RAGNAR #2
Still not looking at him, I answer, "Those are better suited for edible plants. And they’re definitely less effective. This is good old bifenthrin. These are decorative. No one’s eating them."
"Right, of course. Still weird that spider mites made it into the inner garden," he mutters. But he doesn’t seem to want to keep the topic going. He leans over his glass and takes a few sips.
While he’s distracted, I steal a quick glance his way.
He’s wearing a thin white silky tank top and pale blue-and-white jeans. His figure is stunning: narrow waist, slim hips, long, graceful legs. Still, I don’t dare look up at his face. If he caught me checking him out, he could report it to Anzo.
"Been working here long?" he asks suddenly.
"No, about four months."
"You’re doing a great job. The garden’s perfect. I love this clean, modern look," he says enthusiastically, and it actually sounds genuine. "The geometric pruning, square planters…"
Is he trying to butter me up? Make friends?
Again, I allow myself one more quick glance. We’re about seven feet apart now. He’s facing me, our eyes meet for a split second.
Wow. I wasn’t ready for how beautiful he is!
Fair, it was a very short glance, but I couldn’t find a single flaw on his face.
I’d even dare say he looks more like a gorgeous omega than an alpha.
Too bad I can’t catch a whiff of his pheromones to confirm it.
It’s a double block. On top of his anti-Allure deodorant, my suppressant pills are doing their job too.
That one glimpse will have to be enough for now.
The bruise on his cheek stands out, though. And it doesn’t look fake. Unfortunately. If it were makeup, I’d smell it. But there’s nothing, no foundation, no powder.
The realization that this beautiful guy was beaten by somebody hits me pretty hard. A sharp mix of anger and pity. But I forcibly rein it in. Who knows what’s going on? Maybe the kid agreed to play the role realistically, and the bruise is part of the act.
Am I being paranoid?
I know agents sometimes go all in when infiltrating. Makeup, props, even injuries, to make it more convincing. But this guy? Could Anzo really go that far just to test some gardener?
Come to think of it, even one mole is one too many for the mafia. So who knows what elaborate strategies they might use to flush someone out of hiding.
"Being a gardener seems like a nice job. You get to be outside, close to nature. Relaxing," the guy sighs, watching the planters.
"Not when there’s a spider mite infestation," I reply wryly.
He lets out a soft laugh. It’s a beautiful sound, light, melodic, almost musical.
That laugh sends a pleasant chill down my spine, followed by a fleeting image I don’t need. His hand reaching toward me, fingertips brushing my arm, tickling my skin.
What? I’m obviously going insane. I shake it off immediately.
Even if he’s not on a mission to test me, he’s clearly someone’s lover in this place. One of the mafia’s boys. I have no business paying him any attention.
And yet I sneak one more glance. Can’t help myself.
His skin is golden, like he tans regularly but carefully. Smooth. His muscles aren’t oversized, just defined. Faint veins trace a delicate pattern across his forearms. I’ve always liked that on a man.
He turns slightly to the side, offering me a view of his profile. Sweet lips. Long lashes. His neck and collarbones are deliciously exposed. The pale, unblemished neck glands are on full display, and for a second, my eyes are fixed on them.
But there’s an unexpected element there. A golden neck ring, or something that looks like a Celtic gold torque. Rather thick and not exactly fitting his style. Since he has no other jewelry, that one stands out. Oh well, I’m not here to judge his taste in accessories.
The young man turns his flawless face toward me and, I’m sure of it, catches my interest in his neck. So I quickly glance again at the nearest yucca planter.
If they sent this guy to seduce me or shake me up, they picked the perfect weapon. Someone with looks like that could probably disarm anyone. Likely even guys who are exclusively into omegas.
The scent of sweet orange body wash reaches my nose as he takes two steps forward, closer to the planter. His skin smells clean and fresh, and a subtle shiver runs through me.
But immediately after, I feel a flicker of sudden irritation. What the fuck. Hell to the no.
Without saying a word, I start walking away toward the next set of plants. I can feel his gaze on my back.
Still, maybe taking off like that without a word is more suspicious than small talk. So I toss over my shoulder, "Have a nice day," just to keep up appearances.
More than anything, I just hope he doesn’t notice, or sniff, that… my traitorous dick is starting to press against my pants. That would be bad.
