The Bridges Have Been Burnt

While the mafia boss fretted over the burned bridges between him and his favorite writer, Leona remained blissfully unaware about the mafia boss’ internal dilemma. She was still fast asleep in the storage room, on the cold hard floor.

In front of Leona, there was an unbelievable feast. In that palace-like dining room with crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, she drooled at the spread in front of her. There were plates of whole roasted chickens with burgers and fries beside. Classical violin music played softly in the background, and Leona felt like a princess although she was dressed in wrinkled pajamas.

It would have been realistic if not for the floating chicken nuggets that tempted her to take a bite. Regardless, the happy writer grinned widely and enjoyed the show as she watched tomatoes roll around and tea pouring itself.

After eating the unappetizing and hard bread from hell last night, this feast felt like a gift from the gods. For many years now, the poor writer couldn’t afford anything decent. The last time she enjoyed fried chicken, a pizza or a burger must have been almost twelve years ago! At long last, she could eat a sumptuous meal without worrying about her debt repayment schedule.

Her sight panned towards the monstrous burger stacked with three patties and oozing cheese in between. What should she eat first? There was simply too much good food and not enough stomachs for everything! With her small hands, she reached out for a monster burger and placed it on her plate. The huge bun covered more than half her plate and wouldn’t fit snugly in one hand. It was also rather heavy when Leona carried it and that only made her hungrier.

Just when she thought she could finally take a big bite of the burger, an unfamiliar man in a black suit barged through the double doors. Almost at once, the violin music in the background disappeared and the chandeliers dimmed as the man loomed over her like a threatening shinigami. His big hand reached out to her plate with a serious face and Leona trembled. However, as soon as he touched her plate, she grabbed the nearest knife and pointed it towards him.

"Don't you dare!" she yelled with the most vicious glare she could muster. Leona remembered how miserable she was previously. Every day, she would starve and ration her food, rushing to queue for discounted goods after nine at night just to save a few dollars. With a free feast in front of her, she would protect her good even if she had to get beaten up!

The evil food kidnapper gaped in shock at her reaction. The man wavered for a while at Leona’s ferocious glare and shakily took a step back before vanishing into a cloud of smoke, leaving no traces of his existence much to Leona’s surprise.

After the man disappeared, the writer giggled. What a refreshing change! For the longest time, she was at everyone else’s mercy in life. The tides have finally turned and it felt wonderful to be fully in charge. Feeling giddy from the rush of power, Leona cackled manically. However, her evil villainess antics ended when a floating chicken nugget crossed her path. Her celadon green eyes followed it like a homing missile. Not a single morsel of food from this feast would escape under her watch! Returning to her unfinished yummy business, Leona started gorging herself like no tomorrow.

In the middle of stuffing her face, Leona choked as a familiar person appeared on the opposite side of her table. When did he get there?

Wiping his pistol with the table napkin, Ignatius Teivel looked extra sophisticated and handsome. He wore an outfit similar to Cinderilla’s leading man. Despite the charms, the writer still gulped nervously. With the pistol in his hand, he’s nowhere near a prince charming. What was he doing there?

Creasing her brow, Leona stopped chewing. The food in her mouth suddenly felt like cardboard. Now that Ignatius was here, it was impossible for her to continue feeling like a boss. The mafia boss didn't look like he had any plans of letting her go. Leona silently plotted revenge over the man who was still polishing his gun across her feast table. Should she grab the spiciest chicken and offer it to him or mix his drink with wasabi?

—

Knock!

No reply.

Knock! Knock!

Still no reply. The men standing outside the janitorial supplies room looked at each other. The last time someone opened the door forcefully, the hostage received huge damage to her skull. This time, they were more polite. Nobody wanted to harm her in a lair full of men. They wanted to be more polite to a sleeping woman after seeing that their boss wasn’t against this treatment.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

After several hard knocks on the door, loud enough to reach their boss’ office, the guards on duty decided to let themselves in. The woman might be oversleeping from exhaustion. The poor lady looked like skin and bones. Even when they ransacked her apartment, nothing of value stood out. Her clothes were practically rags and she ate the hard bread effortlessly, not even complaining about the taste when stray dogs would only sniff at it and walk away.

Slowly, the braver man opened the door slowly, not wanting to accidentally hit Leona. His buddy peeked over the large man’s shoulder and they found the poor hostage huddled up in a corner on the cold tiled floor.

The writer lay on the ground unmoving even as the door opened.

“Hey, hos- woman!” the guard cleared his throat and opened the door wider, mindful of the narrow space. Thankfully, Leona was properly clothed even as she slept. He wouldn’t know what he would do if she wasn’t. The boss might poke his eyes out with a fork if he laid eyes on her wrongly.

“Hey,” the guard tried to call Leona again and frowned when there was no response apart from her slowly rising and falling chest. He tried to be mindful about where he looked and considered shaking her awake after she failed to respond to his voice.

“Wake up!” he yelled, crouching beside her now, but there was still no movement. He subtly shook her shoulder, not daring to use too much force in case he hurt her.

Upon contact and examining her expression, the guard felt an unsettling feeling. Leona was pale. However, she was two shades paler than yesterday when she was trying to escape using the vent in the bathroom. It looked extremely unnatural so the guard placed the back of his hand on her forehead while his colleague observed from outside.

“Sandman, what happened?” the guard at the door asked when his patrol partner froze.

Turning around with the most serious look in years, the guard in charge of waking Leona up shook his head. Almost immediately, his partner assumed the worst and paled considerably. Did the hostage die from mistreatment? How were they going to explain this to the boss?!

“She’s running a high fever and not waking up,” the guard informed and helped to prop the unconscious woman from the floor. Sleeping on cold tiles will not do her any good, and neither did sleeping in the janitorial supplies room.

“Report to the boss about her condition.”

Nodding and receiving his new orders, the guard quickly dashed to inform their boss of the bad news.

Ignatius had just ended the phone call with Chrisvan when he suddenly heard loud knocks at the study’s door.

“Come in,” he commanded. They should know better than to interrupt him before it was lunch. Something must be wrong. Could it be that the Polerths made a move?

At the door covered in sweat with a panicked expression, Ignatius’ underlings in charge of watching over Leona appeared.

“What’s the matter?” Ignatius kept his tone even. He had enough on his plate to deal with. Seeing how the guard was panicking, he had a sinking feeling already.

“The captive… she’s not waking up!”

After just learning about who Leona was, Ignatius wasn’t entirely ready for this news. He was only beginning to sink into the pits of remorse for mistreating his favorite author and started the arduous journey of making amends when this happened.

“What the hell do you mean?” he growled, masking his concern with irritation. His goddess couldn’t possibly be dead! She was so lively yesterday, without any hints of fatigue. If his beloved author died on his own turf, he would never be able to forgive himself!

“I think she’s sick, boss,” The guard who reported the hostage’s condition felt as if he lost ten years of his life. His boss looked like he was out for murder. That level of bloodlust would make a lesser man pee in his pants and cry for mercy.

Oblivious to the shaking knees of his subordinate, Ignatius glared harder. Why the heck was this happening right after he knew the truth? Fate must be toying with him!

“Call Ivan,” the mafia boss finally relayed his decision. “Tell him to come over as soon as possible.”