Damien McKnight stared across the table-spread filled with glorious smells that tempted his nose at a man who seemed to hold a more alluring presence than the food. It wasn’t the man’s piercing black eyes or his pointed rigid nose that held Damien’s undivided attention. No, it was the power that emanated from the man’s entire being. The way he carried himself, as if he owned the world, and trusted that if he made one movement with his robe-covered arms, he could make a mountain move. That power entranced Damien, it was the only way he would have even entered this agreement.

Damien cleared his throat and stabbed at another piece of caviar on the precious china plate. A soft clink announced that he had tapped the plate in his attempt of capturing the delicacy. His eyes shot up to look at the man who wielded so much power, his fork frozen in his hand as he appeared a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

The man before him made no indication of caring about the sound. Damien swallowed his own bile that had gathered in his mouth and laid the fork with the piece of caviar still gouged in the prongs down to the plate. He dropped his hands to the napkin on his lap and clutched it to steady his shaking hands. Then, with stiff hands, he patted his mouth from any unknown objects. That would be perfect, the powerful man snickering for the whole lunch about the piece of parsley stuck between my teeth.

The man now raised an eyebrow, waiting for Damien to speak. Damien stared at the glass porcelain vase above the man’s head.

“And I’ll make twenty million a year, from your council, plus the point one percent wage from taxes when I become the president, I mean, leader.” Damien blushed at his blunder. He was too used to presidents, democracy, not dictatorships—NO—this wasn’t a dictatorship, but it was a…leadership with one leader, and ring of council members.

These council members held power unimaginable to sway the people of their small country, which wasn’t much more than a city within itself, a metropolis. The city and country of Nerone housed 2 million residents upon last census. Skyscrapers packed the small area, but with their own currency, and military, in which most if not all the men were immediately enacted into after reaching age 18.

A glint shone in the council member’s eyes. Was it from the overhead lights or from within the powerful man himself? It had to be the lights… but still… “You will enact the necessary changes and, of course, we’ll give you the power to do such.”

“So I’m a puppet,” Damien mumbled, “What if I don’t agree?” He stood as if to leave and get on with the rest of his life.

Click.

Damien’s dark eyes darted around searching for the source. His eyes focused on the council member’s left hand. A small gun almost the same size of a small toy water gun had slid and clicked out of its forearm holster hidden within the robe’s sleeve. Now the gun was pointed at him. The council member in the robe then spoke in a quiet menacing sense, “If you do not agree now, then you will when you are six feet under.”

Slowly, Damien swallowed. Control, control, the power will shift. Damien took a deep breath, and let the flowing air to steel his resolve. He nodded to convince himself that this was the right thing, “I knew what I was getting into when I came here. I’ll do it.”

The man of power let a faint smile cross his features, his eyes seemed to glow unearthly, “Good,” he rasped, “good.”