Being a thief was much easier before Stephanie had a daughter. Her new… employer liked to give her assignments in the late evening given his favorite base of operations. There was a young teenage girl she vetted closely who applied to babysit Malia, and Stephanie could only imagine what the girl must have assumed the mother did for work so late in the evening, particularly the way she dressed before her “meetings.” Whatever impressions she might have received of her employer, the girl needed money and had babysitting experience. Stephanie wished she could feel like Malia was “safe,” but no one could give her that feeling. At least her babysitter could ensure Malia did not eat ice cream until she got a stomach ache.

Little victories.

Stephanie stepped out of the private car she called to take her from Manhattan down to Queens. She was not happy with the situation she was in, but had to begrudgingly admit it was nice to have enough money in her purse these days. Never the most avid supporter of the New York Subway system, she could at least put her dirty money toward more preferable, if more expensive transportation options.

The Atlantis Club was the kind of upscale live music club Stephanie spent plenty of time patronizing in her youth. There were, of course, the more conventional clubs where she would lose herself in dancing, booze, and bodies, but with money came a taste for fashionable dresses and higher-end entertainment. With a less hectic crowd, the egocentric young cat burglar could also enjoy more attention without getting lost in the masses. She may have been outside of her twenties, but when she walked into the club in her black sequin dress cut above her knee, showing off her long legs, she still knew exactly how many eyes would be looking her way.

Maybe that was why she left this life in the first place; Stephanie knew the kind of woman she was when she was still in the game. She was confident to the point of arrogance, selfish to the point of narcissism, and self-indulgent to the point of… well, she ended up with a kid, after all. The Silhouette was not an example for a child to be raised by, and when it was her choice, Stephanie decided her career could not be a part of her life if her daughter also was. Well, back when she could still make that choice, anyway.

Making her way to the back of the floor, Stephanie walked past tables of eyes curiously watching the mysterious brunette with the scowl passing them by. A young female singer with vibrant blue hair and a dark, soulful sound was singing on the stage at the front of the club. It bothered Stephanie that, had the Atlantis Club been under different ownership, it would be a place she might enjoy enough to frequent.

There was a large guard in a suit at the back of the club who patted her down before he would lead her up to the room hidden behind one-way glass. She felt the pat down was unnecessary, given her host’s mutation, but procedures had to be followed, and she could chalk it up to the guard’s exhibitionistic tendencies.

When she finally made it into the doorway of the large office, she spotted only one person waiting for her. Stephanie had already taken a deep breath to steel her nerves before she entered, but seeing him undid her efforts, and she could feel her blood running hot at the sight of him. ”You wanted to see me, Boss Man?” she said casually, looking to keep her cool, get her assignment, and head home to find Malia safe.

The Atlantis Club. It was one of the most extravagant and opulent nightclubs in the whole of New York. Though it was situated in Queens, it still was a name that everyone from across the city struggled to gain entrance to. Guest lists were booked up for months, performers clamored for the chance to get to play, and most business jumped at the chance to be associated with this particular venue and the rather…versatile clientele.

Though the club didn’t look like much from the outside, the brick wall façade and the aquamarine colored neon sign outside the heavy wooden doors held a secret. When pushed open, the doorway led to a small hall and a set of stairs that climbed down under street level. Only a few steps (and of course there was a functioning elevator for those individuals for whom stairs were not an option) and patroons would find themselves stepping into another world.

The floor stretched out across smooth, cool tile. Deep and varying shades of blues and green illuminated the walls and the sounds of water could be heard trickling down from the various aquatic themed statues and aesthetics that were littered about. Several sleek, black tables were situated at one corner of the expansive floor for patrons to sit and chat, while a large bar ran the entire length of a single wall, offering several very skilled bartenders who could craft a variety of concoctions. The most impressive was the massive opposing wall that was firm reminder of just how under the water the club was set.

Looking out into the river, patrons sitting at nearby tables or standing to observe could see the expanse of the waterways. Varies fish and wildlife swam through and situated just outside there were several coral structures that had been commissioned by the owner of the establishment himself to be made for the patron’s viewing pleasure. The owner wanted his people to feel like they were getting their monies worth. Speaking of…

The sweet and husky sounds of the young woman with blue hair who sang from her stag weaved throughout the entire room. People nodded, grinning, bobbing their heads as each and every one of them were swept away by the rhythmic voice. All eyes were upon the songstress upon the stage, well, all eyes but one set.

Situated in a backroom, behind a one-way glass window of the manager’s office, stood a single man. He wasn’t looking through the cameras or through the glass out into his club. Instead the man had his back to the only door to his lavishly decorated office and was staring out a separate glass window that peering into the waters outside. He breathed a small, pleased sigh, casually rubbing his hands with a red towel – a red towel that used to be white.

The room carried a heavy scent of cigar smoke, iron, and salt. In a crystal ashtray situated atop an ornate desk made of reclaimed driftwood, sat a single cigar that still burned with orange embers. The rest of the scent came from the towel that the individual continued to rub over his knuckles.

