Reality fluttered around Dark's senses, swarming his head with a fog.

    He couldn't recall anything else after the blackout. Just noise, for a brief moment. An echoing swell of chaos that bubbled like he was underwater.

    A wave of gasps, a rise in volume... and—maybe—gunshots?

    The latter couldn't have been possible, but then the darkness of his unconscious state began to swim with flutters of pink. An alluring smile, twinkling eyes... and a charming personality that would go to any lengths to get what he wanted.

    Wilford Warfstache.

    His face rippled in front of his eyes, and Dark stirred, his breaths picking up pace. The darkness around him began to waver, and then he grew aware of his body, his limbs feeling all heavy and tingly. His fingers twitched, brushing against cool fabric.

Noise filtered in through his ears.

    The steady rhythm of his breaths, the rustle of sheets from his movements, the soft whirr of AC... and the creak of a door.

    Dark stilled, and he composed himself, taking a deep breath in and out. He didn't dare open his eyes—not yet.

    "What do you mean—waking up?" slurred a voice. Despite the fog in Dark's head, he recognized that voice; it was the same one from the party, the same one that confronted him.

Wilford.

"I-I mean, he—was—" came a hesitant, scratchy voice. One Dark didn't recognize.

"He could be awake right now," said a third, lower one. One that held authority. "Listening to us."

Dark's skin crawled, and he did his best to keep his breathing steady and his eyes closed. Now that he was aware of his eyelids, it was harder to keep them shut; just the flutter of his lashes could give himself away.

A silence swelled in the room, and Dark strained to hear anything else.

"You have to decide quickly," said the third voice again, lower. Dark assumed they were Wilford's right hand. "We either rush him back home now, or you keep him calm here."

Home, rang the word in Dark's head. That meant he wasn't in his own bed; he was somewhere he didn't know—a place that could be in the middle of nowhere for all he knew. He very slowly began to piece things together.

Wilford Warfstache was dangerous—he could feel it, the night they met. From their confrontation at the party, Dark knew he had some type of authority... but without proof, he didn't know whether or not the man was truly capable of the horrors he was said to have committed.

He wanted something from Dark. And now he was here, in someone else's bed. Things started to look less like a negotiation and more like... He stopped his line of thought. He wouldn't get any answers if he just laid here. Jumping to conclusions would make things worse.

Dark stirred on the bed, his brows furrowing, and someone cursed.

"All of you—out," came Wilford's voice, hushed. "Out!"

A rush of footsteps passed, a creak of wood, and then a door shutting. Dark's breathing quickened at the sound, his brain fizzing at the thought of being alone in a room (again) with Wilford.

The steady sound of pacing clicked in his ears, and then they stopped. Weight sank into Dark's side of the bed, and although he had the sudden urge to shy away, he stayed in place.

Dark sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes fluttered open, squinting at the bright sunlight filtering through the windows. He brought a hand up to shield his eyes—his arm feeling like sludge—and waited for his body to adjust before he did anything else.

His head swelled with pain, but he pushed it aside, taking a quick glance of his surroundings through the corners of his eyes.

He was in a bedroom—a large one, most likely part of a mansion—and his body was laid across a king-sized bed. From his line of sight, he couldn't see anything else.

Dark took a deep breath, and he carefully glanced over, lowering his hand. When his eyes met with Wil's, his heart pounded, a wave of heat rushing through his body. He cleared his throat and carefully sat up, ignoring the pain in his body, and kept eye contact with Wil the entire time.

The mafia boss returned the gaze.

"Mr. Warfstache," said Dark eventually, his throat sore from ill use. The man smiled at the greeting, and his eyes went half-lidded. When he rose a taunting brow, something fluttered in Dark's stomach.

"Host was right," said Wilford, his slurred accent thick as ever. "You were awake, weren't you?"

Dark didn't answer. He smoothed a hand over his chest and glanced down at himself, grateful to find his clothes were still on. Only his white blazer had been discarded—to where he didn't know.

