I Bullied the Future Mafia's Boss (Dark BL)

Mr. Morton raised the stick high above his shoulder, his grip tightening as the wood sliced downward.

The first blow landed across Lucas's back with a sickening thud, the impact reverberating through his body. Pain ignited instantly, sharp and raw, but Lucas didn't flinch. His head remained bowed, dark strands of hair falling over his pale face. His hands stayed pressed firmly to the cold floor, his knuckles pale, and his breathing unnervingly steady. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, picturing Mr. Morton's lifeless body—his neck twisted at an unnatural angle like his wife's when Lucas had pushed her down the stairs. The thought of the satisfying snap, the sickening crack of bone, made a small smile tug at Lucas's lips, a flicker of warmth spreading through him. Later, I'll finish what I started.

"Good," Mr. Morton muttered, his voice low and almost absent, as if he were speaking to himself.

The second strike fell harder, the stick biting into the already tender flesh with a meaty crack. A faint tremor coursed through Lucas's fingers, barely perceptible, but he quickly stilled himself. His teeth sank into the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood pooling on his tongue. He swallowed it down without a sound, focusing on the sharp sting in his back to drown out the rising anger.

Mr. Morton stepped back, his eyes scanning Lucas's unmoving form with a sneer. "Not even a twitch," he said, a thread of frustration seeping into his mock admiration. "Tougher than I thought."

The third strike was ruthless, catching the base of Lucas's shoulder blades. The sharp sting sent a jolt through his muscles, his back arching ever so slightly before he forced himself still. His fingers dug into the floor, his breath slipping past his lips in a faint hiss. The tension in his body betrayed his pain, but his silence remained unbroken.

Blood seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt in uneven streaks, darkening the cloth as it clung to his skin. The raw flesh beneath was swollen and vivid, each blow leaving its cruel mark.

"You're a stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

Mr. Morton's breathing grew heavier with each strike, his chest heaving with anger."Disgusting," he spat, his lip curling. "To take all of this for a boy."

The next blow landed across Lucas's shoulders, the force of it shaking his entire frame. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, mingling with the blood that now dripped onto the floor beneath him. The room was thick with the metallic stench of blood and the low, labored sound of Mr. Morton's breathing.

"I should've known," Mr. Morton snarled, his tone twisted with venom. "The way you act. The way you look. Soft. Fragile. A boy who gets attention for all the wrong reasons."

Lucas's lips parted slightly, his breath shallow and fast. His body trembled now, the pain pushing him to the edge, but he stayed kneeling. The blood pooling beneath him was a testament to his endurance, but also to the cost of it.

"You're nothing but a disappointment," Mr. Morton continued, his voice rising. He slammed the stick down against Lucas's lower back, the blow landing with a heavy thud that made Lucas's entire body seize. "Ungrateful. Prideful. Sick. That's what you are. Sick."

The strikes didn't stop. Fifteen turned to twenty, each more brutal than the last. The sharp cracks of wood against flesh echoed through the room, punctuated only by Mr. Morton's ragged breaths. Lucas's trembling was more pronounced now, his muscles betraying his struggle to remain upright.

Mr. Morton finally stepped back, his chest heaving as he wiped sweat from his brow. The bloodied stick in his hand gleamed faintly in the dim light. He stared at Lucas, his disbelief mingling with frustration. "Unbelievable," he muttered, his voice tinged with something almost like fear. "You really are a freak, aren't you? What kind of person doesn't scream when he's being beaten like this?"

Lucas slowly raised his head, blood dripping from his lips where his teeth had cut into them. His eyes, half-lidded and glassy with pain, held the faintest spark of defiance. A smile ghosted across his mouth—weak.

"You said fifteen," he murmured, his voice low and eerily calm. "That's twenty."

Mr. Morton stared at him, his mouth slightly open, as if unsure how to respond. He suddenly reached into his pocket with a steady hand and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, the small flame from the lighter briefly illuminating his face, still twisted with smug satisfaction. He took a slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke as he stared down at Lucas, who remained kneeling, his trembling hands pressing into the floor.

