The Whisperer’s Bargain

In the shadowed halls where whispers creep,
A man made vows he dared not keep.
He signed in ink, though ink was blood,
And bound his soul to a silent flood.

The Mafia’s hand, both cold and sly,
Cloaked him in power none defy.
He spun their tales in gilded thread,
And masked their crimes with words instead.

The press he charmed, the crowds he bent,
Their sins recast as heaven-sent.
A smiling mask, a velvet lie,
While truth lay strangled, left to die.

Yet in his heart, a specter stirred,
A moral pang, a whispered word.
He dropped soft hints, in lines obscure,
That evil’s sheen could not endure.

The dons took note, their eyes like stone,
They marked the traitor in their own.
One candle night, with silence deep,
They claimed his breath, his final sleep.

Now in the dark, his spirit moans,
Through shuttered streets and cobblestones.
A caution carved in death’s decree:
No pact with night sets conscience free.