He carefully inhaled, and his gaze flicked onto Wil's.

"Would you care to explain," he said evenly, "why I'm here?"

Wilford lingered a moment, clearly mulling over a plausible answer, and chuckled. "Always straight to business with you people, isn't it?" he teased. When Dark sent him a glare, Wilford rolled his eyes with a smirk and continued.

"You blacked out at the party," he said, with as much honesty as he could muster. A quality foreign to him. "I did what any considerate person would've done and took you home with me." He wavered a moment, then added, "You've been out of it for two days now."

The statement stopped Dark in his tracks, but he didn't let it show. His lashes only gave a quick flutter.     

Two days? he thought, his mind whirring. How could he have been out for so long?

Suspicion began to coil in his chest, and he leveled Wilford in his gaze.

"I don't just black out at formal events, Mr. Warfstache," he said, voice lowering. "I know how to hold my alcohol." He situated himself on the bed so he was sitting at the edge, his legs hanging over the side. His fingers dug into the sheets, and he gazed at Wilford, features hardening.

"There was something in my drink," he said, narrowing his eyes. "And I have a feeling you're the one behind it."

"That's a bold accusation, Mr. Edwards," said Wil carefully, tilting his head. Dark steadily inhaled, his stomach fluttering, but he didn't back down. His gaze only hardened.

"You're not denying it," he said.

Wilford huffed out a laugh, and he shook his head. "I promise you," he said. "I didn't put anything in your drink. I swear on it."

"Please—you—swearing on something?" breathed Dark, raising a brow. He tipped his chin up. "You're a criminal, Mr. Warfstache. And while I may not know much about you, I know enough that people like you don't keep promises."

Wilford scoffed. "I'm telling you the truth, Edwards," he said, leaning forward. "I don't know what I can do to prove it to you. You just have to trust me."

Trust, scoffed Dark inwardly, unable to help but smirk. Just how foolish did this man take him to be?

"Right," said Dark, dragging on the word. He considered Wilford and continued carefully, "How about this, Mr. Warfstache. If you're telling me the truth," he said, "then let me go." He motioned towards the room for emphasis. "You and I both know what this looks like, and it's not in your favor."

Wilford stilled, and a pause fell over them, swelling up the room with tension. Dark rose a brow at his reaction, his pause speaking louder than words.

If Warfstache really did poison him, came his line of thought, and he was here, in his home... He carefully exhaled. That meant he'd been kidnapped.

Dark studied Wilford's expression, waiting for his response.

What would be the point of kidnapping him, though? That wouldn't make him any less inclined to give up the property. If anything, it would have made things more complicated.

The sheets rustled as Wil shifted.

"It's..." Wilford sighed. "It's too dangerous."

Dark rose a brow, giving him an incredulous look, and the mafia boss continued.

"Someone else poisoned you, Mr. Edwards," said Wilford, gaze intense. "Now I don't know who, yet, but that means they're still out there. They're out for your life."

Dark scoffed, and he rose a brow, smirking in disbelief. "Like you aren't?"

"There's greater things at play here that you don't understand," said Wilford, glaring at the businessman. "You may not believe it, but at the moment, I'm trying to protect you."

Dark's eyes went half-lidded. "Really?" he mused, not falling for it. "Protect me from what. You?"

Wilford narrowed his eyes, and he stood up, walking right up to Dark. He planted his hands on either side of Dark's legs and leaned forward, face right up in his. As much as Dark wanted to lean back, he kept his ground, tipping his chin up in an act of defiance. Wilford's eyes glinted at the motion, and he tilted his head, glancing down at Dark's lips for a brief moment. His breath ghosted hot over his face.

"Do you want to go home," breathed Wilford, "or not?" His gaze slid up, eyes locking onto Dark's, and he tilted his head. "I don't have to make this easy on you, Mr. Edwards," he said, voice low. "I can play into our enemy's hands and keep you here against your will."