"You know," Mr. Morton began, his voice calm and almost conversational, "I don't think I'm going to hold up my end of the bargain after all."

Lucas's head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly. His lips, split and bloodied, trembled as he hissed through gritted teeth, "You promised."

The faint amusement on Mr. Morton's face twisted seeing as he finally got the reaction he wanted. His polished shoe connected with Lucas's chest in a brutal kick. Lucas fell back, the air forced from his lungs as he hit the floor with a dull thud, his arms instinctively curling to shield his torso.

"Deals between a man and a boy?" Mr. Morton said coldly, looking down at Lucas with disdain. "Those don't exist."

Lucas's blank expression cracked, his lips pulling back into a snarl as he pushed himself up on his elbows.

"You said fifteen! You promised. You promised!" His voice rose into a shout, echoing off the walls as he stared up at the man.

Mr. Morton leaned down, blowing a cloud of smoke directly into Lucas's face. "And what are you going to do about it?" he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "Cry? Run?"

Lucas didn't flinch, his expression now unnervingly calm as the smirk crept back onto his face. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, but he licked it away slowly.

"You'll learn," Lucas murmured, almost to himself. "You'll learn exactly what kind of mistake you just made."

He rose slowly, his movements stiff, his legs trembling as if they might buckle beneath him. His head hung low, blood dripping steadily from the gashes on his back, but his hands clenched into tight fists.

Mr. Morton chuckled darkly, watching the boy with an expression of mock amusement. "What's the matter, Lucas?" he taunted, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Angry? Good. Consider this your introduction to the real world. No one owes you anything. No one has to keep a promise just because they said so."

He took a step forward, his bare feet leaving smeared trails of blood across the floor as he moved toward the dining room.

Mr. Morton followed lazily, his shoes clicking softly against the hardwood. "And where do you think you're going?" he called, his tone laced with mockery. He leaned against the doorway, watching Lucas's pace quicken with each step, the boy's shoulders rigid, fists shaking. "What, running away now? You're just proving my point. You—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze falling on Lucas as he came to a halt in front of the dining room cabinet. The ashes of Mrs. Morton rested there in a polished black urn, the only part of her that remained in the house.

The smirk on Mr. Morton's face faltered, his amusement replaced by a flicker of unease. The cigarette dropped from his lips, falling to the floor with a faint hiss as the ember extinguished itself in the blood-soaked smears beneath it.

"Lucas," Mr. Morton warned, his voice sharp now. "Don't you dare."

Lucas's head turned slightly, just enough to reveal the corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk that was anything but playful.

"Don't do it," Mr. Morton repeated, his voice rising as he stepped forward, his hand half-raised. "I'm warning you, boy—don't you fucking do it!"

But Lucas didn't hesitate. His hand shot out, snatching the urn from its resting place with a fluid motion. His bloodied fingers curled tightly around it as he turned to face Mr. Morton fully, his smirk widening into a twisted grin.

Lucas's grip on the urn tightened, his knuckles pale against the slick surface. Blood smeared its glossy exterior, a stark contrast to the black ceramic. His chest heaved, not with fear, but with raw, seething rage. Every muscle in his body felt like it was vibrating, a live wire barely contained.

Mr. Morton froze mid-step, his sneer faltering. His cigarette dropped to the floor, the ember extinguishing itself in a smear of blood. "Lucas," he said sharply, his voice edging into something that almost resembled panic. "Put it down. Now."

Lucas turned his head slightly, just enough for Morton to see the corner of his mouth twist into a dark, venomous smirk.

"Why?" Lucas said, his voice cool and cutting, dripping with mockery. "Isn't this what you wanted? To see me break?" He tilted the urn slightly, a thin stream of ash spilling out onto the floor in a fine, silvery trail.

Morton's face contorted, his composure cracking. "Stop!" he shouted, the word echoing off the walls. "You'll regret this, boy."

Lucas's smirk widened into something feral. "Regret?" His tone was calm, deliberate. "No, Morton. That's your word, not mine. You don't scare me." He upended the urn completely, the ashes cascading like smoke through his fingers, scattering across the floor and floating in the air like whispers of the dead.

