The rhythmic sound reverberated round the eerily silent office as a knock came through the door. That was the only sound in the room, other than the small pendulum model on his desk which swung in the air, hitting the others and causing the last bob to swing in the air before again hitting the mediators, the cycle repeating itself.

The lone figure sat behind the huge black desk in his signature outfit; clad in black, excluding the white T-shirt underneath his tie as his eyes remained glued to the picture sitting idly on his desk.

His face was shrouded in the darkness hovering around the office, leaving his chocolate brown eyes to glint devilishly in the blackness. His hands were placed together as his fingers formed a mini hill, his stance completely rigid as he kept his eyes trained on the picture.

The sound came again as the person on the other side awaited the order to come in but was only met with the silence.

"I'm coming in, sir." the voice came before the door opened, revealing Skull, the huge and muscular black man with the shades and the earpods. He was also clad in black, making the white T-shirt stand out.

"Has everything been cleaned up?" his deep, apathetic voice asked after what felt like hours of silence, his eyes still not leaving the picture.

"Yes sir. There isn't a single trace left of the Bear clan," Skull supplied as his eyes trailed to the picture lying before his boss. His jaw clenched and he immediately removed his eyes from the sight as he took notice of the moving pendulum and the almost empty bottle of whiskey and the glass with little content which sat beside it.

Skull was aware that Jordan only made use of the pendulum whenever he wanted to think, because even sometimes, the silence in his life was deafening.

The picture was of the former Mafia leader of the U.S. district, the Flyre clan, a.k.a Raymond Flyre a.k.a Jordan's father. The Flyre clan was no longer in existence. It was supposed to be a legacy Jordan would carry on but with his own hands, he had destroyed everything his father had used his blood, sweat and money to build and he had brought the J.K. empire up from scratch. An empire that was now the most unbeatable and indomitable Mafia gang of all time.

In the picture, Raymond was in a navy blue suit with a black shirt peeking underneath it. He had no tie on and an espiègle smirk played on his lips. Through the picture, you could see the evil glint in his eyes and the mere sight of this man made Jordan's entire body shake in uncontrollable anger.

Sensing the pestilent change in the atmosphere, Skull quietly turned around and left the office, the door shutting with a little click.

Jordan lifted his glass and without taking his eyes off the picture, his eyes boring into the familiar chocolate brown eyes of his father, he brought it to his lips and gulped it down.

As he brought it back onto the desk, a certain memory flashed through his mind and in an instant, the volcanic energy surged right through his veins and the hand that held the glass began to shake vehemently.

Next thing, there was a shatter as he squeezed the glass in his left hand until it broke into a million pieces, the shards of glass cutting deep into his palm. He continued to hold his hand in a fist, not caring about the pain that shot right up his arm.

He kept his hand in a tight fist, making the shards embed themselves into his flesh. He was trying to numb his mental and emotional pain by inflicting physical pain upon himself.

He was trying to numb the throbbing ache in his chest, the permanent hole in his heart that nothing — neither alcohol nor women nor viciously taking the lives of his enemies — had been able to fill. Those things only had the tendency to make him forget the pain for that moment but they never made it go away.

And as he watched the red pigment, his own blood drip onto his father's picture, he couldn't ignore the incessant pounding in his head nor the numbing ache in his chest.

His hatred for the man before him was immeasurable, even higher than the likes of Mount Everest.

▬▬▬▬▬

"You wanted to see me?" Carol spoke impassively as she stared at her brother, who was seated before her.

He had called her over after his little episode earlier. He needed something or rather, someone to take his mind off his past and he could've resorted to drinking or just picking up flings as usual but he wanted to reconcile with his sister and he was really worried about her.

He continued to stare at her, taking in her appearance. She looked good, better than the last time he had seen her, which was about a week before. Even though she currently had an impassive face on, she looked happier and he was relieved that he wouldn't have to kill anyone today.

She raised an eyebrow, questioning his stare and he cleared his throat before bringing his eyes back into focus.

"I did. How have you been, Carol?" he asked as he placed his hands on the desk.

She straightened up and her eyes immediately darted towards his bandaged left hand that laid on the table. Her eyebrows furrowed deeply at the sight. She kept her eyes on the bandaged hand as different thoughts — to what might have happened to him — rushed through her mind.

Had he been fighting for her again?

Jordan's eyes followed her gaze and seeing that she was looking intently at his injured hand, he tucked both of his hands under the desk, making her look up at him.

Her eyes bore holes into his own as she stared him down before replying with the same blank stare and voice.
"Good."

He nodded. "Has the bast—" he started, making her frown and glare at him at his attempted choice of words.

He cleared his throat before beginning again. "I mean has he been treating you well?"

"Yes," she once again gave him a one word reply. She knew he was really worried about her and that her responses would sooner or later rile him up but she was angry at him and she would show him that. She was waiting for him to crack and she knew that in no time she would get her wish.

She inwardly smiled as she saw him run his hands down his face. He was starting to crack. Her eyes followed the bandaged hand again and they narrowed in question. He quickly pulled his hands away and placed them back on his lap. He let out a deep sigh as he looked at her.

"You know you can always tell me if something is wrong, right?" he asked again.

"Hmm. . ." she nodded once in reply.

"Are you sure he's been treating you well? You can open up to me, you know? I could have a word with him if you want," he prodded.

"I'm sure," she was getting frustrated with his continuous questions. This was the problem she had with him. He would only worry about her and completely neglect his own welfare. He would want to know everything about her, notice even the slightest change. He would ask a million questions about the tiniest zit on her face, would ask why she walked funny whenever she wasn't comfortable in the heels she wore and so much more.

She knew it was because he loved and cared deeply about her but his overprotectiveness was becoming unbearable and he needed to stop. He currently had an injured hand and still he had called her to know about her welfare. He was too selfless for his own safety and that worried her deeply.

Besides, Jordan and Leonardo, her husband, having a word? If you wanted the world to come to an end, then that would be the perfect thing to do — put them both in a room for a few minutes and surely world war III was an imminent consequence.