Called Before The Boss

You're sweating, standing before him.

The Boss.

He's your stereotypical mob boss, all gruff and short answers, hat tilted down with a tie as red as the blood that stains his hands. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, smoke pouring from it and impeding your vision of him, which just serves to set your heart scampering about your ribcage even further. He does it on purpose, and you know he does, because it works on employee and victim alike.

You feel sweat bead down your forehead, cross your jaw, and slip down to the collar of your shirt.

How have you not melted into the floor just yet?!

You try to think about every single thing you've today, or last week, or even last month. Was it that you were late coming back from the shakedown? Maybe it was when you had the bullet wound and bled out a bit on his favorite couch?? No, has to be when you...

...you...you're not sure.

You're not sure and that makes the silence even thicker and dangerous, makes it hard to swallow past the barbed wire in your throat.

You're so scared.

You don't know what's going on here.

There are bodyguards outside the office, so it's just you two.

Just you, standing before the judge who rules with an iron fist, and him, who has held no hesitance in punishing those who he claims to sin against him.

You are so. Going. To die.

What did you do?