It was a cool November evening of 2016 in Las Vegas City, North America. She wasn't a runaway bride as most people would assume. As she walked down the sandy path, she wiped off the sweat that was streaming like blood from her forehead with her left hand.
She gave the kid in her arm another glance and swayed his long dark hair, which extended across his face, backwards. Anyone who came close to her would assume the infant she was holding in her arm was sweetly resting, yet the infant was in excruciating anguish. He clenched his temple and moved his mouth, but no sounds came out.
She placed her right hand on his chest to check his breathing rate, although she wasn't a medical specialist, she could see his breathing wasn't regular. Despite her fitting gown, she upped her speed. She had witnessed the hit-and-run tragedy earlier, and she couldn't help but hurry to assist the defenseless child who was swimming in blood.
"Please do not die, little one" she pleaded, as if she were a mother losing her only child to fever after 10 years of infertility. The fact was that the child was too young to die and was also quite attractive.
Soon after, she arrived at the city's public hospital and raced inside. She had two motives; one to save the child and the other to see her sole reason for being alive till now, her mother.
"Help, help! He is bleeding!" She yelled, as two nurses raced up to her with a stretcher. "Please save his life" she cried as she followed them down the hall.
They halted her when they approached a door. "We'll handle things from here, Ms. Elisabeta; check on your baby later, okay" one of the nurses said before slamming the door in her face.
Elisabeta ran her delicate fingers through her black hair, that dropped loosely to her waist. Anyone who saw her state would assume she was the child's mother; in fact, that was her personality—she was far too caring.
She sat down on the bench beside the ward, where the child had been taken, after taking a look at the huge clock hanging on the wall. It was the time her mother usually takes her bath, so she closed her eyes and waited for the door beside her to open or for time to speed up so she could see her mother.
——
Behind the black translucent linen curtain that separated the remainder of the room sat a man in a wheelchair named Athan with a last name—Moore. As his dark, black eyes flashed towards the man kneeling on the floor on the other side of the linen, his long slender fingers pounded constantly on the table before him.
Despite his solemn expression and atmosphere, his long black eyelashes, dark black hair, and cherry-sized lips betrayed him. His attractiveness was so alluring that even his female housekeepers couldn't help but adore him from afar. No one, however dared to convey their emotions to their young master.
The color of the room alone was overpowering, from black drapes to a black bed—even the floor on which the servants stood was solemn black. And his gaze was capable of devouring your soul.
The servants bowed to their chests shivered as if their young master had ordered their heads chopped and served on his dish. The man on the floor couldn't stop the tears from falling down his cheeks; his eyes were already crimson, but the crippled man remained pokerface.
"Mr. Moore, please forgive my negligence," the man kneeling on the ground cried, his head constantly kissing the ground. "I promise, I didn't know when little chubster left home. I believed old Missy was looking after him since the last time I looked, he was in her room playing his guitar," he added as his gaze wandered to the old lady in question. He wasn't prepared to die alone.
The elderly woman who was referred to as Old Missy scowled at the man on the floor and muttered the word "fool" at him before sinking to her knees alongside him. Her palms pressed against each other as she raised them over her head. "Athan, please forgive me. After little chubster completed his daily practice, he became bored and indicated to me that he wanted to play with Nikolas and I agreed. Please have mercy on me."
Sweat was falling like drizzle from the face of the guy named Nikolas. What was Old Missy trying to accomplish?
'please, Athan, let me say my final farewell to my parents, sisters, and cows before I die.' Nikolas sobbed quietly to himself. He was attempting to wash off his sin and old missy decided to pour spices into his situation. If anything happens to little chubster, the blame would be on him because he was Athan's right hand man.
But why wasn't Athan moved? It had been five hours since his son, little chubster, had gone missing, and all he could do was answer one phone call and give them a deathly scowl. They were all aware of how lethal their boss was.
He once placed a cook's middle finger in a blender and turned it on; none of the servants can claim that he or she wasn't aware of what had happened. The cook only forgot that little chubster disliked spices, and he received four fingers as a life time reminder. They understood how their boss loved his son, but why was he just sitting there, exchanging glances from his laptop to them?
"Nikolas"
Nikolas raised his head from his chest as he heard Athan call his name. He crawled into the linen after pleading with all the gods he knew to come rescue his life or, if possible, take his soul to the heaven if he died. He kept crawling until he was in front of Athan and he straightened himself in a kneeling position.
All of the servants' ears were perked up to hear what their boss had to say. Some were biting their lips and waving their palms at Nikolas, as if to say they would miss him if he died.
"Mr. Moore," Nikolas said after ten minutes of deafening silence.
"Little chubster is hungry; prepare fried chicken and take it to him, and don't you dare let any kitchen workers reach his meal, you hear me?"
Nikolas' ears stood up like that of a rabbit ears. What did Mr. Moore just say? Was he attempting to aggravate Nikolas' unseen wounds?
Nikolas nodded and put his hands on his head. Where will he locate little chubster? How did Athan know that his son was starving? Was it a father-son instincts?
Oh, Nikolas, your time is over…