4. DANTE
FOUR
DANTE
Rage consumes me.
Nyx—that son of a bitch—not only breached my systems and bled me dry of millions but also left me that damn ASCII art. A "find me" note, cynical in the way only a sick mind could think was clever. And hell, I did find him. But not before my guys, led by Sal, turned his little world inside out.
While I was giving final orders, Sal and his team were unraveling Nyx's digital trail.
Every byte, every log, every digital footprint he thought he'd erased—they found it.
They uncovered surveillance footage, bank transactions, internet records—everything.
And here's the worst part: the bastard wasn't an easy mark.
Even the most mundane bits of his personal data were locked up tight, encrypted under layers that made my so-called "experts" break into a sweat.
No active social media, no simple online history.
Hunting him was like chasing an invisible ghost—flickering in the shadows—straining my eyes.
And with every encrypted file, every digital wall, my rage grew. The fact that this little shit was good at hiding, smug in his obscurity, infuriated me.
And now... he's just meters away.
My footsteps echo through the warehouse. Luca trails behind. The stench of mold and concrete clogs my throat, and the moment I open the door, it's tainted by something else. A hint of sweetness. A misplaced perfume.
There he is. Nyx.
Back to us, hands cuffed behind him, a black sack still over his head. He doesn't look like much. Average height. Slim. Clothes wrinkled and grimy from the grab. Could be any nobody dragged off the street.
Difference is, this nobody waltzed through my systems, danced through my secrets, and now holds my family's future between his fingers—fingers he's about to lose if he doesn't start cooperating.
"Get that off his head," I bark at Luca, sharper than I meant to.
I want to see the face of the man who's making my life hell. I want to see fear in his eyes when he looks at me.
Luca doesn't disappoint. One brutal tug, and the sack is off.
"Lift him."
Luca grabs the guy by the hair, his ebony strands clutched in one rough hand, and yanks him upright, forcing him to his knees. Nyx grunts. A long, low sound. Almost like a sigh. Weird.
My eyes lock on him.
Young. Shockingly young. Early twenties, maybe thirty at a stretch.
Sharp jaw, pointed chin. Curly black hair, messy.
Skin pale and nearly translucent under the faint beam of light slicing through the ceiling.
Light scratches mark his face where the sack scraped skin.
His cheeks are flushed. Warmth radiates from his face and neck where Luca's hold strains him upright.
And he's not scared.
He looks… feverish.
His eyes—unnervingly light, some shade between gray and blue—blink painfully against the light.
And then, it feels like shit is getting weird.
There's no shock. No visceral fear, no soul-deep dread I'm used to seeing in people who cross my path—just curious , almost bored eyes. Glazed. Unfocused.
My gaze drops with a predator instinct on autopilot. And stops.
What. The. Fuck .
Pushing hard against his worn-out jeans is the unmistakable outline of an erection. Obscene. Tense.
I glance at Luca. His usual poker face is cracked, for the first time in years, with genuine confusion. He looks at the guy, then at me, like we're both stuck in the same fucked-up hallucination.
I look back at Nyx. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't try to hide it. If anything, he meets my stare head-on , that ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. Like he's reveling in this.
A bitter taste rises in my throat, disgust curling inside me as I stare at him, the grotesque proof of whatever twisted game he's playing. But beneath it, something nameless. Something that makes my skin crawl in ways I can't quite explain— shame twisting my insides.
This isn't how a hostage behaves. This is not how a man responds when he's face-to-face with someone who could end him with a snap of the fingers.
"Nyx, I presume," I say, keeping my voice steady, pretending I'm not seconds away from short-circuiting.
Nyx tilts his head. That smirk widens just a hair. His voice, calm and teasing, strikes a nerve—enough to make me clench my fists and doubt my grip on control. "Depends who's asking. And what you're offering."
Offering ? I kidnapped him. Cuffed him. And he's here, hard as a rock, asking what I have to offer ?
I stare again at the bulge in his pants, that grotesque, confusing proof. Is this some mindfuck game? Is he messing with me?
If so— fuck —it's working.
Or maybe he's just insane. Utterly, irreparably fucked in the head.
Part of me can't look away.
"You think this is funny, you little shit?"
His eyes glint. "Funny's not the word I'd use. Stimulating, maybe. Alluring."
