shoes clicked when he walked into the lobby, and the chatter and noise hushed around him. Employees faltered mid-walk at the sight of him—some even stopping to stare. When he would glance in their direction, they'd bow their heads and dip out of sight.

    The secretary spotted him, and she jumped, heart in her throat.

    "Mr. Edwards!" she greeted. She fumbled with her clipboard and the cup of coffee and raced forward. "Black, just how you like it."

    Dark slipped off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Thank you, Tali," he said. The secretary handed him the coffee, and he accepted it, the warmth swelling in his palm. Once Mark joined his side, the three of them began to walk.

    "Is the Ambassador here, yet?" asked Edwards, glancing down at his Rolex. Employees shied away from his path like he would burn them if they walked too close.

    "She's on the way, sir," said Tali. "The traffic is slowing everything down today."

    They continued through the lobby and turned into a hallway lined with elevators. Doors slid open and shut, and people walked to and fro, most of them sparing glances at Dark.

    Mark pressed a button, and a set of doors slid open with a chime, light spilling onto the glossy black floors. The three rushed towards the elevator and boarded its reflective, golden interior.

    "Mark," said Edwards as the doors slid shut. "I want you to compile a list of candidates for more extensive security." He gazed at his reflection in the walls and ran a hand through his hair, making sure he looked presentable. "I'm getting sick of those flies at the door."

    "Yes, sir," said Mark, trying not to stare at his boss. He always admired when the man preened himself before a meeting, but he'd learned the hard way that staring was a subcategory to his "No Touching" rule.

    Such a shame, that he couldn't appreciate the beauty that was so obviously before him.

    Instead, he leaned over and pressed one of the numbers—Floor Fifty-Three. The elevator chimed, whirred, and began to climb up fifty stories.

    Dark sipped at his coffee in silence, his face pulled back into his usual, calm expression. Mark watched him through the corner of his eye while Tali took interest in the numbers changing above, her fingers drumming anxiously on her clipboard.

    The elevator slowed to a stop with a final chime, and the doors slid open, revealing the fifty-third floor, which was home to Dark's office. A penthouse—large and luxurious—with three walls made up of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire city. Light spilled into the room and kept it bright, making the minimal furniture sparkle.

    "Please, get settled, sir," said Tali, rushing out of the elevator. "I'll notify you when the Ambassador arrives."

    Dark nodded, and the secretary rushed down a hallway, where three separate rooms were: her office, Mark's office, and a waiting room for guests. Tali slipped into her office and shut the door with a click.

    "Well, good luck, boss man," teased Mark, giving Dark's shoulder a tap. Dark rose a brow at him, and Mark's face flushed with color, instantly realizing his mistake.

    "S-sorry, sir," he said. He cleared his throat and stepped back, pointing towards his office. "I'll be—compiling that list. Call me if you need me."

    Mark raced towards his office and shut the door, and Dark brushed off his shoulder with a huff.

    He crossed the penthouse and set his coffee on his desk, gazing out the windows.

    The sight was always astonishing, no matter how often he looked at it. The city stretched past the horizon, and skyscrapers peered high and proud. He recognized most of the buildings as his own. They were the prettiest, glittering black under the sunlight.

Even from this height, he could still hear the swelling cacophony of the city—the blaring honks, the thudding music, and the rushing streets. It was much more pleasant when it faded into a backdrop.

The office phone at the corner of his desk beeped, and he glanced over his shoulder at it. He turned away from the city view and leaned over, pressing a button. The speaker fizzed with life, and Tali's voice came through the line.

"The Ambassador has arrived," she said through the speaker. "One of the guards is escorting her up now."

Dark held down the button and gave a simple "thank you."

He settled into his chair and slid open a few drawers, collecting files and papers. He organized them on the desk and made sure everything was ready for the meeting.

He had been eyeing a new property on Fifth Street in hopes of expanding his business—and he knew he'd be able to buy it easily—but the Ambassador was specific like him, and if things weren't in order, it risked losing the deal.

The phone beeped, and Dark pressed a button.

"They're here," came Tali's voice through the speaker.

The elevator doors slid open, and Dark stood up, smoothing down his suit. A guard led a woman into the penthouse and stood post in the hallway, motioning towards Dark's office. The Ambassador searched the room, and when her sharp eyes landed on Edwards' figure, she smiled.

Deja Dumont was thirty-five, with deep black skin, a shaved hairstyle, and a smooth, professional gait. A Gucci suit hugged her lithe figure, paired with heels that clicked on the glossy floors as she walked forward.

"Mr. Edwards," she greeted in a suave voice. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

She held out a hand, and Dark met her in a few strides. They shared a firm handshake, gazes intense.

"You too, Ms. Dumont," he said, earning a coy smile. He pulled away and motioned to a chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit."

"I'd rather you address me as Madam," said the Ambassador, pulling back the chair and seating herself. She crossed her legs. "Ms. or Mrs... they imply marital status, and I don't define myself according to a man."

Dark smiled, and he circled around the desk, seating himself across from her.

"Very well," he said. "Forgive me if I may have offended you, Madam Dumont."

Deja smiled. "Not at all, Mr. Edwards," she said. She motioned gracefully to the desk and the papers before her. "We could, however, get right into the deal."

"Of course," said Dark with a nod. He opened one of the files and slid out a few forms, setting it between them. "That realtor, Mr. Lau, filled me in on the property a week ago. A tour, a rundown of the costs, et cetera..." He faintly smiled and folded his hands over the desk, his rings glinting. "I think you know what decision I've come to."

Deja's smile widened, revealing pearly white teeth. "How wonderful," she said. "It looks like we'll just be finalizing everything then."

"If," said Dark, "you lower the price."

Dark leaned over and slid the papers closer to the Ambassador.

"Knock off one million," he said, "and I'll take it."

Dumont hummed, and she pulled a pen out of her breast pocket. She clicked it open, scooted her chair closer... but before she could go any further, her movements slowed, and her pleasant expression hardened. Dark picked up on the change and searched her features.

"I do agree with you on the price, Mr. Edwards," said Deja, trouble glittering in her eyes. "And I'm more than happy to accept the deal, but..." She sucked in a breath and glanced at him, meeting his gaze.

She set her pen on the desk.

"Has... Mr. Lau... explained to you why it's so high?" she breathed.

Dark paused, and he searched the Ambassador's face. The sharpness of her eyes and the masterful heat of her expression had faded—stripped back into a foreign emotion he'd rarely seen on the woman's face. Uncertainty. Caution.

Fear.

Dark's expression hardened, and he straightened himself.

"No," he answered eventually, shaking his head. "He hasn't."

Deja carefully inhaled, and she leaned forward, aura intense. Dark rose a brow at her behaviour, which reminded him of the way people went hushed when they gossiped.

"You know about the mafia, right?" breathed Dumont, lowering her voice. "The people that run this city?"

Dark's shoulders relaxed, and he shook his head. "To be honest, Madam Dumont," he said, already weary of the conversation, "I haven't had the care to properly look into them."

"That's foolish, Mr. Edwards," she said. She shifted in her seat, cleared her throat, and glanced at the papers on the desk. "Look... I'm only telling you this, because—that property..." She pointed at one of the papers. "It's right next to the mafia's territory lines. They've been expanding—just like you—and they want that property badly. They've been eyeing it for years."

Dark suppressed a smirk, but he couldn't help but chuckle.

"So the building's overpriced to scare buyers off?" he teased.

Deja narrowed her eyes and gave a sarcastic laugh.

"I'd prefer you bought the building, instead of the mafia," she said, running her thumb along her nails. "Since you're a close associate, I'll lower the price for you without a problem."

She glanced down at her nails, any trace of amusement leaving her face.

"The only favor I have to ask," she said, "is for you to tread with caution."

Her gaze flicked onto Dark, and he met her firm gaze.

"The man who runs the mob—some Wilford Warfstache—is..." She shuddered. "Well, just the stories about him would be enough to make me look for a different property." She rose her brows at Dark. "I just want you to understand what you might be getting into."

Dark hummed, and a smirk teased the edges of his lips.

Wilford Warfstache, he thought, amused. What was this, some kind of joke?

Edwards smiled and motioned towards the papers with ease. "I appreciate the warning," he said, "but I'm not worried about that." He leaned over and tapped his finger beside her pen. "Go ahead and sign the papers, Madam Dumont."

Deja lingered a moment, searching Dark's face—then sat back up and picked up her pen, lips pursed.

"I am clear, though, correct?" she said, meeting Dark's eyes. "From what I've heard, Warfstache is a dangerous man. A psychotic serial killer." She pressed her pen into the paper and signed it. "Most people say he's a wild card." She signed another paper. "Interacting with him is like a game of Russian Roulette."

She signed another paper, and Dark watched quietly.

"You say a joke, and that man could laugh it off," said Dumont. She pulled the last paper towards her, but she didn't sign it. "Or—you say a joke, and he could blow your head off."

Dark ran his finger along his rings and hummed.

"You're beginning to make me think you don't want this property sold," said Dark smoothly, raising a brow. Deja huffed with amusement and shook her head.

"Don't underestimate what you don't know," she said.

She pressed her pen against the signature line, and ink welled into the page at the pressure.

"If Warfstache visits you... or if he hurts you..." Deja glanced at him. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

She signed the final paper.

    Dark smiled, and when Deja leaned back, he gathered up the papers and straightened them on the desk.

    "This has been an enlightening conversation," said Dark, rising from his seat and offering a hand. Deja stood up and shook it firmly. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Madam Dumont."

    "As with you, Mr. Edwards," she said, her smile returning.

    Dark set the papers aside and led Dumont towards the elevators. The guard who stood post in the hall leaned over to press the button, but Deja was there before him. She pressed it, and a light chimed ahead.

    "Before I go," said Dumont, "I want to make my point clear."  She turned towards Edwards, gaze steady. "These men in the mafia—they mean business."

    Dark smirked. "And I do, too," he said, raising a brow. "They run the city, like you said, right? What's one little skyscraper out of their hands?"

    The elevator chimed, and Deja chuckled.

    "You'd be surprised with how worked up they get," she said, "over the smallest of things."

    The doors slid open, and the guard stepped inside, holding an arm out to keep the doors open. Deja gave a parting nod towards Dark.

    "Have a good day, Mr. Edwards," she said. "And perhaps—learn how to use a gun."

    Dark chuckled. "Goodbye, Madam Dumont."

    She stepped inside the elevator, and the doors slid shut behind her. Once she was gone, Dark couldn't help but scoff with amusement.

    "Warfstache," he said under his breath, pacing back to his desk. He picked up his coffee and sipped at it, the conversation still playing in his head. "How bad can he be?"

———

The gunshot echoed through the mansion, and blood splattered against the walls. A man crumpled to the floor.

    "There," huffed Wilford, brushing back his hair. "Does that convince you?"

    Mr. Lau, the realtor, stared in shock, his mouth agape. All color drained from his face. "Y-you—you just—" He pointed, shaking. "Just k-killed—"

    Wilford pointed the gun at Mr. Lau, and he shouted, stumbling back. He held his hands beside his head.

    "How much for the place?" asked Wilford, his accent thick like a drunken slur. "Twenty-nine, you said?"

    Mr. Lau's eyes darted from Wil's gun, to his associate's dead body, to the bodyguards lining the room—all staring at him like wolves, with fingers flexing over their rifles. He swallowed, trembling, trying to find an escape. But all the exits were blocked.

    "Y-yes—Mr. Warfstache," Mr. Lau coughed out. "It's..." He glanced at the body, and the blood, and bile rose in his throat. "I-it's a little over your budget, but... it's a v-ery nice... nice home. Perfect for—for..." He motioned towards the guards surrounding them. "W-whatever it is you have... going."

     Wilford hummed, and he paced the room, swinging the gun around his finger like it was a toy. And to think that Mr. Lau thought this man was a clown.

He dressed funny, looked funny—with pink hair, a pink moustache, and colorful clothes—but if anything, he was terrifying. He should have never underestimated him.

    "I dunno..." hummed Wilford, sucking on a lolly. He stopped a few feet away from Mr. Lau and waved the gun by his head. "Perhaps we could... negotiate the price a bit." He pulled the lolly out of his mouth with a pop! and winked. "That alright, sweetheart?"

    Mr. Lau paled, and he nodded, his eyes locked on the gun. Painted gold, polished and shined, with a letter W engraved on the barrel.

    "O-of course—course—Mr. Warfstache, sir, I—" Mr. Lau took a step back, and the guards around them bristled. Mr. Lau froze in his spot. "I-I can knock—knock off the price a million—"

    "Ohhh, no, no, no," Wilford slurred, shaking his head. He brushed back his hair, closed an eye, and aimed the gun at Mr. Lau. "I think I'd rather have it for free."

    Mr. Lau stumbled back, hands at his head.

    "N-no—please—d-don't kill me—" Wilford cocked the gun. "Please—!"

    He pulled the trigger.

    Blood splattered across his face, and Mr. Lau's body crumpled onto the floor, a clean shot through his forehead.

    Wilford took a deep breath and smiled, letting the calm wash over him like it always did after a kill. The room went quiet, tense, and when Wilford opened his eyes, the guards shifted, waiting for orders.

    "Clean this shit up," he breathed, wiping blood from his face. "And when you're done with that—" He broke into a grin, and the room relaxed. "Make yourselves at home."

* * *

The first chapter of Killshot... how was it?? 👀　I hope you enjoyed, hehe. I know it's a bit of a slow start, but it will pick up with time!!

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!

Love, Victor xoxo