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This night was the same as all the others.
The target was spotted at the bar, sipping on a smooth bourbon, eyes forward and a slight frown on his face. The demon strolled over, a fingertip tracing his shoulder before sitting down at the bar next to him. She was irresistible to the target, as per design: beautiful crimson dress, fluttering eyelids, a small smirk laced with deadly lipstick. The routine was boring, tasteless: convince them to purchase her a drink with a smooth smile. Proceed to clink glasses together in the loud roar of the club to create an air of eloquence. Lure and accept the offer to stay the night, and have more drinks. Check their profile to perfect the mission. Entice them, wait for their slumber, and decide their fate.
The walk home was often quite lackluster most nights. Depending on his form, catcalls or propositions would be fired at the lone wolf in the night. With profile in hand, he would then proceed to make haste to the apartment, and then change back into his most comfortable form. This time, his assignment didn’t take as long as all of the others.The rain-soaked sidewalk on the cold Tuesday night was void of the weekend hustle and bustle and the target was quite eager, much more willing to comply; this cut down the time of the mission by hours.
The target was Alexander Romanoff, thirty-two years old, CEO to a Russian corporation by the name of Blackwall Industries. He was a man of greed, willing to lie and cheat for a simple grasp at power and wealth. He truly got the desire demon’s attention when the profile appeared on his coffee table after Romanoff disowned his only child so he would not become the heir of the company. This left the child of no more than seventeen years without a mother or a father, abandoned to suffer. The Russian had come to the city of New York to talk trade deals with the American business O.C. Services, a business famed for making bulk items for cheap. They also used illegal, cheap labor and ducked under the government to continue their trades. To entice Romanoff, he put on the most alluring form he could. Smooth blonde hair and eyes cut from diamonds, the name that the demon politely said from her soft lips was Anastasiya, a businesswoman relaxing before her flight back to Russia.
It would be quite the shock to see the man still in his bed twelve hours from now, where he would be announced as have “passed away from natural causes”. There would be massive news coverage, which would drag out the other corporations, who would would take this time to give their condolences. However, behind the mask of sympathy, they would be quickly scrambling to steal the deal off the table. This made it so much easier to find targets. Greed and sin was a demon’s calling card.
Dealing with the soul was always messy. Thankfully, he didn't have to deal with the terrible display- that was in Geoff's job descirption.
Clicking on the lighter and watching as the cigarette lit aflame, the Golden Boy slinked through the night towards his apartment. His current form of Anastasia was not the most natural for him, and it was getting increasingly uncomfortable as the night went on. In the tall stilettos and the skin-tight dress, he was quite out of his element. He preferred to be in his most natural form of a man, as that was his predisposition. However, drastic desires came with drastic measures. Taking a slow drag, he blew the smoke out of his nose before ascending the flight of stairs to his apartment. The small place that he called "home" was a third-rate little thing with peeling walls and a leaking roof that trickled even in the lightest drizzle. The landlord was equally as shoddy, always asking for more than what was earned and threatening to kick him out of the apartment for the slightest “inconveniences”. This drab situation hid his tracks from any wandering authorities or any guardian angels hanging around.
Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. The greedy, slimy man slithered up to him, the smile of his yellowed teeth making the demon roll his eyes with disgust. Nights like these were the worst. When he was in his various forms, the demon was unrecognizable, which allowed for too many awkward confrontations.
“What is a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”
“Haven’t heard that one before,” Anastasiya responded, lip curling.
“I didn’t know Mr. Free was expecting guests-” he looked her up and down, his smile only getting wider. “-like you.”
“Good night, sir.”
The key was fished out of the small purse at his side, and the door closed quickly behind him. Locking it with a simple switch, the demon sighed and leaned against the doorframe. Drawing in a breath, he let it out slowly and couldn’t help but grin in satisfaction at the change. No more stilettos, no more skin tight dresses. Slipping into his bedroom, he passed his wall length mirror, and was pleased at the sight of his own skin.
His barely-tan skin and the darkened circles under his eyes screamed ‘haven’t slept in over 72 hours’, but that was common for him. Sleep wasn’t needed when you were dead. Continuing to his closet, he shoved on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans before venturing back to his kitchen. Eating wasn’t really required either, but he loved the taste of pizza. The apartment never came with appliances, and with the frequent moves, Gavin never bought more than a microwave and a toaster.
With a sigh and rolling up his sleeves, he spent ten minutes creating a disgusting mess that he was going to eat. Slapping it on a plate and sitting down at his small kitchen table, he looked at the dish in front of him. An english muffin, lightly toasted, with microwave-melted cheese and ketchup that he assumed would taste well. Taking a small bite, he swallowed it with a shudder. A new lesson was learned: pizza sauce and ketchup could not be interchanged, even though both required tomatoes. Not craving pizza anymore, he lightly pushed the plate back to the other side of the table.