Stopping at the far corner of the garden, I force myself to pull it together.
Why did I even start talking to him? A discussion about spider mites? I’m not here for that. It’s too dangerous. Yes, I should try to gather as much intel as I can, but picking a mafioso’s lover for that seems downright desperate.
He lives in the mobster's estate, probably is fine with mafia ways. He's basically one of them. Extreme caution required. And I'm on a mission here. My brothers need me.
But as I keep working, images of the pretty mafia boy just won’t stop looping in my head. That elegant, dancer’s build. Sun-kissed skin. Those rich golden waves of hair. Why does he have to be exactly my type? A type I didn’t even know I had, until now.
Fucking distraction!
The young man heads back inside soon after. The patio finally empties. What a relief.
I make my way toward the kitchen for lunch. The entrance is about a hundred feet from the glass doors he disappeared through.
Inside, a group of soldiers is sitting around the table. I recognize most of them by name now. The deputy butler is there too.
I never start conversations, and absolutely avoid asking questions, that’s what would raise the most suspicion. If I do chat, I steer it toward neutral ground.
While I’m eating, one of the guards says to the other, "Saturday’s off, there’s gonna be a banquet. Maybe we’ll hit up Alonso’s?"
Alonso’s is a bar about five minutes from The Sun by car. I know the soldati hang out there from time to time.
Another banquet?
So far, I’ve never stuck around for any of them. As a gardener, I have no business being near the guests. It’d be highly unusual if I hovered nearby doing what… mowing the lawn? Staring at them, making everybody wonder what I’m up to?
I’m only ever called in afterward to clean up.
But the thought crosses my mind, maybe this time I could… drag out my tasks a bit and find a way to hang around.
The pressure on me is building; I need to find a way out of this stalemate. I simply can’t handle another call from my parents, their tears, their pleading for me to do something, to find Summer, to figure out what happened to Moon.
It’s already too much for my nerves. I need to make a move, stir up some energy, trigger some kind of chain reaction, push the situation forward. Anything’s better than this goddamn paralysis and lack of results.
Theoretically, the banquet might give me a window of opportunity to pick up some stray intel about the other people living in the fortress. I could try eavesdropping on the guests with my purple alpha ear. Risky, but doable.
Who knows, maybe Summer shows up at these banquets?
It could also be… a good opportunity to watch that young blond guy more closely. Try to figure out if he might be here to sniff me out. How close is he to Anzo? If they’re tight, then yeah, I’m probably being watched.
But on the other hand, maybe the risk would be worth it? That boy living in the fortress might know something about Summer and Moon too. Perhaps after the event, I could try just casually chatting with him. If I steer the conversation just right, he might let something slip.
Wait a second…
Really? How can I not see that this is a horrible idea?!
Approaching Ferro’s boy and exchanging gossip? Maybe even befriend him? No one would find that suspicious, right? And the mobster himself wouldn't mind, for sure.
Cursing under my breath, I stop eating and straighten up. It’s obvious this sudden, intense urge to pull the kid into my recon work isn’t just about getting info on my brothers.
There’s more to it, and I swear loudly.
I can’t possibly be that fucking stupid.
I just…
I…
I should just get a better look at him, that’s all. Just to assess whether he might be useful for my mission in some other way! Nothing more.
Yep, I quickly reset my brain.
Focus, Ragnar.
***
That afternoon, I still have a few things to take care of in the garden. One of the rose vines has crept into the gazebo, and I need to trim it back. I grab my pruning kit and head over.
The gazebo sits in the middle of the inner garden, almost completely overgrown from the outside by rose bushes blooming white and pink.
When I step inside, I freeze.
Someone’s curled up on the bench, staring down at a photograph, sobbing softly.
It’s him. The golden-haired distraction.
I hesitate, wondering if I should quietly back out, but it’s too late. He lifts his head, and our eyes meet.
Like that, from the front, I see him for the first time.
My previous assessment wasn't wrong. His features are truly exquisite. Huge, light green eyes, the color of sun-drenched grass, stare at me from beneath the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.
His lips are dark red and impossibly soft-looking, and his skin is clear and smooth, except for the bruise on the right side of his face.
Even in the half-shade, his hair glows a deep golden honey, falling in soft waves over one shoulder.