12. DANTE
TWELVE
DANTE
I don't think I'll ever understand Nyx.
I thought he desired this. My attention. Being confined in this house on my terms sounded like a victory for him, almost a defeated testament to me, but just as he was enraged at being freed from a kidnapping, all he showed was frustration at being placed here.
I looked for Nyx in what seemed like a tired, clumsy version of him.
The same appearance and voice, the same bruises and features.
A wrong doppelganger. I looked for Nyx in the way he looked at me.
The reverence, the submission. The inherent obscenity of those pupils that dilated when they saw me.
And there was only tiredness. Disinterest.
I'm not proud of having pulled him to the surface. Nyx truly only appears at the sign of pain. A slap, a tug of the hair, and he would moan for me again. My body would react to him again.
Nyx. I don't understand you.
The twenty-four-hour deadline is absurd. Sal's team took weeks to gather all the leak data, and I only suggested it to see him fail.
Of course, it would be great if everything was resolved in twenty-four hours.
Unrealistic and utopian. My siblings called at all times, reporting casualties or seeking updates.
With Nyx working with us, Dmitry is more confident.
Svetlana, on the other hand, only operates by seeing practical results.
I try to focus on my obligations. Failing to do so leads me to my best whiskey and my best cigars.
My body, despite my best efforts, still responds to the violence that had brought Nyx back to life, back to me .
The memory repeats itself against my will.
It's a disgusting cocktail of repulsion and raw, animalistic arousal that I can't purge.
I hate it. I hate him for making me feel it.
The clock in my office had just struck the twenty-four-hour mark. I don't bother with pleasantries. I don't send Luca. This is my problem, my aberration.
I walk through the polished marble corridor of the mansion.
I half expect to find him slumped over the keyboard, asleep, defeated by the task.
Or worse , to find him having sabotaged something else, just to piss me off.
I don't know what to expect from him, not really, and that's what makes me most nervous.
I reach the door and open it without knocking. The ceiling light is off, and only the computer screen illuminates Nyx's desk. He is there, seated in the desk chair, facing the monitor.
He doesn't turn to me.
"Report," I demand. I need him to react, to give me something beyond that placid, tired stillness.
The swivel chair glides across the floor toward me. It stops gradually until it is facing me. Nyx leans back, tilting the chair's backrest, and looks up at me, upside down. He gives me an almost inconsequential smile, dangling a black USB stick in his hand.
"Here you go, boss," he says, his voice hoarse with fatigue. His dark circles are more prominent, but the pride is obvious.
At least, this one still looks like Nyx.
I take the USB from his fingers. He adjusts himself in the chair, turning to face me. He rests his arms on the top of the backrest and his chin on them, watching me with that smile bordering on amusement.
He's very confident. Either this USB would destroy what remained of all our systems, or he adhered to my impossible deadline.
I say nothing. I turn and leave the room—whatever is on the USB will dictate my true reaction.
I march straight to the main operations room, where Dmitry and Svetlana are already poring over new data.
"Any new developments?" Svetlana asks, without looking up.
I slam the USB stick onto the polished table. "He said he fixed it."
Dmitry looks up, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, and then takes the USB. He plugs it into his high-security laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard, accessing the affected systems. Svetlana and I stand behind him, peeking at the screen.
He checks the reports prepared by Nyx. Detailed, in an organization that I find difficult to associate with him.
All problems, access points, and vulnerabilities are properly listed and linked.
Dmitry opens each of the scripts and modifications, each cluster of characters whose purpose I don't understand.
Dmitry's brow furrows more and more. He grabs his tablet, accessing real-time logs in a hurry, reviewing Nyx's files, and opens our graphs that had only plummeted in the last week.
Today and now, the red indicators are turning green. The casino payout numbers, the shipping manifests... they are stabilizing.
The bleeding stopped. In 24 hours.
That son of a bitch actually did it.
"Holy shit," Dmitry says, leaning back in his chair, almost breathless.
"He... he fixed it. All access points were shut down.
All backdoors were patched. He even implemented new, stronger encryption protocols where the old ones failed.
" He looks at me with an admiration that is very rare for him.
