The bar was cloaked in shadows, its air heavy with smoke and the bitter scent of liquor. Laughter from distant tables mingled with the low hum of a piano, but at Vicious corner, the atmosphere was all business. He sat with his three closest allies, a glass of whiskey poised in his hand, the amber liquid reflecting the dim lights above.
They spoke in hushed but confident tones, their words circling around drug shipments, smuggling routes, and rival gangs that needed to be silenced. Theirs was a world of power and fear, each decision a calculation of profit and survival. Vicious listened with a detached calm, nodding occasionally, his sharp eyes taking in everything. To others, he was unreadable, but to those at his table, he was the final word — ruthless and uncompromising.
After a while, the conversation shifted. Mario, the most mischievous of the three, leaned back with a sly grin, his drink swirling lazily in his hand. "Business aside, tell me, Vicious… how's that pretty little maid of yours?"
Vicious grip tightened slightly on his glass, but his face remained stoic. "She's fine."
Mario's grin widened. "Fine enough to bring along next time, perhaps? A woman like that shouldn't be hidden away. I could use some company while we drink."
The other two mafia exchanged smirks, curious to see how Vicious would respond.
"She's my maid," Vicious said coolly, his tone like a blade. "Don't forget that."
The air stilled at the table. Everyone knew Vicious didn't joke about what was his. Mario chuckled awkwardly, raising his glass in mock surrender, but the message was clear.
Without warning, Vicious rose to his feet. The scrape of his chair cut through the music and chatter around them.
"You're leaving already?" Martin asked, brows lifting. "You haven't even finished your drink."
"I'm heading home," Vicious muttered, sliding into his coat. His eyes flicked briefly over his friends before he turned and strode toward the exit, his heavy footsteps fading into the night.
Back at the mansion, silence reigned. The grand halls glowed with faint lamplight, the echo of his steps filling the emptiness. When he reached his room, he paused. The door was ajar, and faint sounds drifted from within.
Pushing it open, he found Thalia kneeling on the polished floor, a mop in her hand. Her movements were slow and precise; her head bent as though the weight of her task pressed on her shoulders. The scent of soap hung in the air.
"What are you doing here?" His voice broke the silence, sharp and commanding.
Thalia startled, quickly straightening to face him. Her hands tightened around the mop's handle. "I… I came to clean. During the day I wasn't sure if I could enter your room, and I had so much work around the house. I couldn't finish everything, so I thought I'd do it now."
Vicious narrowed his eyes. "At this hour? Sounds more like an excuse. Or do you have some other motive?"
Her brows knitted, shock flashing across her face. "No, of course not. I just came to clean."
"Don't lie to me," he said, stepping closer, his gaze piercing. "You think I can't see through you?"
Thalia's heart pounded, but she stood her ground. "Why would I lie? I'm only trying to do my job."
His lips curled in disdain. The argument grew sharper, their words clashing like steel. Each denial from Thalia only seemed to fuel his suspicion. Finally, anger flared in his chest, and before she could react, his hand clamped around her wrist.
"Enough," he growled.
He dragged her from the room, her protests falling on deaf ears. Thalia stumbled, struggling to keep up as he hauled her down the hall. Then, with merciless strength, he shoved her into the dark storeroom. The door slammed behind her, the lock clicking shut.
"You'll learn one or two lessons in there," his voice came through the wood, low and menacing. "Nobody talks to me with disrespect. I don't even know why I bother being nice to you."
Thalia banged on the door with her fists, desperation and anger mixing in her voice. "Is this what you call being nice? This is horrible! You can't just lock me up like this!"
Her words echoed in the darkness, but Vicious had already turned away. He made his way to the living room, dropped onto the sofa, and pulled out his phone. The blue glow of the screen lit his face, calm and detached, as though the girl's cries were nothing but distant noise.
Minutes dragged into twenty, Thalia's pounding gradually weakening until her voice was hoarse with pleading.
Finally, Vicious returned. Without a word, he unlocked the door, his expression unreadable.
"Finish cleaning," he ordered flatly, "and take your tools away when you're done."
Thalia stepped out, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. For a long moment, she stared at him — not with fear this time, but with disgust. Then, without replying, she gathered her things and walked away, her silence speaking louder than any insult.
Vicious watched her leave, his jaw tightening. For reasons he didn't care to admit, her glare lingered in his mind long after she was gone.