YESTERDAY NIGHT.

'We have a deal.'

The words lingered in the air as Dark and Wilford headed back to the car, heels clicking against the rough concrete.

Akira stood next to the car, waiting, and opened the driver's door for Wil. She sent Dark a disgusted look before smiling at the mafia boss, motioning a hand inside.

Wilford stopped at Akira's side and tipped his head, gazing at her through the corner of his eye.

"Show some courtesy to him, too," he said under his breath, eyes flicking onto Dark's figure circling around the car. Akira laughed at that, but when she met Wilford's eyes, her face fell.

"Wait—you're serious?" she muttered.

Wilford held her gaze a moment longer, then brushed past her, ducking under the hood and seating himself in the driver's side. He clicked his tongue.

"Consider him one of us," he said, raising a brow at her. "Just for a little while."

Akira floundered for words, hesitating, and when Wilford faintly waved his hand, she gave in and circled around the car. Before Dark could open the door for himself, she shooed him away and swung it open.

"I got it," she said, motioning a hand inside. "Get in."

Dark stilled, turned his head towards her, and held her gaze. His face remained deadpan, even as she glared at him.

"Thank you," he said monotonously.

Akira scoffed, averting her glare towards Wilford. The mafia boss only grinned and winked at her, and when Dark got into the car, she slammed the door shut. The metallic sound echoed through the alleyway.

"It's not a good idea to consort with pigs, Wil!" she shouted through the glass. She held Wilford's gaze a moment longer, spared a look at Dark, and turned on her heel. She flipped them off as she walked away. "Sooner or later he'll tear us apart!"

Wilford chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes, starting the car. The engine rumbled to life and shook the seats.

"Ignore her," he said, shaking his head. "She hasn't had any good experiences with people like you."

Dark hummed, settling in his seat. He watched as Akira stomped away and went back into the nightclub, slamming the metal door so roughly he swore it would break.

"It doesn't surprise me," he said. He took in a deep breath, and he turned towards Wil, his eyes running over his figure, his face. Looking for any signs he might suddenly turn on him. "You're still driving to my house. Right?"

Wilford's eyes went half-lidded as he rose a brow at Dark. "You just never know when to turn it off, don't you?"

"Turn what off?"

"Your whole... act, charade, whatever," said Wilford, waving a hand towards him for emphasis.

Dark sent him a look, brows furrowed, and Wilford shook his head with amusement, putting a hand on the wheel. He looked out the back window and planted his other hand on the back of Dark's seat, making sure the road was clear before backing out of the alleyway.

Offf course, thought Dark, going still in his seat. He was checking him out again.

His eyes ran over Wil's jawline, down the expanse of his neck and to the strong build of his shoulders. Especially with the dim lighting and the tension that followed them out of the nightclub, he was transfixed on the sight before him. Again.

Wilford shifted the gear into drive, heading down the road, and Dark cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away. God, where was his control? His maturity, even? He'd never allowed his eyes to wander so mindlessly, no matter how attractive the person.

"Why do you even want to go home?" said Wilford, breaking him out of his daze.

Dark frowned at the question, but he couldn't help but feel relieved. Anything to distract him from his own thoughts. But being surrounded by the problem of the thoughts themselves, it was difficult. Increasingly difficult, especially when Wilford's heated stare burned into his skin, taking in the sight of him like he was the most capturing figure he'd ever seen.

"Well, first, I need a change of clothes," said Dark with a huff. "After being out of it for two days, you figure a man might need something fresh to wear."

Wilford turned a corner, city lights filtering across his face. His eyes glittered when he grinned.

"You tell me that like I have control over all this," he said, raising a brow at Dark. The businessman narrowed his eyes at him. "I know I'm probably going to have to say this a million times, but I didn't poison you." He waved a hand about as he spoke. "And besides... if I'd have taken you home, you wouldn't need those clothes anyway."

Dark didn't let it show, but he did a double-take. His face rose with heat, and his lashes fluttered—and then he cleared his throat, glancing over at Wilford. When they met eyes, his stomach gave a sharp pull, and his heart fluttered.