He leaned forward, just an inch, and this time, Dark leaned back, trying to gain distance. Wilford smirked then, the heat of his body rolling over Dark, intoxicating. As good as it felt, the businessman didn't let himself enjoy it; emotion was too untrustworthy. Unreliable.

"I don't play by the rules," drawled Wilford, "if you haven't guessed that already." He tilted his head, and Dark took a deep breath, his skin tingling. "Which means I don't give a damn if you're comfortable... or not." He rose a brow. "Protecting you doesn't mean I have to accommodate you."

Dark carefully exhaled, and he tipped his chin up, meeting Wil's eyes. He suppressed the shivers running down his spine. "You clearly care enough about me that I'm sitting here unscathed," said the businessman, a smirk teasing the edges of his lips. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, face dangerously close to Wilford's. "I'd think someone who didn't give a damn would've hurt me already."

He rose a brow, eyes going half-lidded, and lifted his arm. He pressed a hand over Wilford's chest—ignored the urge to linger there and feel him—and pushed him away. Wil only took a step back.

"Speaking of..."

Dark fixed his cuffs and stood up, keeping his ground. The room swam around him, and pain swelled in his skull, but he pushed it down. Years of maintaining reputation even in the worst of conditions kept him steady; effortless. He cracked his neck with a sigh.

"Two nights ago, you said you wanted something from me." Dark fixed his collar and glanced at Wil, features drawn back. "Something beyond that property."

He carefully rose a brow at him, and Wilford's face heated with color, Dark's steely gaze clearly affecting him. Dark smirked.

"Let's say I believe you," said Dark, giving a sweep of the room before walking around the interior. "That you didn't lace my drink, but someone else did."

He paced the room, eyes running over the walls, the furniture. Pacing helped him think, helped him focus. Made him feel in control.

"If I hadn't blacked out," continued Dark, "what would you have asked me, when we tried to go outside?" His gaze flicked onto Wilford's from across the room, and the mafia boss chuckled, straightening himself.

"I have a feeling you'd say no after all that's happened," he said, eyes following Dark as he paced the room. Even though it wasn't his own home, he still prowled around the place like he owned it. Claimed a sense of authority despite his previously vulnerable state. The transition was, to Wilford's delight, transfixing. The mob boss grew a liking to the arrogant businessman more and more.

"That's not an answer," said Dark, raising a brow. "It was important enough that you paid me a visit personally."

Wilford huffed through his nose with amusement. He considered Dark a moment, running a hand along his moustache... then smirked.

"Tell you what, Mr. Edwards," said Wilford, eyes glinting. "I'll let you get settled here first, where it's safe..." He tipped his head. "And we can properly discuss over dinner."

He motioned vaguely around the room. "The question I want to ask... it's not appropriate here." He rose a brow. "And besides, you just woke up. It'd be discourteous of me."

Dark inwardly chuckled at his playful tone, the slur of his accent making him sound sillier. As much as he didn't like his current circumstances, though, he didn't feel threatened. He didn't feel kidnapped, anyway. Maybe it was Wilford's charm, or his energy—or the fact that he was starting to believe what he was saying.

Either way, the offer started to grow on him. As ridiculous as it was.

Dark gave in with a sigh and nodded. "Very well," he said carefully. He sent the other a careful look. "I want to be left alone until then."

Wilford waved a hand. "Of course, think of yourself as a guest here," he said, heading for the door. "And feel free to roam the place when you feel like it. I know I'm still finding out where things are."

Wilford opened the door, nearly halfway out of the room, before stopping. He glanced over his shoulder and rose a brow at Dark, sending him that lopsided smile of his.

"And... Dark," he said. "No need for formalities, hm? Call me Wil."

"Right..." said Dark, the sound of his name from Wil's mouth doing things to him. "Wil." He'd have to get used to that.

Wilford grinned, gave a giddy chuckle, and closed the door, leaving Dark alone in the room.

———

Later that night, Celine received a call.

    She sat in the study room of her manor, shrouded by darkness. It was always better to keep the lights off, even as the night wore on in its blackest degrees. An intruder would never see her waiting there, silent, reveling in the shadows.

