Chapter 4 Orders From The Old Man

Aleksander

Some people start their mornings with coffee, or a motivational song to prep them for the tasks ahead. Not me, though, the universe has decided that I will start my morning with a nuisance that smiles. And oh, he goes by the name, Domenico.

He's like a song I hate that's stuck on repeat, loud and annoying and stuck in my fucking head.

I've met assassins with less commitment than he has to being under my skin.

He's been going at it for the past four days, and I'm this close, this close to saying fuck all and snapping his neck. For the plot.

It's not anything obvious at first, not a single moment I can point to and say, That's when I lost it. It's smaller things, stacked on top of the other until all I can see is crimson.

It's how he talks too much, even in places where silence is supposed to be the rule. The way he watches me like he's making a mental note of every bone in my body, like he's undressing me. And he's not in any way subtle about it. There's no sense of self-preservation in him.

The way he smiles when he should be afraid.

I can't wait for this to be over, so I can get back to my life. Boring, but peaceful. And that's enough for me.

Being rogue is probably the way of the Italians. He doesn't belong here. He's a fucking wild card. You never know what to expect. And I hate it when I'm taken by surprise.

I catch him in the hallway as I'm heading out. He's leaning against the wall, one foot braced and a coffee cup dangling from his fingers like he's got nowhere to be. Which he probably doesn't. I still don't see the reason why he's being kept alive, he's useless.

He grins at me, and I have to close my eyes and count to five so I don't cut that smug look off his face.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, like we're old friends. Like I didn't almost put his head through a door two days ago.

That does it for me. All my resolve goes flying out the window.

I don't answer him as I step into his space. He doesn't flinch. Mistake number one. He clearly doesn't see how angry I am, or he probably does but doesn't give a fuck. My money's on the latter.

The knife is already in my hand before I think about it. I press the cold edge to his throat, close enough that I see the pulse jump under the blade. One wrong move is all it would take, just one twitch and he's done.

The asshole is clearly oblivious to that fact because he grins more sheepishly. His breath catches, but not in fear, that's when I see the flicker in his eyes, it's excitement. He's actually excited right now.

"Didn't know you were into knife play" he murmurs. "Mmmm, kinky, you should've said"

For a second, one dangerous stretched-thin second, I imagine leaning into it, watching the blood bead up and run. I imagine his blood on my knife, testing just how far he can take it.

Instead, I drag the blade across, just enough to nick him. The blood Wells, but his grin never falters. I stare at it, the blood I mean, the sight of it makes me a little hazy, and my stomach does the same flip-flop thing it did back then. Heat courses through my body and settles between my legs. No.

Did I just get a boxer from watching the trail of blood on his skin?

That's the moment I know he's going to be a problem.

I shove him back, hard enough that his shoulder hits the wall.

"Get out of my way," I growl.

His hand shoots up, and he uses a finger to scoop some of his blood, bringing it to his mouth. He sucks on the finger, like he's tasting victory, and he lets the finger out with a low pop.

I stand there rooted in place, because why in hell would that be the hottest thing I've seen in my life?

"Anytime, Sasha," he says, low and almost taunting.

I turn away before I do something that'll make me miss my meeting. My father doesn't tolerate lateness, and I'm already pushing it.

My boots hit the pavement outside, the knife still warm from his skin in my hand. I tell myself the tightness in my chest is irritation. Just irritation.

But irritation doesn't usually feel this close to hunger.

------

The Old Man's office smells like money and blood. One masked by expensive cologne, the other soaked into the floorboards decades ago.

Everything here is heavy. Heavy wood desk. Heavy leather chairs. Heavy curtains that shut the daylight out like it's an intruder. It's the kind of room designed to make you feel smaller than you are. And it works on some people.

He sits behind the desk like it's a throne, posture straight, eyes sharp. Custom suit and a smile thin enough to cut. Most people see charm when he smiles. I see the teeth.

We've never liked each other much - two wolves circling the same kill, bound by blood instead of choice. He doesn't have to say he's disappointed in me. That's been his baseline expression since I was old enough to throw a punch.

And honestly, I couldn't care less.

In a few years, everything here will be mine, he knows it. Maybe that's why every conversation between us feels thick.

He steeples his fingers, studying me like he's checking for cracks.

The Old Man doesn't waste time with pleasantries. He just leans back in his chair, eyes flat as old ice, and says,

"Keep Vescari's little stray in line."

By "stray," he means Nico.

By "keep in line," he means break him in half if necessary.

I nod once, because that's what you do when you get orders. You don't argue and you don't show your hand.

"He's disposable," the Old Man adds, like it's an afterthought.

Like he's talking about a paper cup, not a person.

My body remains still and I don't show any reaction. Outside, I'm as still as a statue.

Inside? I'm already picturing exactly how easy it would be to end Nico if I wanted to. One step, one breath, one twist. No more problems.

The thing is... I don't know if I want to.

Later, I pass by the bathroom and hear the water running. Steam spills out from the gap in the door, the faint scent of soap mixes with something distinctly him.

I should keep walking. But I don't.

Instead, I stop. Which is stupid because I don't have any business here.

The frosted glass door doesn't show much. But I see him, Broad shoulders, lean waist, the arc of his spine. My brain notes every detail, storing it. For what exactly? I don't know.

He tips his head back under the spray, throat exposed, lips parted. The movement is... careless. Vulnerable.

It would be so easy to walk in and pin him to the tiles, let the water swallow his curses. My hand flexes at my side, and I imagine it, the way he'd tense, the way his eyes would flash between anger and something else. Probably excitement.

And that's the problem.

I don't know if I'd be holding him there to make him hurt...

...or for some other reason.

The water shifts as he reaches for something, and the shadow of his arm moves across the glass. My eyes follow it, of their own accord. I track every shift in his posture, every stretch of muscle, until my chest feels tight from the way I'm holding myself still.

I've killed men with my bare hands. I've walked away without a mark on me or a second thought.

But watching him, I feel something uncomfortably close to temptation.

Not the kind I can act on.

Not yet.

The Old Man's voice is still in my head. 'He's disposable'.

Sure.

But if anyone is going to break him... it'll be me.