The once white towel was now dyed a deep shade of crimson. Most would question why he would use his hands, still, given abilities and tactics at his disposal? But where was the fun in that? There was something about seeing the desperation and the pleading in a broken, blubbering person. The crack in their voice as they begged for mercy, and the sight of the ruby bubbles that fluttered in the corners of their mouths. There was nothing like feeling your knuckle collide with a cheek bone and feeling both it, and part of the eye socket crack and crumble under the pressure. Despite his lavish surroundings, it was the simple things in life that he appreciated the most.

Wiping the last of the blood from his knuckles, the man named Jorge Cervantes, thought known more readily as Poseidon by those who had seen this side, tossed the towel onto his desk and placed his hands at his hips. At hearing the door to his office open, the man grinned as the familiar sight of the watery humanoid form stepped inside. He knew those curves only too well. A sadistic grin split his face as he turned, eyes as dark as the grave settling on the frustrated soul who stepped inside. Right on time, as always.

>> ”You wanted to see me, Boss Man?”

Casually Jorge began to fix his rolled-up sleeves. Rolling them back down he rebuttoned the cuffs, his amuse eyes never leaving the young woman who stood before him. He said nothing still, merely observing her, scrutinizing her, eyes roaming up and down her frame in a manner that simply could not be misunderstood. After a second or two of this, Jorge moved to the front of his desk and leaned back against it. Plucking his cigar from the ashtray, he balanced it between his lips and took in a deep breath of the noxious smoke before blowing it out into a silver cloud. Balanced between his index and middle finger, Jorge gestured to one of the two, soft leather chairs sitting directly in front of him.

”Ah Ms. Graves,” he grinned twistedly. ”Please, have a seat.” He didn’t move but rather just crossed his arms over his hardened, barrel-like chest as he waited for her to claim one of the chairs. When she did, Jorge took another drag of his cigar before blowing it directly towards her. ”How’s life?” he asked, tilting his head and smiling in what would have to be the most unnerving way. ”Your weekend? Do anything interesting with the rug rat?”

Of course he already knew. If there was one thing that should be known about Poseidon, it was that he had eyes everywhere. Still, it would have been rude to not ask and Jorge prided himself on his manners, especially with his employees; even if they were being coerced...

Poseidon liked to be intimidating, but Stephanie was sure the blood he was cleaning off his knuckles was not for show. She knew better than most, the leader of the “Ragnarok” crime syndicate was a sadistic man whose truest joys could only come at the hands of another’s suffering. Many who approached his office and caught a scene like this might buckle at the knees or grow nauseous, but Stephanie was too thick-skinned to worry about the busted, broken face of whoever might have been the Boss’s previous appointment. Stephanie had no concern to spare for strangers when worrying for her daughter was literally her job these days.

Stephanie was no stranger to the hungry gazes of men; she was attractive and she was aware of how attractive she was before she was eighteen. Men (and occasionally women) had been looking at her for a decade and a half, and most of the time, she found herself reveling in the attention and validation. When Jorge Cervantes looked at her, she shuddered. If she thought there was a way to successfully rip his eyes from their sockets with her shadows, Stephanie would have given it a shot. At least she would have wanted to.

So much of her life had been lived on her own terms; Stephanie was a one-woman thievery phenomenon, and when she retired, she went on to be her own boss. The woman appreciated the sense of being in control.

If Jorge was aware of this character trait, it clearly only gave him more pleasure when he toyed with her like this. He offered her a seat, and while she entered the room and drew closer to him, she elected to stand; Stephanie did not want her stay at the Atlantis Club to last longer than necessary. His offer was not made with the desire to keep her comfortable, clearly, or else he would have blown his cigar smoke in some other direction. The thief tried to ignore the thick smoke, but some physical responses were outside of her control and she coughed. Even that felt like her submitting to him again.

The mobster wasted no time crossing the line, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop him. He spoke of her daughter, which she passionately believed he had no right to do. Her instincts told her to shout or attack him, but Stephanie knew better. She had rules to play by now, and her inaction left her feeling sick with stress. Between her anxiety and the smoke she was being enveloped by, Stephanie had a craving for her coping mechanism. Reaching into her purse, Stephanie opened a small case with her cigarettes in it.

Grabbing the cig along with her lighter, she stuck the brown end of the cigarette between her lips, trying her best to light the other end. ”Poseidon… I’m here. I’m playing by the rules. Can we please... not discuss my daughter?” It was likely a fruitless plea, but it was the only protest she had at her disposal, and pleading was better letting him talk about Malia.

She really was a beautiful woman. As Jorge watched her, his eyes blatantly lacking any subtlety as he leered at her assets, he continued to revel in the knowledge that he had this woman completely under his thumb. She had such a reputation as a talented thief and an independent woman that there was something blissful in the knowledge that he had her under his employee. It just proved his lifelong belief that no matter how strong or fierce someone appears to be, all it takes is the right amount off pressure at the right points and they can crumble. The look on her face when he had first “convinced” her to take on employment with him was a sweet one; and shadows of that expression continued to appear every time she met with him.