"Excuse me?" he said.

Wilford laughed, turning his attention back to the road. Blush colored his cheeks. "We're close," he said, leaving it at that. "Show me where to go."

———

The street was quiet.

The car tires crunched against the asphalt, the engine rumbled, and the brakes eased as they came to a slow stop. An odd feeling of unease settled over Dark as he looked out of the window and at his house, the building looking blacker than ever. He couldn't quite understand it, but a bad energy bled off the place.

The car shuddered into stillness when Wilford turned it off.

"Not surprised," said Wilford, breaking the silence. He followed Dark's gaze and craned his head to look up at the penthouse—a tall, skyscraper-like building. "You really like to go big with everything, don't you?"

Dark huffed through his nose. "So do you," he said.

He exited the car, and Wilford followed after. When they shut the car doors, the sound echoed down the entire street, rippling the silence. Unease crawled up Dark's skin, but he brushed it aside.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes following Wil as the mafia boss joined his side.

"You can wait in the car," said Dark. "I won't be long."

Wilford chuckled at that. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, sweetheart," he said, smirking with half-lidded eyes. "And besides, I'd like to see how the famous Dark Edwards lives." He winked. "You can learn a lot about someone from their home."

With that, he brushed past Dark and walked up to the front door. Dark lingered a moment and shook his head with a sigh, following after him. He rummaged through his pockets, searching for the keys.

No luck.

"Dammit," he said under his breath, standing next to Wil. He fished through his pockets again like it might give him a different result. "I don't have my keys on m—"

A handle clicked, metal hinges creaked, and when Dark glanced up, Wilford held the door open, hand still on the doorknob. Both he and Dark went still, and a heavy weight fell over the air.

Wilford didn't move from his position as he slowly glanced over his shoulder, meeting the other's eyes.

"That isn't normal..." he said under his breath. "Is it."

Dread sank into Dark's insides, and he shook his head, holding his breath.

"No," he said softly. "It isn't."

Wilford carefully stepped back from the door, paused a moment, then walked out onto the sidewalk, looking both ways. Despite their circumstances, Dark couldn't help but stare, transfixed, at the mafia boss as he worked, experience in his every step, his every glance.

Wilford went back to the car, opened the door, and bent over to grab something from the back seat. Dark squinted to see what it was, and when the mafia boss closed the car door and headed back towards him, his face fell.

Wilford held a gun in each hand—one, his signature, golden revolver. The other, a standard glock. His eyes had gone dark.

"Here," said Wilford, tossing the glock. Dark caught the gun and rose his brows at it, the metal heavy in his hands. It leered up at him in a way that had his composure falter.

"I don't—" He fumbled with the weapon. "—know how to use this."

Wilford squinted at his revolver and pushed out the cylinder, checking his ammunition. He pushed it back in and held the weapon at his side.

Dark had to admit—now that Wilford held a gun, he was definitely more menacing, fitting less into the stereotype of a lunatic and much more into the unpredictable, hard-edged mob boss that he was. The way he held the firearm like an extension of himself intimidated Dark. There was a practiced care in his grip; a relaxed air about him that made it clear he'd done this many times before.

A thrill raced down Dark's spine when Wilford walked up to him, his every step commanding. He grabbed the glock, pressed it into Dark's palm, and nodded at it.

"You hold it like this," he said, lifting his revolver at his eye level. He demonstrated the proper grip, and Dark mimicked him reluctantly.

He hadn't expected a crash course on how to hold a gun before he entered his own home.

Once Dark was able to get a proper grip on his gun, Wilford gave one more glance at their surroundings before heading back towards the house. Dark followed after and tucked the glock in his belt, praying he wouldn't have to use it.

Their heels clicked as they walked on the black marble floors, the noise cutting through the silence. Even though Wilford had no idea where he was going, he led the way, gun hanging at his side. When they reached the end of the entry hallway, Wilford stopped, taking a moment to admire the large, spacious view that opened up before them.

"Woah..." said the mafia boss, eyes running over the sleek surfaces, the shine, the minimalism. "This is..."

