The enemy was closing in all quarters. The Family was getting wiped out. The loyal members getting knocked out, one by one. They had put up their best defence, but the enemy somehow had managed to penetrate the impregnable fortress they had designed. He was checkmated, caught in his hideout, surrounded by the enemy. His advisor and best friend of childhood shot through the head, his Vizier was taken. The knights slaughtered mercilessly, it was all over. There was no escape.
The Don had been in that room since the war between the Families had started, relaying out orders to his button men and strategizing his next move. He was all alone now. The enemy was squatting out his last few men like flies. His hideout was just a small dingy room above a motel in the shady area of the city, were the enemy least suspected. It was not as innocent as it looked, stocked with amount of food and ammunition which would stock him at least a month. He was not a person cowardly enough to hide while his men were being butchered this very minute. But then, there was nothing he could do. All of his buffers killed in combat or otherwise, he had no contact to establish. His political contacts themselves were running for cover. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. But the game was not over yet. They still had not caught him.
Still dressed in an impeccable suit, he went over to the bar, took out his favourite bottle. Uncorking and drinking straight from the bottle, he thought hard. Yes, there was one thing he could do. It was necessary to do it. To save his own pride. His Family burnt to ashes, his property taken, his business ruined, he was killed in all ways possible, it was just his body that was living. Taking another deep gulp of the whiskey, he went over to the strong box. Drawing out his Desert Eagle and a bullet box, he went over to sit in his leather armchair beside his desk. He kept the gun, the bullet box and the whiskey bottle next to each other on his table and stared at it. What had this come to, he wept. He had dreamt of a better life, for himself and his people. As hard as he had tried to make his world a better place, the bastards had always pulled him into the gutter, forcing him to take out the guns. But, as they say, each man has his own destiny. May be this was his.
He knew just one would do the job, but for reasons he did not know himself, he inserted all the bullets into the magazine. Taking a gulp from the bottle for every bullet he clicked into the magazine, he reached the topmost shelf of the bullet chamber. He played with the bullet between his fingers before clicking it in. This one was going to do the job.
He took a huge gulp of the liquid and eyed the loaded gun on the table. He was shivering slightly as he took the gun into his hands. Lifting it, barrel pointed towards the ceiling and elbow on the desk and finger on the trigger, he took a few deep breaths. His will failed him. He kept the gun back on the table beside the bottle and sank back into the chair. This had been so easy when he had pointed the gun on other people. All his victims seemed to be laughing mockingly at him from a far away place. He said a quiet prayer of forgiveness. Feeling his forehead, he felt he was running a fever. But how did it matter now, he laughed maniacally. He was going insane. He better be quick.
Taking another huge gulp, in a flash of a moment, he took the gun straight to his temple, giving no chances to his will to disintegrate. He felt the cold barrel against his skin. A finger on the trigger and the bottle clutched tightly in the other hand. The grip on the bottle tightened and so did the grip on the trigger. The liquor had finally intoxicated him. He rolled his eyes to the top, closed his eyelids and pulled the trigger.
The empty bottle crashed into the floor and broke into a thousand pieces, merging with the blood and bone fragments. The great Don had finally lost the game as he slumped on the leather armchair, alone, powerless and dead.The Desert Eagle was still dangling from his hand, smoking.