Leaning back against his desk, he greeted her as he would an old friend rather than someone being blackmailed. He inquired after her home life, her personal situation, and even kindly offered her a seat in front of him, an honor indeed. As she sauntered her way over (probably unintentionally, though with hips like hers it seemed impossible to prevent) and stood before him. His gracious offer for a seat was not taken, however, and the man simply continued to eye her.

His inquiry after her daughter seemed to have struck a nerve. That caused a twitch at the corner of his lips and a knowing smile pulled them upwards. He could practically smell the blood boiling beneath her skin. He knew that bringing her up would knock the woman off her guard, if only by a little. Every time she tried to meet him with that piss and vinegar, all it took was a couple simple words to get her back in line. She was, by far, his most subservient employee.

>> ”Poseidon… I’m here. I’m playing by the rules. Can we please... not discuss my daughter?”

She pulled a cigarette from her case and placed it between her lips. Futilely she attempted to light it but the lighter was being difficult and/or her hands were not cooperating. With a single step he closed the gap between them, slowly, and reached up to wrap his hand around hers. For a moment it seemed like he was going to nicely steady her hand to help her light her cigarette, but the man was merely reinforcing his rules. His hand holding onto her shaky one, he reached up with the other and plucked the slender cigarette from her lips.

Poseidon held the barely lit cigarette up between them. With his free hand he snuffed out the flickering ashes between his fingertips. ”If you were, as you say ‘playing by the rules’,” he gently tapped the cigarette against her nose, almost as if he were playfully disciplining an unruly dog. ”Then you would know to ask my permission before lighting one of these in my office.”

Dangerously close. Jorge could practically feel her shallowed breath pass through her lips and bounce against his chin. Sadistically he kept the gap between them close, his eyes never wavering from hers, the eyes of a man who held all the cards, of a predator deciding exactly when he wanted to devour his prey. The seconds were heavy and cruel but, finally, he pulled back and allowed her a breath without the overpowering scent of his expensive cologne tainting it.

”Besides,” he said as he turned his back to her and moved to the opposite side of his desk. ”Don’t you know these things will give you cancer?’

He tossed the cigarette he took from her into his ashtray and left it there. If she were to pull another cigarette and ask for permission, he would grant it to her as now the man busied himself with other matters. Pulling a drawer out from his desk, Jorge balanced his cigar between his lips as he flipped through the well-organized manila folders. When he finally found what he was looking for, he pulled out a crisp, slender folder. Holding it in his hand, he pulled his cigar from his lips as he made his way back around and continued to lean against his desk.

She her resolve to stay strong crumble just a little more with every passing second, the man couldn’t help but offer another dig. ”Kid know about mommy’s habit?” he said with a sickeningly sweet grin. ”Mommy should get that under control. I’m sure the last thing she’d want is for you is to end up having to haul around some oxygen tank the rest of her life.” he eyed her, hard. ”Because what use would you be then? To anyone?”

Power. Influence. Control. These things made a man brazen and confident in everything he did, because he knew consequences were for lesser men. Jorge Cervantes had money, and his money came from his influence, and his influence came from his unquestionable control of the people around him. Every tool in his kit, from his power to his city-wide network, gave him what he needed to bend almost anyone to suit his needs. Authorities, businessmen, and reluctant burgling single-mothers all took a knee when the King of the Oceans demanded it. Only a man who was truly untouchable could ogle Stephanie so openly and know he would face no retribution.

Her cigarette was barely lit when she was interrupted before she could finish inhaling her first drag of the nerve-calming poison. Jorge took the cigarette straight from her lips because she was not smoking on his terms, and if she was not ready to ask pretty please and flash the doe eyes, she was not the good little girl he demanded she be in his presence. He snuffed out the dim ember between his fingers and took the opportunity to lightly tap her on the nose as an embarrassing form of chastisement. She flinched at the gesture, not because she was struck, but because she could only be reverent in response. ”I’m sorry, sir,” she said, but chose not to reach for another cigarette. If nicotine was meant to ease her anxiety and settle her stomach, her host had ruined its purpose by making it yet another part of her life he had his hands on.

A different poison was on her lips as she could feel his liquor-tinged breath intermingling with hers. Stephanie did not move save for her shaky breathing, making herself a statue, neither moving closer, nor shying away from her employer. If he truly wanted it, he could take it, but if she tried to take it away, he would want it. No one said no to Poseidon, so the best she could do was wait and pray he was just reminding her of the hierarchy they existed in.

Her patience paid off this time, as Jorge backed away, quipping at the harmful nature of cigarettes from the other end of a cigar. He took another shot, if only to make it clear that she had no say what they could or could not discuss. He added a comment about one day wearing out her usefulness, and while working under Jorge’s thumb was torment, she still dreaded the day he might find her expendable. ”I would like to think my wit has its own value,” she joked with a sweet smile.