"Dante, this is incredible. We've been investing millions in this for weeks, and he did it in a day. "
Svetlana runs her hand over her mouth, stunned. "Twenty-four hours. And you kept him locked up all this time? Why the hell didn't we use him before?"
Dmitry nods, and a rare, genuine smile breaks through his usual stoicism.
"We need him, Dante. Permanently. Not just for this, for everything.
We need to make him an offer, we can't let him provide services to the competition again.
I'll draft an ironclad contract. We need to keep him working for us. "
Dmitry is too excited, talking about contracts, about making an offer, about talking to him. He doesn't understand. He sees a tool. But Nyx is a ticking time bomb, a twisted reflection.
"He's... temperamental," I say. "He doesn't work with contracts, trust me."
Dmitry furrows his eyebrows. He knows my behavior is strange.
"Temperamental how? We deal with volatile assets every day.
This isn't just about the Malakovs now. It's about securing our future.
A mind like that..." He looks at the screen, then back at me, with an admiration I haven't seen in him for a long time.
"Do you think he needs to be... incentivized differently? "
"He needs to be controlled ," I retort. I start to feel pressure in my teeth, my jaw too clenched. "He operates outside conventional frameworks. He responds to... clear directives. You're not getting it."
"I want to meet him," Svetlana says. "Properly. A genius who solves our biggest problem in 24 hours needs to be vetted. And I want to understand this 'specific approach' you're talking about."
I know Svetlana's inflexibility. She's determined. No matter what I say.
This makes me uneasy.
Dmitry, for the first time, seems to consider my words.
He trusts my judgment on volatile assets, even if he doesn't completely understand my aversion to Nyx.
"Alright, Dante. If you say so. But I'll still draft the preliminary contract details.
Just for our records. A framework. For when he's... assimilated.
And for when we understand exactly what kind of 'temperamental' we're dealing with. "
Svetlana merely raises an eyebrow, saying nothing. She won't let it go. She'll find a way to meet him. I know it. Fuck.
I don't wait for any further response.
I don't know what to think about all this. It disgusts me to imagine Nyx spewing his perversion over Dmitry— worse , over Svetlana . What will he do, get hard at her first rudeness? Beg like a whore for Dmitry to lose his temper and beat him to death?
Fuck . Damn it. I need to keep him controlled.
I don't know when Dmitry or Svetlana will come to try to talk to that aberration, but I know he expects a reward for his work.
And I know—I know too well —the headache he causes when he's frustrated.
I can't predict what he'll do with my siblings if I don't give him something.
This is against my initial rules. Nyx wasn't supposed to feel minimally satisfied in this place, only controlled. I know I can use pain to make him submit to me, but he expects more now.
I take a deep breath. He did the work. Within my impossible timeframe. I need to reward him.
I know what he wants.
My boots hit the marble, carrying me faster than usual down the corridor. The anticipation, a hot and unwanted nervousness, churns in my gut. He is waiting. He is always waiting for this, for the breaking of my own rules.
I open the door to his room. He's still in the desk chair, and he turns in it, resting his arms on the top of the backrest to look at me. He smiles at me. He hasn't slept, and it's obvious in his dark circles and contained exhaustion. But the smile is unmistakably Nyx.
"You delivered," I say. The victory over the Malakovs and the secured systems should be satisfying, but his damned satisfaction overshadows it all. "Everything. The Malakovs are bleeding, and the systems are secure. For now."
He tilts his head, resting it on his arms with complicity. "And my reward?" he whispers. His eyes, dilated, burn with an insatiable hunger.
I can feel the heat rising in me.
I loathe this feeling.
"On your knees," I snarl with the bitterness and disgust of my own growing desire.
Slowly, he stands up. That familiar reverence returns to his face, even more pronounced by all the bruises. He walks closer to me.
He kneels.
His head tilts back, exposing the pale line of his throat, his bruised jaw, his slightly swollen lips. His eyes devour my face, burning with raw hunger.
Despite the physical exhaustion of the last 24 hours, the unmistakable bulge in his worn pants begins to rise, pressing against the faded fabric.
Here he is. This sick fuck.
I grab the back of his neck and pull his head closer. He gasps, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You earned your reward, Nyx," I say, with contempt.