(01) Whelve

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Whelve (whel-ve)
v. To bury something deep; to hide.

It all seemed so fake- so unreal. Confusion could be heard from a distance and fear could be smelt from miles away. Riley sat there in a corner with her legs bent up to her chest, her head rests buried in between her knees as she held in her sobs.

The room was dark, no windows, no light. All that came to view was the simple white bed that sprawled across the center floor and the door which led to a bathroom. It seemed more of a room that held a needed prisoner than a room that was meant for a long stay-not that she wanted to stay, but there was no choice-she knew that.

Where is Amara? What did they do to her? was all that circled the thoughts of Riley. It was all she could focus on. She was selfless in the manner. Most 'wise' people would've looked for a way out, or would've been questioning their wrongdoings. Riley only worried about her friend. Everything else didn't hold any matter, it was the person who stuck by her side like glue that truly mattered to her. That is what made her so different.

She'd try anything to keep from crying her eyes out and pouring out her aching soul just to end the brutal battle of her mind from her anxiety. What if...

"What if they did something to her? What if they took her like they had done to me? I can't let that happen to her. I need to know where she is."

"Don't cry. Don't cry."

Before she could stop it, a tear fell from her eye but she instantly wiped it away with an indelicate touch. You have to remember what mother said, "Crying is for bi*ches and it shows weakness. If a tear falls from your eye, the title of my daughter doesn't belong to you, even though I am so shameful to call you one now." No. More. Tears. And no more weaknesses.

• S •

On the other hand, a few hours ago, Stephano, sat back in a chair of a man who still is needed to supply him his goods that he paid awfully a lot of money for. "My drugs, where is it?" Stephano asked the supplier. His face remained serious and not even twitching with any insight of emotion just his eyes, nose, and mouth. No shine of happiness, sadness, or even anger in his eyes. No scrunch in the nose to show distaste. No smile, smirk, or frown showed anywhere near him, ever.

"Mr. Christino, I have your drugs but I am in need something," the leader of the mob Stephano decided to get a little extra 'help' from, dared to say such a thing to a man like Stephano. He'd kill you from the inside and through each blood vessel until he makes his way outside where he tears you apart limb from limb. Stephano remained emotionless staring at the bastard who wouldn't supply him his coke because he wants something for exchange when he had already given him the price he said he wanted.

Stephano lifted his right arm up and put his two together and with a small movement of pushing them forward, three bodyguards grabbed the man who was idiotic to believe of such a negotiation.

The guards put him in a restraint that only needed the order from their boss for his head to be disconnected from his neck. "No! No! Mr. Christiano, I'll give you the drugs!" The Mexican mob leader shouted out in such fear that it almost hurt to hear it, to Stephano, it was music that he had on repeat playing over and over again because it was his favorite song. It was the song he once sang.

"Where the fuck are my drugs, Carlos?" Stephano asked, his voice remained calm and although it hadn't posed as a threat it still had that tormenting ring, and it could scare to the core.

"I have it! I swear I do, just please let me go!" He begged. The man-who is supposed to be the leader of this big mob-is actually begging to have his life. He should be fighting, but he isn't. Suspiciously, Stephano narrows his eyes at Carlos. Something is wrong, he feels it.

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