11. LEO
ELEVEN
LEO
For a while, I even forgot about my fern.
I discovered, grudgingly, that Nicole watered it while I was "sick". Maybe Dante really awakened something in me, because a strange warmth spread through my ribcage when she told me. My fern. It was green, as much as I remembered, absorbing all of Nicole's affection.
Of course, taking care of a fern is still good. It doesn't make me want to die as much as everything else. But between it and Dante…
I've been monitoring the Volkovs' reaction to the new attacks. There were futile attempts to push me back with honeypots. It's cute they implemented that. I saw the trap from a mile away. Afterward, they strengthened some vulnerable points, some easy entries. But I'm already inside.
Monitoring is fun, at least, while I return to the monotony of the office.
I fill out an Excel document in ten minutes—the same one Chad couldn't do—, check logs, observe the static, inert life of my fern. Super interesting. Nicole tries to bring up some idiotic subject, and the most I can do for her is force a smile.
The wounds on my face improve every day.
I still have a lump on my jaw from a broken and sore molar, but it's no longer as visible, and what doesn't cause unnecessary questions from my coworkers doesn't bother me as much (though it hurts like hell).
I have some fascination looking at it in the mirror.
A piece is missing, and the enamel is cracked.
I remember Dante, inadvertently, every time I chew out of habit with that molar. The pain is excruciating. Like him.
At six in the afternoon, I get up from the hard swivel chair and put my few belongings in my backpack. Nicole and Chad call me to eat pizza. I decline. I'll keep declining until they give up.
My walk back home, after the subway, is on empty, quiet streets. A residential area, with few cars and houses that are clones of each other. It's cheaper because it has a history of crime in the vicinity. I don't mind walking alone. I'd even be grateful if I were robbed. Thanks for the adrenaline.
I cross the street. It's the crosswalk, but I don't look both ways. I walk in a straight line, not caring about peripheral lights, until a car slowly stops in front of me. Is this asshole giving me high beams?
I squint, trying to distinguish something in that explosion of light, and I see: a black SUV, with dark, certainly armored windows. Like that time. Like when Dante took me.
I lower my backpack, resting it on the sidewalk, and the front door opens. I recognize him immediately: Luca, impassive, casting his immense shadow over the asphalt. His expensive suit and obviously troglodytic body make it clear he's not a civilian.
"Déjà vu," I say. He doesn't approach, and no other men get out of the car. There are no signs of violence. "Where's the bag this time?"
He ignores my question. "The boss wants to speak with you, sir."
Sir .
"I'm half your age," I say.
Luca walks unhurriedly to the back door. He opens it, stands beside it, and gestures, palm facing me and fingers pointed toward the car.
"Please," he says. It's no plea. It's an order. I imagine he'd drag me by force if I said no.
I approach as slowly as he did, pulling my backpack back onto my shoulders, hanging it on one shoulder strap. I stop in front of him. I look into his eyes, whose color I never knew. They are brown. Not as dark as Dante's, not as light as Nicole's.
I can glimpse the holster beneath his blazer. Armed.
"I was expecting more violence," I say.
He shows nothing but attention and something close to hesitation. He knows I'd like the violence. He must think I'm an unpredictable lunatic.
"Mr. Volkov's orders were to bring you untouched," he says. He reinforces his gesture of pointing into the car and repeats, more impatiently, "If you please."
Untouched. So he can be the only one to hurt me?
I give him a smirk before getting into the car. Luca lets out a discreet sigh of relief. He closes the door for me, like a gentleman, and I barely recognize the same man who pulled my hair and pushed me through the warehouse corridors.
Of course, he's not alone. The other big guy in the driver's seat says nothing, doesn't even look at me. He accelerates after Luca gets in, and this time there's no blindfold preventing me from recognizing the way.
I don't know if I like this.
I map the route. It's long. We're not heading in a rural or commercial direction. Instead, we're going toward a distant neighborhood known for its security and ostentation—a gated community.
I stay silent the entire time. As the gates open and the car drives into the community—a cluster of mansions and luxury buggies—I peek through the windows.
Buggies . For what, playing golf ? The lawns of all the mansions are impeccable, maintained by some poorly paid day laborer, and we pass to the furthest, largest mansion.
