Who knew that an associate would have the most genius idea for our little take down tonight? Not me. I doubted him the entire time, but he really pulled through. Not a single person has questioned me. Looks like he’ll be getting a bit of a raise this year, maybe even a promotion.

Though, I do kind of hate myself for not thinking of it sooner.

A Halloween party. A big one, thrown at the club I own. Anyone and everyone who wants to come is invited and welcomed in, only if they’re wearing a costume. We’ve seen everything. From movie references, people trying to be the most niche person here, to girls showing up with just pasties and panties on and calling themselves a bunny—they’ve all made for the perfect cover for my costume.

Which, well, isn’t really a costume at all.

I had some business to take care of tonight, stuff that usually would’ve been done in a warehouse or an abandoned house’s basement. But that wasn’t possible tonight, it had to be done in my club. Which meant this place was gonna get messy. It’s a good thing I have that back room reserved for just these kinds of things.

Three different men from my side decided to be two-timing little shits and offer up some information to our rivaling mafia. And I couldn’t just let that slide. They made deals with the devil, so I got the privilege of sending them on their merry way to hell. I tried not to drag it out, seeing as their screams couldn’t be passed on as ‘party ambience’ for too long. A quick little beat down from my Underboss and then one shot to each of their heads—boom, problem solved. And it all got covered up by the booming bass of the music just a few feet away.

Only issue now is that I’ve got their trace all over me, coating me like a consolation prize. One I’d usually look at and pat myself on the back for good work, the metaphorical clean break. But that’s what makes this whole halloween party so ingenious. Even as I walk out onto the main floor of my club, with the splatters of my crime painting my clothes, no one bats an eye. Tonight, I’m not a mafia boss, I’m just a guy who dressed up like everyone else.

To them, it’s fake. It’s ironic. It’s a costume. Because, yes, a man wearing a suit with just some “fake” blood splattered on it is definitely a clever costume.

I’m able to move freely, create my alibi while my men are cleaning up the mess in the back. And, hell, I did do good work today. I deserve a drink.

As I make my way up to the bar, not even bothering to wipe the remnants off my face—it adds to it—I get stopped in my tracks. Not by police or scared patrons, but by a literal angel in my view. An angel who’s conveniently dressed as a devil.

You stand at the bar, waiting for your drink, and the flashing lights make you look like a dream. Hair cascading down your back, begging to be yanked. Fishnets woven over your thighs, asking to be ripped. And skirt so short, if you were to bend just a little bit further, I’m sure I’d get a glimpse of skimpy material that’d surely send to an early death. Dressed like a devil, but looks like a dream. Guess you’re going with the ironic look just like me.

My eyes darken as I continue making my way to the bar, but I’m not looking for a drink anymore. I’m thirsty for something else.

Your peripheral vision alerts you of me, head turning in my direction. I watch as your eyes trail over my frame, taking in the splotches of red that cover my shirt and face. A slow smile creeps its way onto your face, almost like you know my secret. Or maybe you’re just too tipsy for your own good.

“I like your costume!” you yell over the music so I can hear you.

I stare down at you, not smiling, but not with distaste. I’m taking you in. Memorizing your features just in case this is the last time I’ll ever see you. Something inside of me tells that I’ll want to remember your face.

Slowly, I reach forward and pluck the devil horns off your head, sliding them onto mine instead. “I think these fit me better than they do you.”