All Chapters of The Mafia's Mercy: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

A billion wires, a million tubes, a thousand switches…I sigh in exasperation as I gently bang my fist against my chin. In my swivel chair, I tuck my foot beneath my weight, my leg bent beneath me as I lean into my elbow, resting it on top of the table of my lab.For the past hour, I’ve been reading over not-so classified, stolen military files on the electronic tablet that’d been placed in one of the drawers in the desk positioned behind me. While I know that I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s amazing just how much information the government has on explosives. From devices as small as the palm of my hand to metal cylinders twice the size of a refrigerator, it’s all in one large file that, again, unsurprisingly, Marcel somehow has access to.He didn’t even tell me what kind of bomb he wants.…Unprofessional.…Nothing about this is professional, and you know it.It all goes back to that day: the day that Marcel returned for my answer.It was just half an hour before midnight and I was an

From the bathtub, with my knees against my chest and my hands locked over my breasts, I eye Marcel as he picks up the towel, t-shirt, and pair of shorts from the bathroom floor, setting them down on the counter next to my underwear. The tension and anticipation makes the hair in the back of my neck stand and goosebumps coat my still-wet arms.“What are you doing here, Marcel?” I ask with a shaky breath, swallowing hard as he averts his gaze to meet my own.A humorless chuckle emits from the back of his throat, and he moves to grab the glass of scotch that I hadn’t noticed sitting on the counter, musing, “Well, this is my house.” He holds it steady at his fingertips, beside him, as he begins his eerie, anticipatory steps toward me.My eyes widen, falling to the transparent, bubble-less spots beneath me.These bubbles aren’t very bubblicious.I panic as I blame the bubbly soap I used that distinctly read ’Bubblicious’ above the warning label behind the bottle. I tuck my feet further in,

Growing up, I always imagined that my life would be different. I’d look at my parents and think, “Someday, I’m gonna get married and have my own little family.” I never imagined that I’d be standing in a lab, trying to put together a bomb for a man that I invited into my life, while also trying to distract myself from the fact that my frustrations aren’t all to be blamed on my bomb-making inadequacy.I guess that’s the thing about being a child: it comes with childish dreams.I can say one thing: the fact that I can move my arm loosely as though there aren’t stitches and a bullet hole in my shoulder does help…a lot. However, the reason behind why I can is the root of my frustration.Should I be thankful that not only did Marcel administer the medication that’s miraculously healing me but that he also sedated me so that I’d get a good night’s rest? Should I believe

I groan softly as my eyelids flutter open. My eyebrows furrow, my vision sharpening as I lift my head from the lab table. Disoriented, I lean back into the backrest of the swivel chair I’m sitting in, realizing that I had fallen asleep. What time is it..? I turn to look at the screen of the wall-size monitor, inhaling a deep breath as I watch the clock read ’1:05AM’. Shit. Remembering that the last time I checked the clock, it was 9:30PM, I want to bang my head into the table. I’ve lost at least 2 hours worth of work, and given the events that transpired two days ago, I’ll have to make up for lost time. I vowed to myself that I’d work every day from the moment I wake up in the morning to midnight until I’m done building the devices I’ll be using for the trial run. I figured the faster I can get this done, the faster I’ll be able to leave, assuming that Levi is able to figure out who it was that trie

I flinch at the abrupt cold touch against my cheek, groaning softly as I furrow my eyebrows. My lungs draw a sharp breath, my eyelids fluttering open. My vision gradually sharpens at the sight of the familiar nightstand, and I briefly study the white cloth sitting over it with bloody spots staining it. In the next moment, I turn my head slowly, my gaze landing on Marcel who sits at the edge of the bed, beside me. He holds an ice pack against my cheek with a stern look playing on his hard features. He’s upset. ... I knew I should’ve stayed in the lab. Now, what’s he gonna do to me..? The image of Frank slapping the living dog shit out of me replays in my mind, and as confusing as it is that Marcel is now sitting here, tending to my wounds, I can’t help but wonder if he sees this as punishment enough or if he’s just waiting for me to get up to deal with my indiscretions his own way. To be fair, Marcel’s never h