Returning to the topic her boss refused to let drop, Stephanie knew she would have to acknowledge Malia if they were going to move in the one direction she wanted: forward. ”I don’t smoke in front of Malia. There are a great many things my daughter and I can talk about when she is older, but little girls need not worry themselves with the… proclivities of adults.” The word was steeped in allure, as Stephanie only wanted to move the conversation away from her child, even if it meant putting herself into Jorge’s spotlight.

”Motherhood is compartmentalization. I’m sure a man who has his hands on everything could understand.” Stephanie felt dirty, but hopefully Jorge would appreciate her obedience and the lows she was willing to sink to in an effort to appease him.

>> ”I’m sorry, sir,”

The way the words rolled off her tongue and swirled through the air, tickling his ears as they wafted in and collided with the pleasurable centers of his brain – there was no feeling like it. To hold that kind of power over someone else, to know that they, for lack of a better term, belonged to you wholeheartedly was such a sensation. When Jorge had first contacted Ms. Graves, it hadn’t been for anything more than to offer her a job. When she declined, well, that was when he had to get rough and what led them to the current state of their relationship. He didn’t view himself as a bad man, just someone trying make things work by any means necessary. If anyone was responsible for the current state of Ms. Graves life, well, then all she had to do was look in the mirror.

She didn’t bother to light another cigarette which was fine with the businessman. He actually hated the smell of cheap tobacco tainted the walls of his office. And if she wanted to remain a nervous wreck rather than simply ask for permission…fine. It really didn’t matter to him so long as she paid attention for her next assignment. That was all the man wanted, really, her undivided attention.

Still, Jorge couldn’t be denied a bit of teasing every now and then. He knew very well that the subject of Stephanie’s daughter was a sensitive one. It was a firm and harsh reminder of the compromising position that he currently had the thief in. Part of him wondered if Silhouette laid awake nights, thinking about her child, and how much simpler her life would have been if she had just made the bozo who bedded her wear protection. She may have avoided this whole thing.

Ah but such thoughts were not for him to know – yet. They were merely musings of a man who was in complete control.

Pulling his folder up, Jorge returned to the front of his desk and pressed the issue of her smoking and the effects it could have on her daughter. After all, he needed Silhouette to be in her prime if she were going to continue to be of use to him. If she eventually got to the point where she wouldn’t be, well that sweet little girl of hers was going to find herself without someone coming home for her.

>> ”I would like to think my wit has its own value.”

He arched his eyebrow at her, tilting his head as he scrutinized her expression, casually chewing on the end of his cigar as more bellows of smoke rolled out from between his lips. She always had a smart mouth – something that she knew better than to push because he wasn’t a patient man. As if to tell her to cut out the crap he kept his mouth shut and merely blew out another cloud of smoke. To her sweet smile, here merely rolled his hand for her to continue.

>> ”I don’t smoke in front of Malia. There are a great many things my daughter and I can talk about when she is older, but little girls need not worry themselves with the… proclivities of adults…Motherhood is compartmentalization. I’m sure a man who has his hands on everything could understand.”

He smirked. His eyes were like steel as he watched her, a direct contradiction to the upturn of his lips. The man wasn’t really known for his sense of humor – or rather, his humor was a little different than what others would consider. He didn’t enjoy the waisted time of a knock-knock joke or a witty anecdotes, but instead too joy out of the counting money and crushing skulls. Everyone had their own set of likes and dislikes. Still, there were times when Stephanie managed to say something to make him grin, though whether it was a good thing or a bad thing was still undetermined.

”Compartmentalization…” he mused, nodding his head. ”I guess you would have to. Wouldn’t want your little Pumpkin Pie at home to learn what mommy ‘really’ does for a living, wouldn’t you?” He let the question hang in the air. No answer was necessary. It was then that he held out the folder for her. ”You’re next assignment. And, as a generous gesture, I threw in a little bonus for you.”

Inside Stephanie would find a file with an address concerning a certain Mr. Ambrose Lee. He was a senator traveling to New York. To the public it was for a business thing but Jorge knew very well it was to visit a twenty-one year old mistress. His picture was attached to file, as well as three-hundred in three, crisp, one-hundred dollar bills.

Jorge chewed on his cigar, still grinning at the younger woman. ”Maybe you can actually put those photography skills to use…” The job sounded simple enough. However, his expression showed that the job wasn’t all that simple and only a fool would have ignored it.

Stephanie always considered herself a thief first and a conwoman second, but it was still important for her to pick up on the little details in faces and body language. She could pick up the subtle changes in Jorge’s appearance when she apologized, submitting to him. He knew what kind of person she was, and she was certain he took more pleasure in her obedience than the unbreakable loyalty of his minions. She hated him, and it did not matter, and that made it sweeter to him.

The question of her effectiveness if she kept smoking was a topic she looked to dodge with her charms, but she also had to remember when to choke down certain comments. Her use to Ragnarok was almost entirely dependent on her Shadowform after all, and without the need to breathe, there was little she could do to become ineffective. Pointing this out would do her no favors and earn her no kindness from Poseidon. It was a legitimate threat, but a non-issue with the speed cigarettes would kill her. It was depressing to think she could still be doing this into her forties, but when she tried to come up with a reason why she would be released from her service alive, she was left lacking.

