6. DANTE
SIX
DANTE
Two idiots. Incompetent . Frustration boils in my veins. Not with them, not truly. They're just tools. My rage is more directed at whatever forced me to need them. And at the pathetic distraction still tied up, projecting a satisfaction that irritates me, and, to my disgust, intrigues me.
Ignoring Nyx for a second—because if I looked at him any longer, my goddamn patience would explode—I dial Dmitry's number. My youngest brother. Cooler-headed, less prone to punching a motherfucker until he stops breathing.
"Dmitry," I say, without greeting him. "We found the vulnerability. It's a backup script. Nyx was right."
A brief silence on the other end of the line. Dmitry isn't easily surprised, but I can feel his tension. "The New York hacker? How does he know about this?"
My eyes turn back to my office door. Nyx is probably still in that same position, slumped against the wall, motionless, like a sculpture of provocation. His pants stained with his sickening reactions to pain.
At least he wasn't hard anymore.
"It's a long story," I reply, my voice hoarser than I wanted. "I want the perimeter reinforced, triple the patrols. No one comes in or out without my permission. This place needs to be a tomb."
"Understood," Dmitry says. "Do you need me to come there?"
Dmitry's presence would be useful. He's quick, efficient. But the thought of pulling him from whatever he was doing, just to see Nyx look at him with the same irritating curiosity he gives me… it's too much . I don't want my brother anywhere near that lunatic.
"No," I say. "I'll handle things here. Svetlana's in the country too, so don't worry. Just keep me informed of any suspicious movement. And… prep the jet."
"For what?"
"In case I need a distraction to burn."
I'd love to set fire to something. To imagine Nyx there, his worthless smile melting away.
I hang up before Dmitry can respond. What a nightmare.
I walk back into the room alone. Luca is outside, supervising security with my other men. Good . Fewer witnesses to this aberration.
I push the door open, and the screech of metal against concrete echoes in the warehouse.
Nyx is leaning against the wall, eyes closed and legs crossed. Exactly as when I left. He looks like he's sleeping, but I know he's not.
I bring a sealed bottle of water. He's been here all day, and we haven't given him anything.
He opens his eyes the second my shadow covers him. Those blue-gray eyes, filled with insatiable curiosity. Devoid of the obscenity of pleasure, yet still obscene . He's testing my limits. Always.
"You're useful, at least," I say against my own will. It's not a compliment.
I kneel beside him, resting one knee on the dusty floor. I unscrew the bottle cap and tilt it towards his mouth, gripping his cheeks firmly to hold his head in place.
"Drink."
He looks at me with surprise for the first time. It's almost humanizing to know he can still be surprised after everything. Without a word, he stares at the bottleneck, and I tilt the bottle—one gulp. Two. Some water spills from the corner of his mouth, wetting his chin in a thin trickle.
I wipe the drop away with my thumb. The abruptness isn't entirely rage—violence, at this point, is part of me, and his pale skin flushes with the pain, reddening rapidly under the exaggerated pressure.
He then looks at me. His eyes narrow, flicking to my mouth, and heat rises up my neck.
Fuck. He's enjoying this. He's always enjoying this.
I pull my hand back as if I've touched a parasite. Because that's what happened. This game of his is irritating. And effective.
Nyx wets his lips. "It's surprising, mister. For a man like you, who seems to want to break me every second, this courtesy is unexpected."
Courtesy ? It's just water. Nothing more. But the way he said it, as if he was reading me... it's something I hate. And, at the same time, respect.
"It's not courtesy," I reply. "You rendered a service. I reciprocate. That's how it works."
It's about owing nothing to anyone. Not even to him.
He tilts his head, and a genuine smile—disarming in its simplicity—spreads across his face. Like anyone else's. Any normal person, far from the shit of the underworld; anyone who wouldn't deserve to be where he is.
"So, you are a man of principles, after all," he says. It's bizarre to see fondness in the way he looks at me, and it's the only thing that reminds me I'm not dealing with a civilian, but with a lunatic. "It's true I helped you. You owe me."
That cracks and breaks any semblance of normalcy. The son of a bitch. The audacity .
My hands clench into fists. I am a man of my word. A man of principles, however fucked up my business may be. I pay for all services rendered, but that he would demand it with that tone of voice…
"What do you think you deserve?" I snarl.
