8. DANTE #2
The elevator descends, and finally there is silence. In the parking garage, I get into the Escalade and start the engine. I don't turn on the radio. I don't want to listen to anything now.
I barely leave the garage, and my cell phone rings. " Boss! Thank God you answered! We have a… a strange situation here. "
My jaw clenched. "What now, Vinny? If it's about that fucking duck song, I swear to God that..."
" No, boss, it's not the music! It's the security room printer! It won't stop printing! "
I frown. "Printer? What the fuck about a printer?"
" It's printing… poems, boss. One after another, about plants. "
My blood runs cold. Poems . My stomach churns with a familiar disgust, and the fucking duck song in my head suddenly seems louder, more irritating. "Destroy that shit, Vinny," I order, and hang up on him.
My phone is still hot in my hand. Vinny doesn't understand the gravity of the situation, but I do. One accident, a song—I could still entertain the possibility of stress. But two ? What advantage would the Malakovs gain from sending my printer to print poems ?
That bastard. That filthy aberration is toying with me, sending me fucking poems . The audacity… the damned audacity blinds me with rage.
I need his address. I need that bastard. I need to end this shit once and for all.
I run every red light and overtake every car that appears in front of me. The duck song, which I try to ignore, now plays in my head with terrifying clarity. Those free-falling graphs from Dmitry's tablet materialize in my vision.
I snatch another phone from the dashboard—the burner, for sensitive calls. I punch in Sal's private number.
It rings twice. Three times.
"Sal," I bark into the phone, not bothering with pleasantries. "I need the hacker's address. Nyx. NOW."
There's a pause on the other end, a beat too long. Sal, usually so quick, seems to hesitate. " Boss? You mean... t-the one from the interrogation? Luca said he was... disposed of. "
"Don't give me that bullshit, Sal," I snarl, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. The Escalade swerves as I take a corner too fast. "I want his address. Every single one you have. Now!"
Sal clears his throat. " U-Understood, Boss. Give me a minute. We had his last known residence, but his digital footprint is… tricky. He's good at disappearing, so I… "
"You have thirty seconds," I cut him off. My patience is a shredded mess. "If you don't give me that address, I will break every fucking bone in your body myself."
" N-No need, Boss! No need! " Sal's voice is suddenly urgent, panicked. " I'm sending it to your secure comms. Along with any other relevant data we have on him. Full file. It's coming through now. "
I hear the faint ping of the data transfer. I reach for my comms device and hang up, without waiting for his reply, tossing the burner phone onto the passenger seat. My secure comms device flashes with the incoming file. The address. His address.
He thinks he can play games with me? He thinks he can turn my life into a fucking circus? I'll show him a game. And he's going to beg to lose.
The address leads me to a house so depressing and mundane it turns my stomach. A complex of gray, single-story houses, indistinguishable from thousands of others in that forgotten corner of the city. No grand estate, no high-tech lair. Just… average. A cage built of mediocrity.
How could a lunatic like him live in such a… domesticated place?
I cut the engine. My fingers wrap around the chill metal of my pistol. I don't need backup. This is personal. It's mine .
I slam the car door shut. This is so different from the controlled chaos of my world. I remember Luca's words. He works in an office. Almost a civilian.
This place is a betrayal. It makes Nyx even more incongruous, more out of place.
I stride up the short walkway. My gaze sweeps the muted exterior of the house. No lights. No sounds. Too quiet.
I won't knock. I don't knock for pests.
I aim a brutal kick at the door lock. The wood splinters, and the door frame gives way. The door swings inward, revealing a dimly lit, dusty interior.
My pistol is up, aimed, ready. If I have to, it'll be a single clean shot, I promise myself.
I step inside, my eyes scanning the small, cluttered living room. Cheap furniture, stacks of old books, wires trailing everywhere like a digital spiderweb. It smells of stale coffee and something chemical.
And then I see him.
Nyx isn't hiding. He's not cowering.
He's sitting on a worn armchair in the center of the room, facing the door.
He's wearing everyday clothes; faded sweatpants and an old, stretched-out t-shirt that does nothing to hide the lean lines of his body.
His messy black hair falls over his eyes, but I can see a familiar smirk forming as he sees me.