"Nice, I know," said Dark, joining his side. "I get it a lot."

Wilford shook his head, brows furrowing. He stepped forward and slowly spun in a circle, looking around the house.

"No, not nice," he said quietly. "Empty." He ran his eyes over the perfect surfaces. "This place is hardly lived-in," he said, glancing at Dark. "Are you sure this is your house? It feels so... lonely."

Dark scoffed under his breath, but deep down, the words struck a pain in his chest. He didn't know that it was so obvious. Just one glance around the place, and Wilford could tell that he was a man who had all the riches in the world, and no one to share it with.

Alone. Lonely.

Dark brushed off his emotions as childish and walked past the living room and towards the staircase, which led up into his bedroom.

"I spend most of my time working," said Dark, knowing Wilford was following from the click of his footsteps behind him. "I only ever go here to sleep."

"No parties?" said Wil.

Dark ran his hand along the metal railing as he walked up the stairs. "I'm not into parties," he said.

"But you threw one for Fifth Street," said Wil, picking up the pace so he'd be closer to Dark. "You seemed to enjoy yourself, too."

"It's all an act when it comes to those things," said Dark as they neared the top of the staircase. "If I didn't have to worry about reputation or customs, I wouldn't celebrate at all."

"Well, that's no fun," said Wilford.

They reached the second floor, which opened up with a lounge room and a hall that led into the bedroom.

Wilford put his hands to his hips and took in the sight. "You know," he said, amused. "For a guy who doesn't like parties, your place is set up like it's always expecting company."

Dark didn't say anything to that, his chest sinking again. He used to expect company all the time. Even back then, he disliked parties, but it was who he threw them for that made them worth it.

His ex lover.

He headed down the hallway to his bedroom, Wilford following, then stopped in the middle of his tracks. Wilford made a sound of confusion, and Dark sighed, allowing himself a moment to stand still. His eyes trailed down to the floor.

"If I told you to leave right now," said Dark, voice quiet, "would you?"

When Wilford didn't answer, silent, Dark turned around and faced him, meeting his eyes. He had to shove down the thrill that raced up his spine—that quick burst of excitement that pulsed through him every time he saw Wilford. Especially now, with him standing there in the half-light, the gun at his side and the moonlight highlighting his figure—and the fact they were so close to his bedroom—it was harder to contain his emotions.

"If I asked you to go back to your car," continued Dark, "drive away, and leave me here... would you?"

Wilford studied the other for a moment, narrowing his eyes. "What are you getting at here?"

"Just answer the question," said Dark.

Wilford shrugged. "Well, if it'd prove that I didn't do any of this to you, then yes, I would." He rose a brow. "But you know the risks if I let that happen."

Dark nodded to himself. "I know," he said. "Just curious."

Even if he and Wilford were, in a way, forced to work together, the answer gave him a sense of relief. If this were under different circumstances, Wilford would respect Dark and leave him be if he asked. It made him feel like he had a sort of freedom.

Dark turned away and continued down the hall, towards his bedroom. He spared a glance over his shoulder before pushing open the door, the wood creaking.

Everything looked just as it was when he left. The bedroom opened up into a huge, minimal space; three of the walls were made entirely of glass, giving them a full view of the city. Dark carefully walked through the enormous room and examined his surroundings, finding no signs of disturbance.

Wilford's heels clicked from behind him, and he made a sound at the sight of Dark's room. The businessman ignored him and spared a glance into the walk-in closet, narrowing his eyes at it. He didn't remember leaving the door open, but nothing had been taken or moved from what he could see.

That is, until he turned around.

Dark gazed at the king-sized bed pressed against the wall, eyes running along its clean and made state. And then his eyes landed on a red suit laid over its surface.

He didn't remember putting that there.

Dark's brows furrowed, and he walked towards the bed, squinting through the darkness. He stood at the foot of the bed and gazed down at the suit, running his fingers along the fabric.

And then his eyes flicked onto the DVD case atop it.

The two items instantly clicked together in his head, and shock ripped through him like a bullet. His composure fell, his eyes widened—

"Well," came Wilford's voice from behind him, "the place looks fine."

