DISCLAIMER: I do not own Twilight or anything associated with the saga.
WARNING: This story will contain graphic language, sex, mature and dark themes, and angst. If you are under 18 or uncomfortable with any of these topics, this story will probably not be what you are looking for in a fanfic.
This story contains the typical pairings of the characters. Some will be slightly OOC, others will be so out of character you won't even know what hit you.
I would like to thank you in advance for reading. I've never written anything of this sort before and I'm nervous for the kind of feedback it will receive, if any at all.
Chapter One
It's silent except for the occasional clink of ice against glass in the smoke-hazed room. I grip my cup loosely, slowly tilting it back and forth. It's cold against my hand; I'm slowly losing the ability to feel my fingertips. I relish the cold.
I sit in an overstuffed chair, one leg resting carefully across the other and the elbow of the arm holding my chilled whiskey casually against the plush arm of the chair. I know better than to let my foot bounce up and down the way my body is aching to - if there's one thing the smug bastard behind the freshly polished desk in front of me loves, it's a sign of weakness. Nervousness. Anxiety. Fear. He gets off on that shit.
I'd rather be chewed to death by a feral pack of teething puppies then let the sick fucker get off on my emotions.
You see, in the kind of business I'm involved in, emotions are best when restrained, smothered, and terminated.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Edward?"
His voice is smooth; I fucking hate it. I raise the glass to my mouth and feel the drink hit my lips. I part them slightly and the liquor trickles through my teeth and down my burning throat. I swallow and let a beat pass before lowering the drink from my face and meeting his eye across the table.
"Yes, uncle."
Aro smiles slowly, sharp teeth glinting in the light.
"Very well."
He reaches out a spidery hand and places a single finger on the photograph that rests on the very edge of the desk and slides it to him, spinning it so the face on it is right side up. He gazes at it intensely, studying the face almost as acutely as I had.
I know what he sees. Her face is burned onto the backs of my eyelids. She's nothing special, the girl in the photograph. Long brown hair, a pair dark eyes, light skin, pink-red lips, one nose, two ears, a chin... Quite frankly, she's unremarkable. Average. Completely and utterly ordinary. And certainly not my type.
Yeah, I have a fucking type. Call me typical, but I'm into the whole tall, blonde, and glorious thing. Essentially, I like bomb-shells of women. And to be honest, I don't give a shit about their personalities. As I said, the kind of business I'm involved in leaves very little room for getting attached to anything that has a pulse. Emotionally, that is. My lips and other bits are free roam and attach onto whatever they please.
It's another moment or two of him studying her photo before he speaks again in that steely voice of his. "Remember: Get her to trust you. I want the betrayal to be absolute. I want her to suffer."
I lean forward to place my glass on the wood. His eyes flash and I have to suppress a sneering grin. He fucking hates ring marks on his precious desk. I swear, the piece of wood is more important to him than I am. Not that that is a problem; my toothbrush holds more significance to me than he ever could.
Aro raises an eyebrow at me and nods his head at the small stack of coasters at the corner of his ever magnificent desk. I put one under my cup.
He wins this round.
Who are you kidding? He wins every round.
When I return to reclining in my seat, I feel his gaze on me. I know he's calculating, wondering just how capable I am for this particular job. It's an important one: even as competent as I have proved myself to be over the years, I know he's still asking himself if I'm good enough for this.
His younger brothers - my other two uncles - told him not to give this assignment to me. They don't trust me like he does. It would make me angry, their lack of trust in me… if they had no reason not to trust me.
But they have plenty.
The first one being that if I had my way, this motherfucker would be dead and six feet under the ground somewhere in the middle of the Russia.
"All right," Aro says finally, after a moment of silence. This time, the clinking of ice doesn't fill the gap of our conversation. Or rather, his telling and my listening.