There was one last comment of affirmation, suggesting it best Malia remained unaware of her “real” job. She wanted to keep him from describing her daughter with dessert-based nicknames, and she wanted to point out that, in her eyes, her photography business was her real job, but once again, she held her tongue. He did not care what her opinions on her life were, and her silence was rewarded with her assignment folder.

Before she assessed the assignment, her fingers brushed over the crisp bills left as… a tip? It was the most logical thing to call it, since he “rewarded” her for her successes when assigments were complete. It was dirty money, but it was money, and in her mind she was already adding the three hundred dollars into her budget for groceries, transportation, the fund she was leaving for Malia when she was an adult, (or in the event of her untimely passing,) and wiggle room for a new toy and a coloring book. If she was stuck committing crime to keep her daughter safe, that money was for Malia’s benefit as well.

She could pour over the details of the task she was assigned when she was not stuck under the watchful eye of her employer, but Stephanie had to glean through the text and photos to ensure she would not have to return with new questions. Poseidon did not like having his time wasted, and Stephanie did not fancy unnecessary return trips to the Atlantis Club.

The task sat awkwardly in her mind, because Stephanie could not shake the feeling something was missing. An older, greying politician’s picture was provided, alongside his name and the details of a secret, illicit affair with a younger woman. It was sleazy, but seemed like a misuse of her skillset. She was a world-class thief, and this was glorified PI work.

Poseidon’s comment was yet another shot at her day-job and his disregard for that part of her life, but something about the tone in his voice was causing a new pit in her stomach. ”So… you want me to take pictures of a politician in bed with his mistress. Is… is that all, sir?” She hated that he was making her ask, because they both knew there was some piece of information he was leaving out, and Poseidon made no choice that was not intentional and for his own enjoyment.

The pain on her face was almost too priceless to watch. He could see the seething storm that contorted beneath the skin, feel the heat from her dissatisfaction and smell the disgust that churned her stomach. He was more than certain that had she had assurances that he was dead and her daughter would never be bothered again, she would make a deal with the devil himself. But therein lied the humor, didn’t it? She already had a deal with one and look where that got her? As much as she seethed with rage whenever he brought up her daughter, or toed the line too closely to her comfort zone, the both of them knew one very true fact – there wasn’t a goddamn thing she could do about it.

All in all, Jorge was surprised that she had become so angry towards him. Sure there were a few (okay, a lot) thinly veiled threats against her daughter’s well-being, but there were far worst things he could have coerced her into doing. A bit of stealing, a few photographs, really she was getting off easy. Silhouette was familiar with the operations that Ragnarok was a part of, and there were far more degrading things she could be doing. Her face, that body, oh, there were far worse things…

Still, despite her ungratefulness, she was learning to keep her mouth shut. Jorge could care less what she thought about him, so long as it stayed safely packed away inside her little skull. The second it got out, that it rolled between her plump lips, it was only then when corrective action would need to be taken. So long as Silhouette remained a good and loyal little vixen, she could have all the thoughts that wanted – until he decided otherwise.

For the most part, a careful glance at the folder and the information within would have made it seem like the simplest job in the world – maybe a little too simple for someone possessing Silhouette’s abilities. After all, sneaking around, taking photographs, even a minor P.I. can catch someone cheating on their spouse. Really, it was grunt work and something that was not truly up to par with the Silhouette’s particular skillset. However, Jorge Cervantes was a man who believed that no one ever truly knew their own limits until they crossed a line they never dreamed they would cross.

>> ”So… you want me to take pictures of a politician in bed with his mistress. Is… is that all, sir?”

It must have sounded like maybe Jorge was being generous for a change, offering her some crappy job that wouldn’t take a lot of brain power so that she could have some breathing room. Of course the smirk on his lips, the way he tapped the smoldering ashes off of his cigar, that simply wasn’t the case. Jorge ran a business and he wasn’t known for handing out vacation days out of the goodness of his heart. Clearing this through, he clamped the cigar before his teeth as he crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her.

”Well…there’s a bit more to the matter than that…” he started to explain. He watched her for a hard moment, almost as if assessing her. When he made whatever internal decision he was apparently make, the man continued. ”You see, the good and hypocritical senator, Ambrose Lee, is lobbying to bring an end to certain…activites that Ragnarok finds useful. We’ve already met with him and, unfortunately, he isn’t budging. But, I am a man who believes in never revealing your all your hand in one go.”

Jorge got up at this point, wandering over to a small table where there was situated a silver tray. Upon the polished, mirror-like surface, was a crystal decanter filled with finely aged scotch. Plucking the crystal top off, he picked up the bottle and poured equal shares of the rich liquid into two glasses of ornate design. Plucked them both up, he returned to Stephanie, handing her one of the glasses. Of course, just because he handed her the glass, didn’t mean she had permission to drink it just yet. Like with the cigarette earlier, she had to ask permission first.