Morton surged forward, grabbing Lucas by the wrist with crushing force, his fingers digging into bruised skin. He slammed Lucas back against the wall, his face inches away, twisted with fury. "You sick little bastard!" he spat, his voice trembling with unbridled rage.

Lucas grunted as his back hit the wall, but the smirk never left his face. His bloodied lips parted, and he let out a soft, breathy laugh. "What's the matter?" he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "Upset I finally took something from you? Or are you just mad I didn't let you win?"

Morton's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening. "You've gone too far, Lucas," he snarled, his breath hot and heavy. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

Lucas's eyes narrowed, "Neither do you."

Morton leaned closer, his lips pulling back in a sneer. "You're going to pay for this. I'll make sure of it."

Lucas didn't flinch.

"You should've stopped at fifteen," Lucas said softly.

As Mr. Morton raised his hand, his palm meeting the side of Lucas's face with a sickening force, the sharp sting radiated through his skin. The sound of the slap echoed in the room, the force of it making Lucas's head snap to the side. For a moment, the sharpness of the pain was all-consuming, a fleeting sensation that flickered across his consciousness. But it was gone almost immediately, drowned out by a twisted sense of exhilaration that surged through him.

The slap had hurt, and it was—glorious.

Lucas grinned, his lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl. His eyes glinted with deranged amusement as he turned his face back toward Mr. Morton, ignoring the warmth of blood seeping from his lip. "Harder," he rasped, voice low and thick with madness. "Come on. Harder, you coward."

Mr. Morton's expression faltered for a moment, confusion creeping into his eyes, before disgust overtook him. He recoiled, as though the sight of Lucas's twisted pleasure made him nauseous. He took a step back, shaking his head in disbelief, his mouth curled in revulsion.

But that was all Lucas needed. In that brief moment of hesitation, he moved with a terrifying speed. His hands found a heavy object near the desk—something solid, weighty. He lifted it effortlessly, a cruel smirk still on his face. Without warning, he swung it at Mr. Morton's face with a savage force, the object making contact with a sickening crack.

The older man staggered back, his eyes wide with shock as blood erupted from his nose. He stumbled, hands instinctively coming up to try and stem the flow, but the damage was done. He fell to the ground with a low, agonized groan, struggling to catch his breath.

Lucas stood over him, watching with a wicked satisfaction. The faint pulse of adrenaline was still running through his veins, the thrill of the violence bubbling up like a dark, intoxicating poison. His lips curled into another smile, eyes glowing with that twisted, manic glee.

"You wanted to hurt me," he muttered softly, almost affectionately, bending down to peer into Mr. Morton's eyes.

Lucas towered over Mr. Morton, a twisted satisfaction curling his lips as he gripped the heavy object tighter. The older man was already reeling from the first blow, blood dripping freely from his face, his breaths ragged and desperate. But Lucas wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

He leaned down slightly, his voice low and smooth, the madness barely contained beneath his calm exterior. "Let's make each other a deal, Mr. Morton," Lucas purred, "I get to see Dimitri whenever the fuck I want... and you... you don't come into our lives again."

Mr. Morton, still struggling to compose himself, sneered despite the blood pouring from his nose. His voice came out hoarse, tinged with disbelief. "Why would I let you do that? I'm not afraid of you."

Before Mr. Morton could finish his sentence, Lucas moved swiftly, the weight of the object slamming down with unrelenting force. It wasn't a blow aimed at his head this time—no, Lucas wanted him to feel this. The item came crashing down on Mr. Morton's leg with a sickening crack.

A scream tore through the air as pain exploded in Mr. Morton's leg. His body jolted, and he buckled under the force, collapsing to the floor in agony. His hands shot out instinctively to clutch at his leg, but the damage was done. He couldn't suppress the anguished shout that followed, a guttural sound of pure pain. His leg throbbed in sharp, intense waves, the bone surely fractured under the brutal strike.

