Three weeks later, with more meetings, arrangements, and settlements—and the property was officially under Dark's name.

            So far, none of Dumont's warnings rang true. There were no unexpected visitors, no angry mafia barking at him for buying the property... and no Wilford Warfstache. Whatever silly name it was.

            Aside from paperwork and the hustle of meetings, it was all peace and quiet.

    Dark gazed at the newly-bought building from his view in the penthouse, sipping a glass of whiskey. Los Angeles always looked more beautiful at night, with the lights glimmering like stars, and the streets still rushing with traffic. It was so bright that Dark didn't need to turn his lights on. He kept them off, preferring the quiet shadows in the penthouse.

    A door clicked shut from afar.

    "Mr. Edwards," came Mark's voice. "Are you ready to go home?"

    Dark hummed in response, and he glanced over his shoulder, meeting Mark's eyes. His heart gave a flutter at the eye contact, and he quickly glanced away, clearing his throat.

    "Just a few minutes," he said, turning back to the city view.

    Mark joined Dark's side and glanced down at the city, the lights shining against their figures. He could feel the heat of the other's presence, and when he spared a glance at his boss through the corner of his eye, his face flushed.

    Dark lifted the glass to his lips and tilted his head back, downing the rest of his whiskey. Mark watched him swallow, and he cleared his throat, trying to remember his place.

    Mr. Edwards was his boss. A relationship between bodyguard and client that was strictly, and soley, professional.

    Dark lowered the glass, his rings glinting under the light. He glanced down at Mark and lingered there, taking in the sight of him.

    The room went tense.

    Even after all these years, the unease never settled between them. Other people provided a buffer between them, but when they were alone, tension ran high. Emotion ran high.

    Dark was aware of Mark's feelings for him, even since their first meeting. He remembered sending out the bodyguard applications, interviewing countless people... and when Mark walked into the room—nervous and blushing at the sight of his future boss—they clicked right away. Dark just hadn't expected to reciprocate the bodyguard's feelings, no matter how small they were.

    Dark never liked emotion. It always got in the way.

    Numbers, and facts, and statistics were always more reliable.

    Mark glanced up and noticed Dark's stare, and he swallowed, his face heating with color. Dark noticed the way Mark's pupils dilated, the longer he stared. A subtle sign of his body betraying him. Telltale signs of attraction.

    "Did you send out the invitations?" asked Mark, eventually looking away. Dark's stare was relentless, piercing into him, with sharp red eyes that reminded him of a predator eyeing its prey.

    Dark carefully pulled his gaze away, and he stared at the city.

    "Not yet," he said softly. "Tali's going to double-check the list tomorrow."

    Mark smiled, and he turned away from the view. "Congratulations on the new building, by the way," he said, leaning against the window and crossing his arms. There was that stare again, piercing right into him. Mark went hot under his collar. "Your empire is expanding."

    Dark's gaze relaxed, and he chuckled. "Just another step in the right direction."

    Mark rose a brow and smirked. "I thought Fifth Street was the last one," he said. "Isn't that enough?"

    "You know us businessmen," Edwards mused, adjusting his cufflinks. "Nothing is ever enough."

    "Well, Mr. Boss Man," said Mark, "if you don't get enough sleep, you'll never get past Fifth Street." He started walking away, and Dark gave one glance at the city before following.

    Mark pressed the button in the hall, calling an elevator, and light spilled out onto the floor as the doors slid open. They stepped inside, and when the doors shut, the air went thick around them.

    Mark shifted, and he tugged on his collar, gazing at Dark through the corner of his eye. He didn't look fazed, standing with his hands in his pockets and his expression nonchalant. They were so close—arms nearly brushing. Mark could just reach out if he so pleased. Could just touch him—

    He quickly snapped out of that line of thought and tore his gaze away. He chose to stare at his reflection in the elevator instead.

    "When's the party, again, sir?" asked Mark, trying to clear up the tension between them. Dark glanced down at him and rose a brow. "That's what all the invitations are for, right? Like a... housewarming party for the new building."

    Dark smirked, and he softly chuckled. Mark loved it when he did that.

    "You crack me up, Mark," said Dark.

    And the way he said his name—

    Mark sent him a sheepish grin, and Dark smiled at him, his stare lingering like it always did.

    "It's in three days," Dark eventually answered, glancing away. "I'm usually not one for parties, but Madam Dumont insisted."

It wasn't unusual that people like him threw those types of parties—the flashy, extravagant ones that put the Grammys to shame—to celebrate the purchase of a new property, or the reveal of a new program or company. If anything, it was expected. Standard. Celebrities loved an excuse to show off and network.

