Leader Of The Mafia {h.s}

021

Harry Styles

It's been a month since I killed, Gio. His girlfriend had some memorial for him and some stupid other shit that he doesn't deserve.

I don't think his girlfriend even knew how bad of a guy he was. Then again, we're all just a little bit bad in this fucked up world, aren't we?

I was working in my office, scribbling down today's plan. Bree was still asleep downstairs on the couch, it's her new privilege; a better place to sleep.

I still can't believe that motherfucker Gio stole from me. He worked for me. You seriously can't trust anyone. When they say that they're there for you, they only mean that if there is money involved. I would know based on experience.

The sound of my black pen grazing across the paper was the only music in my quiet office. No voices, no birds chirping from outside. Nothing. Just me, myself, my thoughts, and this piece of paper that was filled with our plan for today, maybe even longer than a day depending if something happens to one of the members, or the leader. I might overdose on accident, who knows? I might not even make it to the discussion, accidentally get in a car accident or fall off of my balcony, maybe?

Today I was going to make my workers send out shipments. The shipments included narcotics, and such. That's how I get everything, I took from my own fucking business and no one knew, how delusional? If any of them knew I was stealing their hard work, I'd be dead. And, I don't know if that's why I keep stealing from my own business, or simply because I don't want to support anyone else's.

Frustrated. I grabbed a expensive bottle of vodka out of my desk drawer, chugging away like it was water and I had just finished running a 26 mile marathon.

The refreshment after dealing with stress than drinking your problems away was exhilarating.

I don't understand the point of therapy, I never will. Why would you go talk to someone about your problems when they could easily be drank away without any sort of judgement?

People judge, vodka doesn't. That's my motto.

I sat the vodka on the side of me, not even bothering to put it away because I knew damn well I'd be back at it in a couple of minutes.

I went to write more on the piece of paper, but a knock at the door interrupted me.

"Come in." I grumbled and the door opened.

"Morning." Bree muttered, gazing around my office.

"How'd you know I was in here?" I asked. No but seriously, how did she know? She had never seen my office, only my bedroom, bathroom, basement and about everything downstairs. Not everything though.

"Lucky guess." She shrugged, "you weren't in your bedroom or bathroom, so I just checked this room next. Lucky guess." She snapped her fingers.

"I-" I shook my head slightly, putting my fingers on the bridge of my nose pinching it, "okay." I sighed.

Bree's eyes gazed around, I saw them land on the bottle of vodka. Her eyes went wide, but eventually they slowly ignored the bottle and focused on something else.

"May I sit?" She asked, but there were no other chairs.

"There is no other chairs besides the one I'm sitting on?" I questioned, "what other seat are you talking about?"

"Your lap." She muttered, this time my eyes went wide like hers previously did.

"What?-"

"I was joking!" She cackled, "there is a chair over there actually." She pointed her finger towards the back wall and a swivel chair was in the corner. The memories that chair held, and Bree had absolutely no idea.