I've dealt with all kinds of filth in my life. Killers, traitors, full-blown psychos. But never— never —someone like him. Someone who seemed to get off on being kidnapped. Someone who stared into the abyss and, instead of flinching, leaned into it, driven by a madness of his own.
Some twisted, microscopic part of me is curious. A sick need to see how deep this madness goes. To test the edges of the riddle kneeling in front of me.
I force myself to snap out of it. I need intel . I need to break Nyx, find out who's leaking from the inside.
This entire charade—this grotesque distraction —is just noise.
How do you break someone who wants to be broken? How do you threaten a man who sees threats as foreplay ?
I have a horrible feeling that my already complicated life is about to get a lot stranger.
"Who are you working for?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady, even though I feel like I'm about to explode. "The Malakovs? Did they send you to leak my family's information?"
"I've worked for them before," Nyx says, calmly, almost teasingly . "But that's all. Everyone works for everyone these days, mister… ?"
My jaw tightens. He is playing games. "You dare to ask my name? You're in my warehouse, tied up, and you think you can ask me questions?"
"It's only fair I get to know who's in charge." His eyes drop, just for a second, to his pants. That thing is still there, undeniable, a pulsing testament to whatever was wrong with him.
I glance at Luca, who's just as confused.
"Take it out of me," Nyx's voice drops to a whisper that makes my skin crawl. "Come on, make me talk. I dare you."
He wants me to get violent. He's practically begging for it. And a part of me, the part that deals with trash like him every day, wants to give him exactly what he asked for. I have to remind myself that this is just a job. This is just a job.
Luca's grip on Nyx's hair tightens automatically, pulling his head back even further. Nyx's moan is airy this time, a long drawn-out sound that sounds more like pleasure than pain. He's not normal.
I step closer, my shadow falling over his pale face.
"So, Nyx. You like to play games." I reach out, tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
He shivers, and a subtle tremor runs through his body.
Not from fear. I know that much. This is something else entirely.
"Let's see if you're so brave when the stakes are real. "
My hand trails down his neck, and I dig my fingers into the flesh below his ear. He gasps, exposing more of his throat, practically inviting me.
This infuriates me. He's making it too easy.
"Who are you protecting?" I demand, pressing my thumb hard against a pulse point. His heartbeat hammers under my skin, fast and erratic. "Tell me about the Malakovs. Every single detail."
Nyx lets out a soft sound, a low hum that vibrates through my fingertips. It's a sound of effort. This is not the response I want, this is making him sing . And it's starting to piss me off even more.
"I told you," he whispers, his voice strained yet still holding that taunting edge. "Everyone works for everyone. There's nothing to tell that you don't already know."
I repeat to myself. Just a fucking job.
"You're lying." My grip around his throat tightens, and he lets out a hiss of breath.
"You're choking me," he says. "Do it harder. Just a bit more."
Enough.
My fist moves of its own accord. The next thing I know, my knuckles hit the sharp corner of his jaw. A dull thud. A loud grunt.
Nyx's head whips to the side as Luca loses his grip.
"That's better." He spits blood onto the concrete floor. His words are slurred now, and I can see the imprints of my fingers already forming on his neck.
"Fuck, you are insane," Luca murmurs.
I ignore him, watching Nyx closely. "What do you gain from protecting the Malakovs, huh?"
"I'm not protecting anyone," he says.
I look down. It is still there, pressing against the fabric of his pants, unashamed.
"Don't test me, Nyx. Don't you dare fucking test me."
I step on it.
The crunch is sickening. A wet, tearing sound, muffled by denim. He gasps. Not a moan this time, not a tease, but a sharp, ragged inhalation of agony. He doubles over, folding in on himself, hiding his face from me, but I hear it—a strangled, high-pitched noise, like a trapped animal.
Finally .
"Is this what turns you on, huh?" I snarl.
The heel of my boot crushes down. Nyx whimpers in a choked sob ripping from his throat, transforming suddenly into a fragile thing against the raw pressure I exert.
His sweat, slick and glistening under the sickly yellow lights, beads on his brow, fighting to contain the agony, and each muscle in his trembling frame strains.
Luca shifts beside me. I don't look at him, but I can feel his stare. He's seen a lot of fucked-up things, but this ? This is new.
Nyx is shaking now, tremors racking his whole body, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. He's a mess. Broken . I feel it. This is what I needed. This is something he can't turn into pleasure.
I lift my foot.