It's surrounded by well-pruned, dense bushes, and the front garden has a fucking fountain with a stone bird statue.
The car parks in front of the mansion.
What the fuck is this?
Luca gets out of the car, and, again, like a gentleman from a thousand years ago, opens the door for me. I step out.
"I have hands," I complain.
He also closes the door for me.
"I said I have hands," I say, louder, and he just gestures for me to follow him.
A golden pebble path. A lady trimming the leaves of a boxwood. A butterfly on the edge of the fountain. It would be domestic if it weren't for the guards scattered throughout the perimeter.
Luca opens the mansion door. Inside, of course, there are more guards—and, otherwise, it's a holiday resort. White marble, tall columns, ebony furniture, and velvet sofas. I grip my backpack strap as tight as I can. I don't understand.
Why am I here?
Luca leads me to a back room. It's less ostentatious than the rest of the house, with few—and small—grated windows, visible cameras, and robust locks. It has a simple bed against the wall, minimalist furniture like any ordinary bedroom. The bed is made, and the floor is clean.
I hesitate to enter. I don't know what's happening. Luca goes in first, looking up over his shoulder.
"What the fuck is this," I murmur.
"Your home," a voice says from behind me.
I recognize it. From my dreams, from my best memories. Dante. His shadow swallows me, and I see it emerge on the floor.
I turn to him.
He's not seething with rage. He looks disgusted, perhaps, tired. And there are no handcuffs. No bags over my head. Just an immaculate guest room in a ridiculously opulent mansion, with a tidy bed and no signs of blood or torture, with a fucking porcelain flower on the nightstand. A fucking home.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I say, incredulous. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be comfortable.
Dante approaches, and Luca closes the door behind us. A click. Is he really imprisoning me here ?
"It's simple," Dante says, and he gives me a look that promises things won't be simple.
"You will be contained. Your ‘games' are over.
Your ‘attacks' will cease. You will stay here until you fix the fucking mess you created, and any others that appear.
And most importantly: you will not give me any more headaches, understood? "
"I… what?" I almost gape, with a half-failed, incredulous smile. He's not imprisoning me in a dungeon. He's domesticating me. Giving me a routine . Stuffing me into a velvet cage. This is worse than anything I could have imagined.
"You're not here on vacation," Dante continues.
"You're here because I need you where I can see you, where I can ensure you won't fuck up my life anymore.
You won't have external internet access, except under supervision.
Your movements will be monitored, and your communication controlled.
And, unlike what you seem to enjoy, I have no patience for your perversions.
You will not feel a fucking thing of what you want to feel here. "
I clench my fists. My backpack slips from my shoulder and falls to the floor. The broken molar throbs. What changed? It's a physical reminder of the violence Dante gave me, but that he's denying me now. Even that. What the hell changed?
"You're… you're giving me a fucking room?" I can't control my voice. It comes out louder than intended, angrier. "You're locking me up in a fancy condo? After everything I did, you give me a home ?"
Dante looks at me, and he almost seems satisfied. Of course. Giving me more of the same, more of my daily misery… is this how he wants to punish me in a way I won't like?
"Show me what's in your head." He points to a desk with a computer already on. "Let's work. And don't make me lose my patience."
I look at the room, at the made bed, at the computer.
The emptiness of a predetermined routine, of an imposed normal life.
This isn't what I wanted. This is worse than Chad's office.
I pick up the porcelain flower sculpture and hurl it at the wall. It shatters into several porcelain pieces, scattered on the floor with a sharp crack that makes Luca rest a hand on his holster. Dante stares at me with a frown, but I avert my gaze.
I worked as hard as I could for this. For this . To prefer my personal hell. To prefer going back to a fucking fern in a gray cubicle.
My jaw aches. My head spins.
I walk to the computer. I sit in the chair.
Nyx isn't truly here. It's just Leo. Tired of this milking shit.
The computer hums, innocent and gleaming. I look at it with sympathy. I wish I were like you, friend. Inanimate and empty-headed.
Dante stands close to me, in silence. He wants to watch. He wants to see me squirm, probably. Well, I'll squirm, but not in the way he expects. This isn't a show. This is just… work.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice flat, devoid of any of the taunting tones I usually use with him. "The Malakovs' ghost? The missing shipments? The casino payout glitches?"