    Her cell phone buzzed against the oak wood of her desk, cutting through the quiet of the room. The screen burst with blue light and highlighted the ceiling.

    She let it ring a few more times; let the violent buzz of the device against wood fill her senses. And then, before the final ring could make it out, she picked up the phone, clicked answer, and pressed it against her ear.

    She said nothing.

    It was customary for her to do so when she received a call like this. Gave her a moment of silence to observe the anonymous caller.

    You could learn a lot about someone in the way they dealt with silence.

    A shaky breath caught her ears—a tone of nervousness—and then a voice.

    "Eight, nine, twenty," came a woman's voice, soft and hushed. Like she was hesitant to be giving the secret code; a sequence of numbers that requested a hit, a planned death.

    Celine smiled coyly, satisfaction spreading like warmth through her chest. This woman sounded like an amateur. Someone who didn't truly know what she wanted.

    Celine tipped her head back and gazed up through the darkness of her room.

    "Name," she said carefully, the word dragging out like venom on her tongue.

    A pause came across the line. And then another shudder of a breath, the sound of fidgeting. Celine listened the entire time, noting every detail of this caller, of her characteristics in the silence.

    It wasn't often that she got calls like this.

    It took effort to obtain her number. A caller who wanted someone dead had to know somebody who knew somebody, and for an outsider to the world of crime, that was a very difficult thing to do.

    But for the few that did get through to Celine, were the ones who had a determination beyond bloodlust. They had a mission; a tunnel-vision so sharp on their target that it wouldn't be satiated without the final kill.

    But with this caller she had on the phone now, well... Celine began to think the woman had sheer luck. The silence spoke louder than words.

    Still, she didn't speak. She waited patiently, the phone held at her ear, lips pursed and brow raised. Her nails tapped a soft beat on her desk, until finally, the woman on the line spoke up.

    "Wilford," came her strained tone, like she didn't want the words to come out of her mouth. "Warfstache."

    Celine sat up straight.

    Well. That certainly took her by surprise. Why would a woman as nervous as this want to pay for a hit like that? In all her days as a hitwoman, she'd never been requested for a big name like this.

    Her interest was certainly piqued, though. She'd already planned on killing Wilford herself, even more so now that he'd interacted with Dark, but if she could get paid for her deepest desires for their blood, then...

She quickly suppressed her elation and composed herself, leaning back in her seat. Her chest expanded as she deeply inhaled, fell as she exhaled.

    "A target like him," said Celine carefully, "is off limits."

    Another silence. This time, Celine heard the woman on the line falter, swallow, and suck in a breath to speak again.

    "I just need a location," she said, voice quiet. "I'll do the rest."

Now that was new.

    People who called Celine wanted to hire her to kill someone; not tip them off so they could do it themselves. Which meant this was personal... and a personal hit on Wilford meant that this woman knew him... how exactly, she didn't know yet, but the beginnings of a plan already started to spin in the back of her head.

    She inhaled, black lips curling into a feverish smirk. Things had been playing into her favor wonderfully.

    "I'll have it by tomorrow night," said Celine.

    A grateful sigh came through the line, and Celine's eyes went half-lidded. She could feel the other woman's relief; let it fuel the energy building within her.

    Without another word, she hung up, grabbed a paper and pen, and wrote down the phone number of her mysterious caller.

    She wouldn't be anonymous for long. Not when she tracked her down, confronted her, and got some answers.

    She hummed to herself with satisfaction, picked up the phone again, and called someone else. The line picked up instantly.

    "Blank," she said, tipping her chin up. "I have a task for the girls downstairs." His reply came through the line, an imploring question, and Celine continued. "Tell them I want full surveillance over Warfstache, and a list of locations by evening tomorrow." She smiled. "Consider the first half of our job taken care of."

...

Oh boy oh boy, the tension rises MWAHAHHAA >:)))

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!!

Love, Vic xoxo