Leaning back against his desk where he was a moment ago, Jorge took a sip of the amber liquid and gave her a winning grin. ”You see, I firmly believe that Mr. Lee’s mind can be changed – so long as there is certain damning evidence. He is a happily married man, been so for forty years, has three kids, two grandkids, and a niece attending Harvard.” The fact that he had so much information on the man proved just how well-connected and scary he was. ”However, all of that will come crumbling down should there be evidence of any wrong doing. Evidence, which I would like you to secure.”

He nodded to the folder, gesturing for her to turn the page. There would be another information dossier, and a polaroid of a young, peppy blonde by the name of Madison “Honey” Potts. She looked fresh out of high school, but she was of age, twenty-one, trying to make a name for herself as the next Hollywood starlet but was instead working as a stripper in some low-class den called the Purple Lotus. Just a glance at those cheerful eyes proved that her light was longed to be snuffed out in this dark, gray world.

Jorge allowed Stephanie to read the document for a few moments before continuing. ”You see, the unfortunate fact is, my darling, is that Senator Ambrose Lee is a well-practiced philanderer, but his connections and his status allows him to quickly buy the silence of his conquests. But, as you know, bodies are a lot harder to buy off.” He let that hang in the air a moment, a twinkle forming in his eye as he took a sip from his scotch. Letting the liquid roll over his tongue, he swallowed gratifyingly, before sighed. ”In essence, when both Senator Lee and young Ms. Potts are fast asleep, coiled in the blissful aftermath of their activities…” He paused. ”…I want you to kill the b**** and photograph the senator with her body.” He shrugged his shoulders in the most casual way. ”Evidence like that will surely put him in line, don’t you agree?”

There was “more to the matter,” of course. Jorge, for his character flaws and possible lack of soul, understood the value of his assets. If he was assigning her to a mission that seemed under her paygrade, it was most likely there was more to the assignment than he was letting on, or he was asking her to do something demeaning as a reminder of her place. Considering this assignment folder did not come with a drink tray and a skimpy outfit, she was inclined to assume the former.

Senator Lee made the decision to cross Jorge and interfere with his interests, and Stephanie was smart enough to know her boss was not a man to stand for that kind obstruction, nor that level of disrespect. She felt a chill, knowing any additional details regarding her task would not make the assignment any prettier.

The mob boss took a moment to approach a crystal decanter, surely filled with liquor from his private collection. He returned with two glasses, handing one to Stephanie. The thought crossed her mind that the liquid could be poisoned or drugged, but it was only a passing thought; why waste poison on a controlled asset? Why knock out someone you had complete control over?

The thief raised the glass close to her lips, the scent of fine scotch filling her nostrils, when she thought back to her failed attempt at a cigarette. She elected not to smoke after that, but this was different: she was being offered a drink, and Poseidon might find it a slight if she declined the offer. That did not mean manners would not be expected. Trying to force a weak smile, she replied, ”Thank you for sharing your scotch with me, sir. May I drink it?” She waited for his reply and acted accordingly, not looking to offend.

After a sip from his own glass, Jorge returned to the topic at hand, explaining the purpose of her mission. It was new, but ultimately expected information: a family man carrying on with an illicit affair that could be exploited. She understood what her photos would be used for without the need to have it spelled out for her, and for any disparaging comments he might make, Jorge knew Stephanie was no idiot. There was something else…

A second folder was provided, and quietly, Stephanie found herself annoyed by the way she was being presented with mission information. A second folder was entirely unnecessary, and as far as she was concerned, only served the purpose of adding dramatic effect. It made sense; Poseidon could get a bit theatrical with his villainy at times.

Stephanie flipped through information on the girl Lee was having an affair with, and in her eyes, Miss Potts was a girl. She was still shiny and youthful, despite her profession. She could have been an opportunistic gold digger, or perhaps just a girl who was genuinely seduced by a powerful older man. Regardless of her motivations, Stephanie felt a pang of guilt knowing she would play a role in outing the affair and potentially ruining a girl’s life for making one bad choice when it came to her bed partner.

The feeling of guilt became the sensation of her heart sinking into her stomach when the word “bodies” was ominously dropped by her employer. She wanted desperately to interpret the dark implications some other way, but that became impossible when Jorge made the request clear as the crystal of his decanter.

”…I want you to kill the b**** and photograph the senator with her body.”

Stephanie was dumbfounded, wide-eyed, with the hand holding her scotch suddenly trembling. As The Silhouette, she was aware of the illegality of her craft, but there were some lines she never intended to cross. Now, here she was, sitting in a well-decorated office, sipping expensive liquor, and being contracted to commit murder.

”Sir, doesn’t that seem excessive?” she asked instinctually, before wincing immediately. She had questioned Jorge, which she knew well to be a mistake. Almost meekly, she elaborated, ”I mean… sir… please… I’m not an assassin…” Jorge had assassins, she was sure. If this was going to be done, there had to be someone else who could do the deed without batting an eyelash. Would he really put her in the position to kill a woman in cold blood, simply because he could?

>> ”Thank you for sharing your scotch with me, sir. May I drink it?”