Flicking a hand sharply above his head, he folds his fingers together and rests them on his desk, over the photograph. Two burly men I recognize but don't care enough for to acknowledge properly step out from the shadows behind him and walk around him to escort me out. Their presence isn't a surprise to me - I'm not stupid enough to believe Aro Volturi, notorious leader of the Volturi (christened by none other than my great grandfather), would ever meet for business without an appropriately equipped entourage. I know what these big oafs are packing under those too tight suit jackets. I also know what I've got tucked neatly into the holster strapped around my ankle.
"Be packed and ready to go by five. Accommodations have already been prepared for you. I trust you will find them agreeable."
In other words, finding them disagreeable is not an option. I hold back a snort.
One of the men swipes a thick packet of papers off the desk and holds it out for me to take. I tip it open it slightly and see a number of different items, including a pair of car keys, a new ID, and a worn out passport. I make a mental note to inspect each of these in detail later and press the packet close. I look up and Aro's staring at me, his eyes looking a shade of blood red in the smokey dim of his office. I hold his gaze, almost defiantly, before I blink and nod my head sharply and stand. I run a hand down my chest, smoothing over the suit that most men would have had to pay an arm and two legs for, and wait for his dismissal.
"Best of luck to you," Aro purrs, cocking his head to the side and watching me through narrowed, thoughtful eyes. He is probably imagining all the different ways I could possibly fail him in the coming year. I return his steady gaze. "I'll be seeing you." He chuckles to himself; the sound is like the clatter of plates smashing to thousands of bits and pieces against the ground. It's taken me fourteen years to be able to restrain myself from cringing every time he laughs. "You shan't be seeing me for a while though, my dear boy. " I narrow my eyes and clench the folder of papers in my hand tightly. I fucking hate it when he calls me that, and he knows it. Bastard.
Two can play at this game.
Fuck, is this even a game?
Yes, it's a game. He's been at constant play since my parents died fourteen years ago. But I've learned the rules, I've been playing just as long as he. And fuck if I can't hold my own.
"If I live out the rest of my life without ever seeing you again, my dear uncle Aro, it'd still be too soon." I say, curving my lips into a charming smile even he can't see through. Aro laughs like I've just told the quirkiest joke of the century, a fond look crossing his face.
I'm not deceived by it. Not for a second. I know he could look at me with that tender face all he wanted and still stab me in the back with a butter knife.
"My nephew, ever the comedian," he says to no one in particular, or perhaps to the two mammoth sized men at my side. I don't care. I just want to get the fuck out of here, because it's late, and I have much to do before the day's end. So I flash him a tight smile, give a shallow, respectful bow of my head, and turn on my heels.
Before I can reach the door, he calls out to me.
"Oh, Edward?"
So close. So fucking close.
I stop but don't turn around. The two men are a few steps behind me, hesitating uncertainly. I hold my breath.
His voice is icy; he's no longer playing the jovial, indulgent character he was a moment ago. "Don't let me down."
I turn my head slightly over my shoulder and swallow my disgust as I look at him.
"I won't."
And finally, I'm out the door. Finally, I can breathe again.
I won't have to see the son of a bitch for a year. It's a blessing, with a single, simple catch.
My name is Edward Volturi, and for one year, I will not have to see the face of my uncle, who is also my employer in his family run 'business', and the bastard who has killed men with his bare hands and has had the audacity to sit down to Sunday dinner and lead us all in prayer. For one year, I will be without of his ever present shadow, looming over me, consuming me. For one year, I will be free.
Well, as free as I'll ever be. For now, it's good enough.
And in eleven months and thirty-one days, the girl who's photo is sitting on my uncle's desk, the girl who is so unremarkably plain, the girl who's name is Isabella Swan… will be dead.
If you are still with me, thank you for reading. Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated, but if you decide not to leave one, you don't have to worry about me hunting you down and lurking under your bed at night. I'm not that insane. Yet.
Questions, problems, concerns? Just drop me a note and I'll be happy to answer them for you.
Otherwise, have a lovely weekend.