With a small sigh of defeat, he stood up from the small wooden chair and ventured to the couch. The apartment was very sparse, again creating the allure of the struggling, post-college graduate. Flopping down on its worn cushions, he watched the ceiling with great interest. There was nothing to do for downtime. All the books were read, internet was not an option in the slightest. He didn’t even own a television. He thought it would be valuable to think back on his life and again reflect on how he got into this situation in the first place. It wasn't Geoff's fault, nor was it even Ryan's. It was only his.
1926, the middle of the Jazz Age. Born at the turn of the twentieth century, Gavin lived with reckless abandonment. At the age of seventeen, he became a part of a gang that terrorized New York for almost ten years: the Vagabonds. With bloodlust in his veins and fire in his eyes, the slick young man soon rose to the top of the latter, soon having a whole crew of over twenty other men to his bidding. Where the bright lights of Time Square could not reach, the Vagabonds lived. Right on the cusp of twenty, Gavin was the leader of one of the most powerful gangs in New York.
Power was a deadly tool, able to persuade even a saint to do the Devil’s work. Gavin was never a saint, and is more then happy to do the work for the Devil. He started to desire more and more, before he had everything he could ever dream of. He had power, women, the newest suits and the fastest cars. As he gained more infamy, he started his own little game. Instead of getting paid in cash, he wanted information:
“I want to know what his business is, what his wife’s name is, what is weapon is. Hell, I want to know what he ate last Sunday. I want to know all of it, love.”
Drunk on lust and power, the Vagabonds started to crack. High profile members of society started to disappear into the night, priceless artifacts broken or missing. Gang wars occurred in a more frequent pace, paving the streets red with blood. With wicked ease and a vicious smile, Gavin would be there in his perfectly tailored suit and Italian leather shoes with his made-to-order pistol in his lean fingers- he was always up for a good fight. As his fame grew, his confidence spurred on the bloodlust. The Vagabonds started to spread out, and Chicago was hit next. Banks were robbed and money piled into the home of one particularly cunning boss: Gavin.
With this power, he went on his own personal mission.
The bodyguard had been let go, only helping Gavin's desires flourish. However, as he searched the house, the man could not be found anywhere. Opening the door to the garage, however, found him the jackpot. Raising his pistol, the man of the hour took a few steps back.
“Don Mellett, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” the Golden Boy purred, stalking over to him. “I absolutely love your work on organized crime. Absolutely riveting.”
The gun was cocked and placed against his forehead, and Mellett whimpered and flinched. “Oh my God, oh my God-” he whispered, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.
The mantra was unnervingly meet, his bottom lip starting to quiver. Pushing the gun down, Mellett went onto his knees.
“Not as tough as your words, hm?”
The man continued to whimper, his mantra continuing. With a huff, Gavin lashed a foot out at him, connecting with the man's stomach. The man let out a terrified cry.
“Oh my God, oh my God, blah blah blah, shut up,” he hissed, cocking the gun. The cries got louder. “You know, if this whole crime boss gig doesn’t work out, I think I have a new career path.”
Mellett looked up at him, confusion sparking his features, a small noise of worry escaping his lips at the end of a sob.
“I think I can be a priest. For some strange reason, people get awfully religious around me.”
The bullets rang out without any further words. He straightened his tie, and left the garage with a dead Don Mellett behind him.
In the early days of September, a shocking discovery ran through the Vagabonds. The young boss was found at his estate, curled on the ground with a bottle of empty bourbon on the counter. He was dead at the age of twenty-six from the quiet, personal affair of alcohol poisoning. When he awoke, he looked around with rage. He didn’t know where he was, but he needed to go back.
“Take me back to the warehouse. We have a plot to assassinate William Dever and we just received the blueprints-”
“You are not to go back.”
“What? Why not?”
The being looked at him, white wings folded gently against his spine. “Why, because you are dead.”
Gavin never expected the pearly gates, but he didn’t expect to be stuck on Earth for the rest of his days. To “atone for his sins”, he was cast to forever plague the Earth to punish those who have built their lives on sin. His whole empire that he spent years building crashed all around him because of the impervious stage of death. All the money spent, all of the strings pulled and twisted. Death was inevitable, but the silence when he went under was not what he wished.
“I will rip this world apart until it is nothing but cheap threads and it will be beautiful!” he screeched, stumbling forward and lashing out at the angel, before everything went white and he awoke in Central Park.