Anyone could have surmised just how sick it was to pull those words out of anybody else. To hold that much power over another, to have them in such a state where they called you “sir” and ask for permission for the most mundane things, it was a terrible state. No one should live like that. However, for Jorge Cervantes it was actually quite enjoyable as it was a constant reminder of the power that was in his possession. Stephanie wasn’t the only one to suffer in such a way – but she was certainly his favorite.

With a grin upon his lips the man nodded his head. There was no need to verbally give his permission as a simple nod should have been sufficient. As she lifted the drink to her lips, Jorge turned and prepared another file for her as he allowed her a moment to read over what was given.

Sitting back against his desk, he tilted his head as he watched her eyes roam over the pages of text. For the most part it seemed like the simplest of assignments but as he began to explain in further detail what he wanted from her, it was clear the reason that he had given her the drink. This wasn’t just a simply photoshoot or theft, this was the coup de grâce, the most ultimate test of Stephanie’s loyalty to him and his operation.

He wanted her to kill someone. Of course the man had plenty of assassins at his disposal, Gluttony or Hel would have been fine with spilling blood. However with either of them they could take matters a bit too far. He didn’t need a murderer for this case, he needed an assassin, preferable someone that he knew he could fully control. He explained this to Stephanie, his stance with Ambrose Lee and what he wanted in order to put the man in line. Stephanie, understandable, seemed somewhat upset by the prospect.

>> ”Sir, doesn’t that seem excessive?”

He arched a brow. Moving off of his desk, she straightened up, setting his glass of scotch down. As he did so began to straight the lapels off his suit, adjusting the cufflinks, his eyes boring directly into her soul. If there was one thing that was known of the man was that he didn’t take kindly to having to explain himself; Stephanie knew that more than most. Thankfully she seemed to catch herself as she started to meekly stammer out a response…

>> ”I mean… sir… please… I’m not an assassin…”

The cool grin that swept across his features was both disarming and unnerving. As he approached her, the man stood, looming over her for a second or two, his hands clenched into fists. However he never raised a hand to her, instead the man merely sighed as he knelt down, putting his towering frame at eyelevel with the comely thief.

Kneeling before her, Jorge tilted his head a bit so that he caught her eye. When he did he gave her the most unnerving and compassionate smile. He reached up, slowly, his hand wrapping around hers which still held the glass of scotch. His hand dwarfing her trembling one, he steady her hand and slowly pushed the glass to her lips, tilting it so that she could take another drink.

”There, there,” he said soothingly. ’Just take a long drink…that’s right. It’ll calm your nerves.” He waiting until she had finished before he removed his hand from hers. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he gave them a firm squeeze to work out the tension before he lifted one had to her cheek and caressed it. ”I know…” he nodded his head sympathetically. ”This is a big step. But that’s why I want you for this, Kitten. You’ve got the potential, so much potential and I want to help you tap into that.” He had all the charm of a parent convincing a child to do something they didn’t want to to. ”Don’t you want to be your best?”

If she was being truthful with herself, Stephanie had to know deep down that her employment with Poseidon was always leading to this. The efforts made to push Stephanie out of her comfort zone were reminders that Jorge could convince her to cross lines, even when it made her uncomfortable. If he knew something would bother her, she was certain it was something he would make her do to prove a point. Naively, she hoped there was some scrap of soul left in the man that would leave homicide off the list, but she should have known better.

She did not mean to speak up, but knowing what she was asked to do, Stephanie saw no other options. Appealing to the man’s practicality seemed like her only choice, but that did not justify questioning Jorge’s judgment. The moment his eyebrow arched, she felt her blood run cold. His eyes were ice piercing through her as he calmly got up and approached her. When people talked about “the calm before the storm,” she was certain this was what it felt like.

Her body tightened when he crouched down to her level where she had been sitting since Jorge handed her the dossiers. His look was deceptively friendly as he shared a smile. Stephanie hated his smile; nothing good made a man like Jorge Cervantes happy. His large, strong hands reached for hers, and she knew enough not to pull away. She had already offended him once, she was sure. It was better to wait for whatever punishment he had in mind than to double down on crossing the Mob Boss in his own domain.

He pushed the glass of scotch to encourage her to drink, and she offered no resistance as her hands were moved against their will to her lips. It was a gesture, though of what, she was unsure. If Jorge wanted to “force” her to drink, he could do it without making contact. Then again, maybe he wanted to introduce contact. Be the guiding hand, moving her forward.

Her own personal guide to hell.

She felt no enjoyment from the taste of her fine scotch once the choice to drink it or not was taken away from her. She cringed as she continued to drink, since his hands were still there alongside hers, tilting the glass so the amber liquor snaked down her throat. The scotch was too good to burn going down, but the taste was smoky and strong, and as she approached the end of her glass, she was fighting the urge to gag and cough everything back up. There were reasons why scotch was made for sipping.

Her breathing was shaky and heavy now, because she was doing all she could not to throw her drink back up. (She was sure that would only be seen as another offense.) The urge to vomit only grew more intense as those strong, intimidating hands kneaded her shoulders, before one took gently to her cheek. He spoke to her like a father, or how the orphan imagined a father would speak. The façade of support and comfort was coated in condescension. He was not some loving, comforting father; he was the man who reveled in patronizing and controlling Stephanie’s life.

