LEVI
One minute, I was standing in the center of an underground ring, fists clenched, staring down at the men sprawled bloodied and barely breathing at my feet.
Wondering why it had lost its thrill.
Tsk.
The next? Torren was barging into my shower, scrunching his nose at my cock, tossing a leather collar with a dangling price tag onto the counter, and announcing that I'd been sold.
Now, I followed quietly—obediently—down a luxurious hallway, eyes fixed on the back of my new owner's head. Or was he just the babysitter?
"Hello, I'm Jayce. You'll be answering to me now," the man had said, while Torren fought to stifle his laughter. "Well, not me exactly. My boss Ian. He'll be needing your services."
Some boss he had if he was willing to spend a ridiculous amount on a fighter. Must've been urgent, too, considering he'd ignored the fact that I had no past. No name. Nothing.
I just didn't expect to be led straight into a Mafia's hideout.
And I'd give it to this Ian—he had taste.
Jayce kept walking, speaking over his shoulder. "Here's the deal. You put your life before his. Stay glued to him like a bad tattoo. Even when he doesn't want you to. Especially when he doesn't want you to."
Even in the bathroom? I thought, smirking.
"Except in the bathroom, obviously." Jayce chuckled like he'd read my mind.
I half-shrugged. Not like I'd mind. I had an appetite for pretty things. Was this Ian pretty?
With the watchful eyes of other soldiers following our every move, I was led into a furnished bedroom—majestic from ceiling to floor. I took in the scent of cigarettes and sandalwood, breathing deep.
Alright. This Ian did have flair.
I scanned the room for any personal photos, something to put a face to the name, but there was nothing. Just artwork and a bunch of boring, overpriced vases.
"The boss isn't around," Jayce said, running his fingers through dyed gray hair, worry flickering in his hazel eyes. "Had to sort some things out. He'll be back soon."
"Sure," I muttered, stepping toward a painting of a woman and a little girl. "Whatever you say, boss."
I figured Jayce would leave, and honestly, I didn't care if he did. But just as my fingers reached for the canvas, my wrist was snatched in a tight grip.
"And one more thing." His gaze darkened as he dropped my hand. "Do not touch anything. The boss is a perfectionist. Don't give him a reason to kick you out."
By Lucifer's hooves, my new boss had to be the antsiest man I'd met in a while. And I'd been friends with Da Vinci.
I pulled away from the painting. Surprisingly, I didn't mind following orders—for now. Curiosity had gotten the better of me.
"Thank you," Jayce muttered before turning away, already dialing a number. As he stepped into the hall, I caught the end of his conversation.
"Find a way to get him back," he said before his voice faded down the corridor.
I turned back to the painting, staring at the mess of colors. Red was its dominant hue, smudged and striking. I didn't know why it held my attention. Art was boring. Had always bored me.
But I couldn't look away.
That was when I heard the voices.
"You see the new guy Jayce brought for the boss?" someone snickered near the entrance.
"Boss Ian ain't gonna like this one," another voice replied.
"You think? Boss Ian lets Jayce have his way no matter what. He might put up a fuss though."
"Except this one is different, stupid," the first guy huffed. "Boss Ian's hold on his fort is already shaky. Too many missing shipments—the last one belonged to Boss Ace. He won't take this lightly."
"Nothing's gonna happen," came the tired reply. "Klaus won't let his brother hurt his booty call." A chuckle. "Sick to think they all grew up together."
Their voices trailed off, and for a moment, I was tempted to call them back. Demand they spill every last drop of tea.
Ian.
The name rolled off my tongue as my eyes drifted back to the painting. I wished I could touch it—feel it—but I wouldn't want to piss off my new boss. Right?
Tsk.
Now I was curious. Who was this Ian?
I pictured a middle-aged man with soft, calculative brown eyes. Someone who wore a calm, knowing smile and drunk with power.
Bored with my own imagination, I yawned and stretched out on the couch, unbuttoning the stiff white shirt clinging to my skin.
There was nothing interesting about crime bosses, anyway. I'd met more than I cared to. They all thought they were something until they stared death in the face.
Ian wouldn't be any different.
I'd get the information I needed for Torren and get the hell out.
Before hell called me back, anyway.
But just as my eyes drifted closed—at 12 midnight, the devil's hour—I felt it.
The weight of cold steel against the side of my head. Pressing in. Heavy.
A vast shadow loomed over me.
"I hate surprises," came the coldest voice I'd ever heard. "Almost as much as I detest bodies touching my sofa."
My lids parted, and there he was.
Light eyes. Cold. Void.
Or at least, that's what he wanted people to see.
"Ian." The name left my lips like a breath, followed by a surprised smirk. Not what I expected.
His face held no warmth.
My gaze drifted, tracing the pristine blue shirt tucked into black slacks. From the corner of my eye, I spotted his coat draped neatly over a hanger.
Clean. Perfectionist. Angsty.
I ticked the boxes in my head as the pistol clicked.
Perhaps my last days on earth wouldn't be so bad.
"Where do you come from?" my new boss snarled. "What's your name?"
Pretty fingers. He had pretty fingers. And they rested against the trigger.
So, with my gut fluttering, I breathed,
"Whatever you call me, boss."
His pale eyes blazed.
And then—
He pulled.