razorshimmy

When I sit down across from him, the room has that smell: the smell that isn't a smell, the air, cleaned twice and polished; hanging between me and he.
When he looks at me, I can tell how much he hates me, how much he wishes it were my throat he were biting into instead of that rare steak, sawing through it, grinding against the plate while he speaks to me.
"Mr. Negris." He says, after taking a long bite. "You know how fond I've always been of your company."
"I do, actually. Exactly."
"Well then, you might be surprised, all things considered," He says, taking an overlong, dramatic draught of his wine, swirling it between his lips, washing it over his tongue and gums. "To know how happy I am to finally have this meeting with you."
I don't respond, just chew my tenderloin and stare at the fire.
"I'm offering you an opportunity," He says, "To stop more men like me doing the things we do." He chews and swallows and drinks again, and if there were a way to do it derisively, he would be.
"I thought you would be interested." He says, finally.
I can't deny. I am. I thought I could resist, but what he's laying out in front of me, what he wants me to accomplish, it would strike down so much of what I hate. Except that it would help Him, who was just as bad.
Not worse, but just as bad.
I agreed, and made plans to work against him even as I did so, in my own mind.