Dark's fingers shook as he lifted the case, eyes locking onto the picture. The picture of Actor Mark, posing as his character for the movie. One of the only pictures he had kept because it was one of the only ones that captured the light in his eyes.

"Other than the door, there isn't any sign of..." Wilford trailed off when he noticed how still Dark had gotten, and he fell quiet, watching the man. His brows furrowed, and he stepped forward, approaching Dark carefully. "Hey, are you... alright?"

Dark sucked in a breath, and he clutched the case, the plastic cracking under his grip. The edges of his vision blurred, and his eyes burned, and panic rose in his chest when he realized he was losing control of his emotions.

"Out," he breathed, voice wavering.

Wilford stepped forward, straining to hear him. "What?"

"Out," hissed Dark, keeping his back to Wil. When he didn't hear him move, he screwed his eyes shut and bowed his head. "Goddamn it, Warfstache, I said OUT."

"Alright, okay!" said Wilford, raising his hands. He eyed Dark curiously a moment longer before walking towards the door, beyond curious. "Just—call me when you need me, I suppose."

He lingered at the doorway, stared at Dark's figure... and when the man made no movement, he gave in and walked off. Or pretended to, anyway.

Dark carefully listened for the click of Wilford's footsteps to fade away, and once they did, he sucked in a ragged breath and put a hand to his face, covering his eyes. He couldn't bear the feel of tears welling in his lashes; couldn't bear the way his chest tightened because of emotion.

Dark sat down at the edge of his bed and cursed under his breath.

He thought he'd gotten over this.

Dark pulled his hand away from his eyes and gazed down at the case, the cover leering up at him. When his heart gave a twist, he scoffed and set the DVD case on the bed.

Whoever snuck into his house, he thought, had to have done this.

He ran a hand over his mouth and glanced at the red suit on the bed, his insides twisting. And then his eyes drifted onto the DVD case... back to the suit. Back to the case, then the suit.

And something wrong bled in his chest.

This was a message.

Dark sucked in a breath, and he wiped his eyes, composing himself. Once he was confident his voice wouldn't betray him, he turned his head towards the door and went to call for Wil.

But the mafia boss stood right at the doorway.

Dark's blood went cold when he met eyes with Wilford, and he stood up.

"How long were you standing there?" he breathed, fists clenching at his sides.

Wilford held his gaze for a moment before walking into the room, gaze shifting onto the items on the bed. He brushed past Dark and gazed down at the materials, running a hand over his moustache.

"Why are you so worked up over these?" said Wilford, waving a hand towards the suit and the DVD case.

Dark's jaw set, and he glared at the mafia boss, fingers twitching. "I thought I told you to get out," he said.

Wilford sighed, and he glanced at Dark, meeting his eyes. He knew that watching the businessman against his knowledge was disrespectful, but at the same time, he couldn't resist. It had only been a few minutes, but Wilford was able to catch a glimpse behind Dark's mask; the one he so desperately tried to hide behind. The first glimpse of emotion.

Wilford's curiosity for Dark only grew with their every reaction, and he was intent on learning more about him. A man who kept secrets and covered them up was a case begging to be unveiled.

"You looked..." Wilford shrugged. "I dunno, heartbroken."

Dark stilled at that, the words like a punch to the face. Was he really that readable?

Instead, he brushed off the statement and gazed at the items on the bed, shoving down the emotion that welled up inside him when he looked at them.

"I didn't leave this here," said Dark, avoiding Wilford's gaze. "This is a message."

"What could these things possibly mean?" said Wilford, raising a brow.

Dark huffed, and he closed his eyes—like he was ashamed of his memories, or reluctant to share what he was about to say. Wilford had already caught him in a vulnerable moment. He couldn't stand to be sharing another with him—and willingly.

"Whoever did this knew about me and..." Dark sighed, and he ran his hands over his face, turning away from the bed. "My ex."

Wilford's brow rose, and his eyes followed Dark as he paced around the room, running his hand through his hair or along his face. He had to admit, he was transfixed at the sight. Even though Dark didn't give much away, it was still a glimpse behind the mask—a crack in his composure.