He makes me doubt my own values. It's true he's not a Malakov, and that he's not directly involved in the current Volkov disaster.
But he has been before. Helping us now would, at most, make us even, and the greatest reward he could want would be to remain functional, breathing , and not slowly wasting away from dehydration.
But, of course, Nyx has other plans.
"You're actually going to ask me?" he says with a hateful smirk.
The smile, once genuine, distorts into something that was pure Nyx—provocative, perverse, and frankly terrifying. I know what's coming. He won't ask for food, or a bed. He won't ask for fucking freedom. He'll ask for something sick, something that satisfies the ugliness that is his mind.
"I want something unpleasant, mister."
I wait. Almost nervous.
"Give me a slap," Nyx says. He looks at me with downcast eyes, lips parted, cheeks gaining color. "Across the face. Hard."
Sick .
My body freezes. Fuck. It's obvious what just thinking about it is doing to him, reverting to his revolting obscenity.
The demand is an insult. And a temptation.
Because I want to wipe that fucking smirk off his face.
I want to smash his head, I want to make him choke on his own blood and regret turning an operation like this into a fucking circus.
I search for a trace of fear, of hesitation, anything that wasn't that disturbing devotion. Nothing. Only anticipation .
Turning him into a punching bag would only make this something other than part of the job. It would only make him fucking moan.
The palm of my hand throbs, begging to connect with his skin. Hitting this aberration is giving him exactly what he wants. But the arrogance of thinking he can tell me what to do, that he can demand something from me, and the sickening way he looks at me…
The dry crack echoes through the warehouse.
Loud. My satisfaction of unleashing all the hatred he stirred in me directly onto his face lasts only a few seconds—the time it takes to see the red mark staining his skin, his head snapped to the side with the force of the slap, and the sting in my own palm.
Because, immediately after, comes the moan. A moan of complete pleasure, drawn out, low. And the bulge in his stained pants appears again, a damned rise slowly lifting.
He slowly turns his face back to me. He leans towards me, looks at me with heavy breaths and a face red not just from the mark of my hand, but from heat. He looks at me completely submissive .
"Thank you, mister," he whispers, and the sound was more intimate and more provocative than anything he had ever said. His tongue moistens his swollen lips. He wants more. He is waiting, desiring , for me to do more.
My hands, almost on their own, shoot out to grab his cheeks with a force that would make anyone scream. This son of a bitch . Nyx's lips part under the pressure of my fingers, and he lets out another moan.
"This," I snarl, "was not a reward. This was a reminder of who's in charge. You play with me again, and it won't just be a slap."
He bites his lower lip in a gesture that only serves to further fuel my fury. This bastard acts as if I'm flirting with him.
I release him with a shove that sends him stumbling back against the wall. He doesn't complain. He grunts . He watches me, his eyes heavy with desire and his breath still heaving.
I turn my back on him and leave, slamming the room door hard enough to make the metal tremble. Outside, Luca checks the radios with the guards, indifferent to the show that just happened. Good.
I walk through the warehouse, ignoring the murmur of my men.
The dim light, the smell of metal and dirt—everything seems normal.
But nothing is normal. The sound of that moan is still in my ears, the feel of his skin under my thumb, the sight of that fucking bulge .
My blood pulses with an intensity that irritates me. It's not for him. It cannot be for him.
That aberration had fucked me over. Not with a weapon, not with a hack, but with a goddamn slap . He led me exactly where he wanted just to satisfy a sick fetish. The son of a bitch laughed in silence.
I stop in a darker corner, away from prying eyes. I unclench my fist and look at the palm of my hand. The sting is gone, replaced by a residual tingling. It's the same heavy hand that crushes throats and breaks bones for necessity. And now, it burns with Nyx's pleasure .
My mind drags me back to the moment. The immediate flush of red on his pale skin. And that sound. That low, drawn-out moan. It was wrong. Disgusting. And it had echoed in my chest in a way no woman's gasp ever had.
The way he'd leaned into my hand, even after the impact.
And the way he'd looked at me, submissive, completely exposed, his lips swollen, begging for more.
The bulge. Goddamn it. I try to push the image away, but it burns behind my eyelids.
His body's response to my violence. It was a need.
And that knowledge, that he needs this from me, is a venom.