Lucas's eyes gleamed with cold delight as he watched Mr. Morton squirm on the ground, his laughter low and almost gentle. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" he taunted. He took a step back, letting the older man's pained sobs fill the silence. "Now, about that deal..."

Mr. Morton, gritting his teeth, glared up at Lucas with a mixture of hate and helplessness, but there was nothing he could do. He was at Lucas's mercy now.

Lucas stood over Mr. Morton, watching him writhe in pain on the floor. His smile was twisted, his eyes glinting with a dangerous excitement. The sound of Mr. Morton's labored breathing filled the room, but Lucas seemed unbothered, almost entertained.

He tilted his head slightly, a sickening amusement in his voice. "You know what? Maybe I should hit you ten more times, just for fun..." He paused, a manic glint sparking in his eyes. "No, scratch that. Thirty. Thirty seems more fitting."

The insanity in Lucas's voice was undeniable, and the way he chuckled after saying it only made the air in the room feel colder. He gripped the heavy object again, and before Mr. Morton could gather himself, Lucas swung it down on his shoulder with brutal force. The sickening thud echoed in the room as the weight of the item crashed into Mr. Morton's flesh, making him grunt in pain, his body spasming as he tried to shield himself.

Mr. Morton, despite the agony, tried to fight back, swinging a fist weakly toward Lucas, his movements sluggish and desperate. But Lucas was quicker—he saw it coming a mile away.

With a sharp kick, Lucas sent Mr. Morton reeling in shock.The older man grunted as he landed with a painful thud, but Lucas didn't give him time to recover. He stepped forward, relishing the power in the moment, his eyes still locked on Mr. Morton's trembling form.

"Come on," Lucas cooed, mocking him. "You're not going to fight me, are you? You wanted to hurt me, remember?" His voice dropped into a low, cruel tone. "Now, let's see how it feels when I hurt you for fun."

Mr. Morton, still reeling from the pain, glared up at Lucas through gritted teeth, his face contorted in defiance. His words were venomous as he spat out, "You fucking faggot."

The insult hung in the air for a moment, but for Lucas, it felt like everything went still. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and the manic glint in his eyes faded, replaced by a chilling coldness. His expression froze, the amusement draining from his face as the weight of the words hit him.

His grip on the object tightened, his knuckles turning white as he stared at Mr. Morton. The air around them thickened, the moment suddenly feeling like a fragile calm before the storm. The room seemed to shrink, the silence unbearable.

Without warning, Lucas's voice, now eerily calm and controlled, slid out like a knife. "You don't get to say that," he murmured. His eyes were darker now, distant, as if he were seeing through Mr. Morton, beyond him.

And then, in a flash of speed, Lucas swung the object again—not to inflict pain, but to make a point. It crashed into Mr. Morton's ribs, and the older man let out a strangled cry as he was knocked back. Lucas didn't move to help him up; he didn't move at all, standing over him like an icy statue.

"Apologize," Lucas said quietly, the command unmistakable in his tone, as if the situation had shifted entirely. The fun, the chaos—it was all gone, replaced by a quiet fury that radiated from every part of him. "Apologize for that."

Mr. Morton, breathless and battered, finally choked out the words Lucas wanted to hear. "Fine. I'll keep my promise. I won't get in your way again. Just stop… just stop."

Lucas's smile returned, but it wasn't the twisted grin he'd been wearing earlier—it was colder, almost detached. There was no amusement in it now. He simply stared at Mr. Morton, watching him crumble before him.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he murmured, the mockery in his voice sharp and chilling. He paused for a second, as if savoring the moment. Then, without any more words, Lucas raised the heavy object again.

The swing was quick, precise, and with all the force Lucas could muster. The weight of it slammed into Mr. Morton's skull with a sickening thud, the impact making a dull, reverberating sound that echoed through the room.

Mr. Morton's body went limp, his head jerking violently to the side as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground. The room fell silent once more, the only sound left being the faint rustle of Lucas's breathing. He stood over the fallen man, watching as his chest rose and fell, the shallow breaths barely perceptible.At that moment he wanted to kill him but that was all in due time.