Dancing with the Devil // Jim Moriarty

•Chapter 7: Where it Started•

"I told you to wear the red dress." As always, my father's voice was full of barely restrained anger. 

His business voice, as I liked to call it, used to solely be directed at his clients and work-partners. But never at his family. Never at my mother and me.

However, this had changed during the last years. Lukas Jung had grown greedy, overly confident and totally ignorant to the important things in life. Money was all that mattered to him now. Wealth and reputation. His happy wife who had left South Korea behind to support his political career in Switzerland was too sweet, too altruistic and caring for his new lifestyle. 

And me, his daughter who was almost an exact replica of her mother, didn't fit into his life as the ruthless, cold-hearted criminal business leader either. 

At first, he had tried to mold us into his perfect image of an obedient mother-daughter duo. He took my mother to his business meetings and forced her to watch him manipulating his way into the government. He made her watch when his loyal men killed the people who had served their purpose but were no longer of use to him. 

She was never allowed to speak. "You were made to be admired. No need for people to hear your voice," he had once said. 

Slowly, it killed her like a cancer. For my sake, she had tried to keep her smile wide when she kissed my forehead and wished me a goodnight but I could still hear her quiet sobs, echoing through the walls of our lifeless mansion. 

Thus, resentment towards the man my father had turned into began to grow. I no longer viewed him as the same man who had taught me how to ride a bike, who had tried everything to cheer me up when no one had attended my first (and last) birthday party. Instead, he became the man responsible for extinguishing the light in my mother's beautiful brown eyes. 

But that one specific evening in June eight years ago was the last straw that truly made me hate him. Despise him. 

Lukas Jung's blue eyes stared back at me through the mirror, a terrifying darkness shimmering on their surface. His black designer suit was simple but obviously expensively tailored to his exact measurement. No doubt by his favorite seamstress, an undeniably beautiful blond woman in her early twenties. Not for the first time, I asked myself why my mother still stayed with him. I knew she was well aware of his various affairs behind her back; Of the business trips that weren't actually for business purposes at all.

"And I told you I don't like the red one, Papa." I answered, trying to keep my chin raised. I wouldn't let him change me into someone I was not. My fingers gently glided over the black satin flowing effortlessly down my body. Unlike the red dress, this one didn't stick to my figure, yet the long slid exposing my right leg turned the simple evening gown into the perfect dress for the occasion. My father's birthday party. 

"I don't care about what you like or dislike, Lilliana." Slowly, my father crept closer until he stood right behind me, locking his dark gaze with mine in the floor length mirror. His jaw was locked, his fingers balled into fists. How much more time did I have left until he would finally strike? How much more could I test his patience? "I expect my only daughter to be obedient. Like you women were made to be. You're too much like your mother. Remember, it's me who makes sure you can live a lavish life in luxury. I own you. Without me, you and your mother would be nothing but peasants."

Pure, unadulterated rage bubbled up inside me, threatening to break through the surface. In my mind, I calculated whether I could grab the pistol carefully hidden inside my sock drawer and pull the trigger before one of his sniper's would strike me down through the window. No, I'd never make it in time. Moreover, I knew that my mother loved him despite everything he had done to her. She would never look me in the eyes again. I couldn't do that to her.