The marks of my blows are still on his face.
He's holding a mug, steam curling from its rim. Coffee. He sips slowly, calmly, watching me as if I'm an expected guest.
"Took you long enough, mister," Nyx says, his voice soft, almost a purr. He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch from the pistol pointed directly at his head, nor does he pretend to be surprised.
The audacity. The sheer, infuriating audacity of him. My blood freezes, then boils. This bastard. He knew. He knew I was coming. He wanted me to come.
My finger flirts with the trigger. Every fiber of my being screams to pull it, to blow his brains out and end this farce.
But something stops me. The certainty that he wants me to do it. That he's waiting for it. The thought that even his death would be on his terms, a sick reward.
"You think this is funny?" I roar, my voice filling the small room. "You think you can play games with me? Mess with my systems? Send me fucking plant poems? What's your problem, you freak?"
That irritating smirk fades. His face fills with a fury that surprises me.
"My problem, mister? You think you can shove me into your fucking life and then throw me back into this bland, goddamn cage?
" His voice, low at first, rises with each word, vibrating with a raw emotion that has nothing to do with pleasure, and everything to do with pure, unadulterated rage. "You had no right!"
He's seriously angry about being freed ? He's not looking at me with lust like he did in captivity; he's pissed , as if I owe him something. He's accusing me.
This is real. This is his raw, unfiltered rage, and his sheer audacity to yell at Dante Volkov about my right to do anything.
Fuck.
My control shatters. The pistol clatters to the floor, forgotten, and I lunge, grabbing his shirt collar with bone-crushing force.
I yank him forward, dragging him out of the armchair.
The mug clatters to the floor, shattering into sharp pieces of porcelain, and coffee spreads among the thin layer of dust on the floor.
I don't give him time to find his footing.
I slam him against the nearest wall, his head thudding dully against the plaster.
"Listen here, you piece of shit," I snarl, inches from his face. "We showed you mercy. What the fuck do you want?"
Nyx doesn't move. He doesn't even struggle to escape my hands. "I want to feel alive. You decided to send me back to hell. You think that's mercy?"
I push him harder against the wall, his smaller body hitting the plaster hard again. "You are an aberration! A pest! You think you can fuck with my territory, come back to it, just because your life is as shitty as you are?"
"You didn't throw me out, you discarded me!" Nyx snaps back, his voice hoarse, but unwavering despite the obvious injury to his entire body against the wall. "And the only reason you did that is because you didn't have the balls to put a fucking bullet in my head!"
That's it. The last straw. The accusation. The ultimate insult. My vision turns red, a hot wave of pure, unbridled fury consuming me. He just pushed all my buttons.
My fist connects with his jaw. A sickening crunch echoes in the silence. Nyx's head snaps to the side, and, this time, he stumbles, his legs almost giving out. He hits the wall again, then slumps, sliding down until he's kneeling on the dusty concrete floor, bracing himself with one hand.
A thin line of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, staining his pale chin. He coughs, and another crimson drop splatters onto the concrete. He looks at me. I don't know what that look means, and it disturbs me.
My knuckles throb with pain. The sight of his blood, the proof of my violence brings only a hollow, churning emptiness. He pushed me to this. He is broken, spitting blood. But those eyes… those fucking eyes. They still hold that twisted pleasure. That damned satisfaction.
"You're nothing but a nuisance. A headache I need to get rid of," I say, trying to convince myself more than him.
Nyx, still kneeling, wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek. The way he looks at me isn't predatory as I remember. Now, it's just... lost.
"Then use me, mister," he rasps, his voice even hoarser and calmer.
His eyes, though blazing with defiance, also carry a chilling emptiness.
"If I'm useless, if I'm just a problem… then use me to get rid of that anger.
Beat me. Punch me. I don't care. Just make me feel something. Anything. I'm a good punching bag."
My breath hitches. The words, so casually offered, are a grotesque perversion. He is truly broken. He's not just trying to provoke me; he has a genuine willingness to be destroyed. This is madness.
"You're asking me to hit you?" I manage, disbelieving, trying to understand the catch.
Nyx just nods. He gives me a half-smile, empty and eager, with bloodied teeth. "You need to vent, right? You can just... use me. Make me feel."