Hearing him call her Kitten filled her with the strong desire to wrap her hands tightly around her neck. He was so close… but if she did, he would slip through her fingers, and she would be returning to an empty home.

Forcing a shaky smile, she managed to reply, ”Whatever you say sir… you’re right.” Surely he’d love the sound of that off her tongue. ”Will that be all sir?” she asked, desperately longing for an escape from his office.

The look in her eyes was quite dazzlingly. A weaker man may have felt pity for the creature, sadness for her situation and her inability to escape the terrible things that have been and would be done to her. Oh it wasn’t just the physical, but the mental conditioning and the torment would have made anyone shed a tear for the young woman – anyone but the cold-hearted bastard that kneeled down in front of her and watched her with growing appreciation. He didn’t feel pity for her, after all, how can you feel pity for the objects that you own? That’s just ridiculous.

He made her drink the scotch, a bit faster than it should have been meant to be drunk. He could feel the revulsion growing in her belly, her the color change of her face as she tried to struggle through the wave of nausea that wanted to overtake her. Their relationship had reached a point that his reaction to her vomiting could go one of two ways and with a million factors deciding how it would play out. Either way, he could see her focus as she forced herself to not give in to the churning in her stomach.

It was only afterwards, when Jorge released her cheek and leaned back a little that she meekly smiled at him and choked out a whisper of a reply.

>> ”Whatever you say sir… you’re right…Will that be all sir?”

He grinned. Gently he patted her cheek. ”Good girl.” Standing up straight he took a breath as he watched her and casually shook his head. ”That will be all.”

He turned his back to her and returned to his two-way mirror that looked out over the expanse of his nightclub. The revelries were getting in full swing now. The blue-haired songstress was singing another haunting and soulful number; the kind that would drown the sound in sadness and force them to find the nearest vice just so that they could feel something again. It was the kind of music that Jorge liked, the kind that spoke to the soul. Oh there were many that would tell you that Jorge didn’t have a soul, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth; it was just that his soul was not what most would have imagined it being. It wasn’t a bright light of sparkling whiteness – not by a long shot.

Closing his eyes a bit as he listened to the music swirl about him, the man heard movement coming from Stephanie. He didn’t see her, truly, but his senses picked up on her immediately. She was gathering her things, the folders he had provided, and was getting herself ready to leave the room. However, she had only been standing for a few seconds before the man smirked and cleared his throat for her attention. When he sensed that she had stopped, he whispered without looking to her.

”Actually, now that I think of it, Mistress Scarlett has been inquiring again about your availability for services on Friday.” He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a wistful smile. ”She seems quite taken with you. Especially after your last encounter…” The man turned back to face outside his window. He knew very well what he put Stephanie through, but he also kept tabs on what his clients thought of his employees. Nothing Stephanie did was unknown to him and he made that abundantly clear. “Maybe keep your calendar open?”

He asked, but really, he didn't have to ask. Her answer would always be the same.

The scotch was not sitting comfortably in her uneasy stomach, but she did choke it all down. Ending their meeting without incident was important. He liked it when she played the docile, compliant minion, so she would swallow her pride along with the liquor and spit out her obligatory reply.

He patted her on the cheek as a casual reminder of her position as his subordinate, but it was the little title he called her by that made he feel defeated. The last thing she ever saw herself as was anyone’s “good girl.” Stephanie spent her whole life fancying herself an independent rebel who never had to answer to anyone. Now, she did answer to someone, but what she would never tell Jorge was that she did not consider him to be that someone. Stephanie had to answer to her daughter, Malia, and right now, keeping her safe and doing right by her meant playing a role she did not want to play. With that in mind, she would suffer Jorge’s indignation with a begrudging smile on her face.

With her employer now looking out at his domain, Stephanie was glad to finally slink away seemingly unnoticed. It was only the clearing of Jorge’s throat that had the thief stop in her tracks, knowing she was not yet done. She doubted there was anything he could add to her current mission that would carry a more emotional impact than a request to assassinate an innocent stripper, so she prepared herself for some parting shot.

Mistress Scarlett. Of course. Poseidon was not the only one who took pleasure in breaking a strong-willed woman. It was the kind of assignment that perfectly encapsulated Jorge’s philosophy of managing Stephanie: forgo her comfort, humiliate when necessary, and waste no asset of the woman that could be used to fit a business need. They were not facing one another, so Stephanie could show her disgust, if only to the empty doorway. He wanted her to keep her calendar clear, but there was only one appropriate answer to that.

”My calendar is always open for you, Poseidon.”

Feeling sufficiently dirty, she left the office and made her way quickly through the club below. She considered grabbing a drink to cope with the repercussions of her meeting, but she refused to let Poseidon keep her in the club longer. The place was ebbing away at her soul now, and all she wanted was to return to her apartment and kiss her sleeping daughter on the forehead. She was doing this for her. That was what mattered.