"Ex?" said Wilford.

Dark mulled over a proper answer, taking time to find the right words. But he couldn't, not with this. He didn't understand how anyone could have remembered something that far back in the past to have done this.

And then he felt Wil's eyes on him, burning into him, and he felt so ridiculous that he gave up on trying to answer.

"Forget it," said Dark, running a hand over his mouth. He brushed past Wilford and sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. When he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, the mafia boss could see his composure slowly return to him. Those careful, strong walls building back up. Blocking him out. "It's nothing to worry about."

"No, no..." said Wilford carefully, sitting down next to Dark. "Go on, I'm listening."

Dark scoffed under his breath and met Wilford's eyes, his stomach giving a pull at how close they were.

"It's nothing, really," he said, gazing out the ceiling-high windows. "I feel like a reckless teenager just talking about it."

"You said this is a message," said Wilford, leaning closer, trying to get a better look at Dark's face through the half-light. "If anything, Dark, I'm the best person to talk to about this." He rose a brow at him. "When you're in the mafia, and someone leaves a message in your own home... it's important."

Dark fell quiet, and he carefully looked over at Wilford, meeting his eyes again. The mafia boss could see the regret in his face—the sorrow, the shame—not only for having lost his composure, his facade, his control—but because of the memories the message gave him.

Dark held Wilford's gaze a moment longer before glancing over at the red suit, his shoulders dropping. He leaned over the mafia boss to grab the suit and hold it up in front of him.

"It was ten years ago," said Dark, voice quiet. Held back. A quality so unlike him. "It was during one of Deja Dumont's galas in France." He set the suit in his lap and stared at it. "She was celebrating the growth of her company and invited me and my ex."

He shook his head, brows furrowing, and continued.

"This was the exact suit I wore when I brought Markus with me," he said. "I remember it clearly, it was—"

"Wait," said Wilford. He pointed at the DVD case on the bed. "You're talking about the Markus Iplier on that DVD. Actor Mark?"

Irritation crossed Dark's features, and he scowled. "That's really what you're taking away from this?" said Dark. "Someone broke into my—"

"You're crazy!" laughed Wilford, unable to help but break the seriousness between them. "You, with Actor Mark? You're—you're kidding, right?"

Dark seethed and glanced away. "You don't know anything about him," he said.

Wilford hummed. "Well, I know he's as good as dead," he said. "He got killed in that freak accident, didn't he? Car crash, something with a bullet through his head—"

Dark held up a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with a huff. "I don't need to hear that right now, Wil," he said. "What I need are answers."

"Sorry, sorry," said Wil. "That was inconsiderate of me."

Dark shook his head. "How could anyone even remember this? And why?" He waved a hand. "My relationship with Markus was public, but that gala... there weren't any paparazzi. Deja's always had a talent for keeping things away from the media."

Wilford glanced at the items and hummed, picking up the DVD case. He gazed at the cover and flipped it from front to back, examining it.

"This is personal," he said, eyes narrowed. "Whoever left this for has to have known you."

Dark shook his head and sighed. "No one knew me as closely as Markus did."

Wilford ran his fingers along the DVD case, then popped it open, the disc inside reflecting the moonlight against his face. Something fell out of the case. Something loose, and thin, and small.

Dark's eyes flicked onto it, and Wilford looked down at his lap, finding a slip of paper. He glanced at Dark—met his eyes a moment—before picking up the paper. He held it up to the moonlight and squinted at it.

"What does it say?" breathed Dark, leaning over.

Wilford ran his eyes over the three words, and read quietly, "'You... will... pay.'"

Wilford carefully lowered the paper, and he met Dark's eyes. An idea began to click in the back of his head.

"Dark..." he said carefully. "What are the odds that the person who left this message," he said, "is the one who poisoned you?"

Dark's face fell, and he searched Wilford's gaze, lashes fluttering. "I... wouldn't be surprised."

Wilford shot out of seat, and he waved a hand, growing with energy. "Get changed, bring your clothes, whatever," he said. "We have to get this to Host now."

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo