Betrayal

The moment I woke up, I knew something wasn't right. It wasn't just the uncomfortable mattress pressing into my back or the stale scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, though those certainly played a role. It was the silence—a heavy, oppressive silence that filled my ears, starkly contrasting the usual noise of late-night squabbles and revving engines that surrounded my run-down apartment complex.

I worked as a low-ranking enforcer for the Serpents, a gang that dominated this neglected part of the city. My tasks were straightforward: collect debts, inflict pain, and generally make life difficult for anyone who defied us. It wasn't a life of luxury, but it paid the bills and, crucially, kept me alive.

I swung my legs off the bed, and the worn floorboards groaned beneath me. My head pounded, a reminder of last night's "negotiation" with a particularly hardheaded bookie. I was desperate for a strong black coffee and a cigarette to erase the lingering taste of cheap whiskey.

As I made my way to the kitchen, something metallic caught my attention. It was my .38, usually stored in the drawer next to the stove, now resting on the counter, glinting in the weak morning light like a foreboding sign.

I picked it up, the cold steel a familiar reassurance in my grip, but the safety was off. A wave of unease churned in my gut. Someone had entered my apartment while I slept and left a loaded gun on the counter. This wasn't a mere break-in—it was a warning.

Every instinct screamed at me to run, to vanish, to become invisible. But I knew fleeing would be seen as an admission of guilt, giving them cause to hunt me down. I had to uncover who was behind this and why.

I shrugged into my leather jacket, its familiar weight a reassuring armor against the grim reality of my life. Outside, the usual morning hustle was absent. No idling cars, no delivery trucks rattling down the street, only a disquieting void. It felt as though the city itself was holding its breath.

I roamed the streets, my senses heightened, scanning faces for any sign of danger. The whispers began subtly. At first, I thought it was just paranoia. But then I heard them clearly: "Traitor." "Rat." "He’s dead."

The blood in my veins ran cold. I was being set up. Someone had planted evidence and spread lies, painting me as an informant, a traitor to the Serpents. In our world, that was a death sentence.

I had to find Angelo, the leader of the Serpents. Though ruthless, he was also fair in his own twisted way. If I could reach him, plead my case, there might still be hope.

I tracked him down to his usual haunt—a smoky backroom poker game above a crumbling bar. The air buzzed with tension, the clink of chips and low conversations barely masking an underlying threat.

Angelo sat at the head of the table, a massive figure with eyes as cold as winter frost. He didn't appear surprised to see me—in fact, he almost seemed to be expecting me.

“Marco,” he said, his voice a low growl, "You’re looking well, all things considered.”

“Angelo, I can explain,” I whispered, my voice drenched in desperation. “I didn’t do anything.”

He raised an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate gesture that sent chills down my spine. ‘‘Explain what, Marco? Explain the intel leaked to the cops? Explain the raid on our warehouse last night? Explain why they found your fingerprints all over the evidence?”

I was dumbfounded. I knew nothing of any raid. I hadn’t leaked any information. This was an elaborate setup.

“I’m being framed, Angelo,” I pleaded. “Someone's trying to take me down.”

He leaned back, his gaze fixated on me. “Maybe. Or maybe you just got greedy, Marco. Maybe you thought you could play both sides.”

He signaled to two of his enforcers, their faces unreadable. “Take him away.”

As they pulled me toward the back, I realized this was my end. My life, my loyalty, they meant nothing. I was merely a pawn in a game I couldn't begin to understand.

Suddenly, a voice I knew well shouted, “Stop!” She marched in, pointed at Angelo, and declared, “He’s the mole! He’s been pocketing the money and feeding info to the cops!”

The room exploded into chaos, guns drawn, accusations flying. Amid the turmoil, I broke free, moving quickly toward the door.

I ran—not to hide, but to survive. I now had a score to settle and a plan forming. The only way to clear my name was to unearth those exploiting it to cover their own crimes. I knew exactly where to start; I was going after Angelo and his protectors. I had nothing left to lose.

838 Words