It makes my own body respond in ways I hate.
I can't let him forget who's in charge. I can't let myself forget the fucking threat he represents.
He is a parasite. A problem. A stain on my operation that I don't know how to clean. And the idea of keeping him close, even if it's just to crush him, is sickening .
Bile rises in my throat. I need a clear mind to deal with the true threat—the rat in my organization, the one feeding information to the Malakovs from under my roof.
But that bastard, Nyx , has infiltrated me like a disease.
Any strategic thought is contaminated by the image of his swollen lips and those obscene eyes.
I spot Luca near the heavy metal gate, speaking softly into a radio. He's a symbol of brute force and unquestioning loyalty—a simple man, without mind games or perversions. Just action.
I walk towards him, my boots thudding against the concrete. Luca straightens, snapping to attention the moment he sees me.
"Sir," he greets.
"The hacker," I say. I force myself to keep my voice flat, devoid of the rage that still simmers beneath my skin. I need to sound decisive. Controlled. "He's a problem."
Luca nods. "A big problem." He pauses, looking into nothing. Definitely replaying the disturbing memories of a hostage getting hard from taking a punch. "But he was useful. Found that vulnerability faster than Sal's whole team. Could be an asset."
It's true. He's skilled. Sal, one of the best in the business, looked like a child learning to code next to him. But asset or not, I can't fucking breathe near him.
"He's a distraction," I say. "He's driving me insane . I can't afford that right now, not with a traitor in our midst. Get rid of him."
Luca hesitates, but nods. He pulls his pistol from the holster hidden by his jacket and disengages the safety, checking the bullets and sighing, as if he's about to do something he doesn't want to.
"To the head?" he says.
Only then do I realize how my words sounded.
It's a sorrowful honor that Luca doesn't hesitate to pull the trigger on my command. A testament to the influence exerted by my family, and, at times, a burden all Volkovs were forced to carry. Just not in this case.
I can't allow myself to kill Nyx with my own hands— worse if he's going to moan until his last breath. Since I took over my father, our executions have become clean and without unnecessary sadism if no information had to be extracted by force. Nyx is so sick he must desire a bullet to the head.
And part of the reason I wouldn't even truly consider killing him is that he fucked us once and saved us another. We're even.
"No, Luca," I say, gesturing for him to rest the gun. "Just let him go."
Luca freezes. Thinking. When we kidnap someone, that person deserves it, and when that person deserves it, they rarely survive to tell the tale. Simply letting a hostage go home isn't our practice.
I understand that, however, these are curses of being a just man (and deeply disturbed by the aberration that goes by the name of Nyx).
"Let him go?" Luca says. "After everything? He knows too much. He's seen all our codes, and we don't even know if he told us all the vulnerabilities he found; he's dangerous out there."
"He is dangerous," I agree, running a hand through my hair.
Nyx is frustrating. "But not like a common enemy.
He's... different. Keeping him here is a bigger risk than letting him go.
" A risk to my control. To my goddamn sanity.
"He has no place in our kind of business," I lie.
He does have a place, no matter how much I hate to admit it—a fucked-up courage, a quick intellect, disregarding his disgusting physical reactions.
I look at Luca, making sure my eyes convey absolute determination.
"Right," Luca murmurs, thoughtfully. "He works in an office. You're right."
I hadn't really paid attention to Sal's reports about his personal life. The office information is new.
An office. That lunatic ?
I clear my throat. "Get rid of him. Tonight. Take him somewhere remote, a dump, a hotel—fuck it, I don't care. Just get rid of him."
I can't imagine him in formal wear. Wearing a decent suit or polished shoes and passing through the security turnstiles of a multinational corporation.
"Just... dump him, sir? No warning to stay away from the family?"
I'd tell Luca to threaten him. But Nyx would like that.
"He certainly knows that," I murmur. "Just make it clear he doesn't have a place here."
"Affirmative." Luca's face returns to its usual mask, though his bewilderment remains.
I watch him go. I don't understand the hard knot tightening in my stomach—I'm doing the right thing, getting rid of the problem. Excising the cancer before it spreads.
The image of Nyx, kneeling, eyes heavy with desire, still burns behind my eyelids.
He's trash .
I repeat the words, trying to make them stick.
Just trash .