    Mark's brows furrowed, and he lapsed into thought. "She was mentioning something about the mafia..." he said quietly.

    Dark rose a brow at that, and Mark quickly floundered to explain.

    "Thin walls," he said. "I—listen sometimes, in case conversations start to turn hostile." Mark met Dark's gaze. "You can sense a fight before it comes, if you listen close enough."

    "Go on," said Edwards carefully.

    "I've heard the name Warfstache before," said Mark. "The Academy I went to required us to go through some Criminal Justice training. Learn how to deal with cops, legal systems—all that. People mentioned his name a lot."

    "So he's not some phony?"

    "God no," Mark laughed, sending Dark an incredulous look. "I've heard horror stories from that guy. I don't even have to see him to be scared of him."

    Dark lapsed into quiet, and his fingers twitched in his pockets. He wasn't... scared persay, but now that he replayed Dumont's warnings in his head, he grew uneasy.

    If this Warfstache wasn't a joke... did that mean he was actually in danger?

    Dark carefully inhaled and glanced at Mark. "How much of our conversation did you hear this evening?" he asked.

    "Enough to know," said Mark, "that this 'grand opening' party isn't such a good idea." He turned towards his boss. "I don't mean to ruin any of your... fun, Mr. Edwards. But as your personal guard, it's my job to protect you."

    "I've hired everyone already," said Dark under his breath, his brow twitching. "To cancel all of those appointments..."

    "I just find it odd," cut in Mark, "that Dumont would warn you about Warfstache—then proceed to tell you to throw a party. I mean, it's just asking for attention. Unwanted attention."

    Dark narrowed his eyes, and he hummed. It was odd, but he didn't think anything of it.

    "I've always done something like this," he said quietly. "You remember the previous property."

    "This is different," said Mark. "None of your buildings had the kind of magnitude that the one on Fifth Street has."

    The elevator doors slid open, and Mark glanced both ways, scanning the premises on instinct. He nodded, and they both stepped out, heading down the hallways. The lights dimmed at this time of night, and the building was quiet and bare. Only a few employees still paced the floors, their heels clicking.

    "I can start interviewing the guards on the list I made, starting tomorrow," said Mark as they walked through the lobby. "If you're going to go through with this party, I'd rather you hire a few extra eyes. Even if they're just temporary."

    Dark hummed, and his jaw hardened. Despite the unease festering in his chest, he smirked.

    "I'm not going to do things any differently," he said, "because of fear." He glanced at Mark. "If Warfstache comes, let him." Mark's eyes widened.

    "To be honest," said Dark, "I'd like to have a conversation with him."

    "You're—crazy, sir. I-if you talk to him—I mean, you bought something near his territory—"

    They exited the building, a cold breeze running over them, and Dark chuckled, smoothing down his suit.

    "How did the Ambassador put it?" mused Dark, gazing up at the night sky. "Right. Interacting with Warfstache is like a game of Russian Roulette." He glanced at Mark, whose mouth was agape, and he smirked. "And I do like a bit of a gamble."

———

The newly-stolen mansion filled with tension.

           The men in the study room went quiet, shifting with unease. They exchanged glances, waiting for anyone to say something.

    Wilford perched on top of a chair in the middle of the room, elbows resting on his knees. He tapped his golden revolver against his lips, danger rolling off him in waves. The urge to shoot something—or someone—grew by the second.

    He stared at the laptop on the desk, which showed the list of properties they planned to hit next. And at the very top, in bold red letters, read the word 'SOLD.'

    "Jim," said Wilford, calling out one of the men. "Go and get Host, will you?"

The man floundered, and he nodded. "Y-yes, sir," he said. He fled the room and rushed down the halls.

The other men shifted, staring at Wilford. Moments later, Jim returned with a man at his side. He stood tall, a trench coat draped over his body, and despite the eyepatch covering one of his eyes, his copper gaze was piercing.

When he walked forward, the other men stilled, eyeing him.

"The rest of you," said Wilford, still staring at the screen. "Out."

They didn't need to be told twice. The men rushed out of the room within seconds, leaving the room bare but the two men. Tension lingered in the air.

Host stood beside the desk, waiting patiently. A tight silence fell between them, and after what seemed like hours, Wilford sucked in a breath and turned away from the screen, catching Host's eye.

"Do you want to explain," he breathed, "what I'm seeing right now?"

Host glanced at the screen, and his jaw hardened.

"I was going to tell you," he said. "I decided to do some research first."

Wilford narrowed his eyes, and when Host didn't continue, he waved his hands—and the gun—in the air. "Well go on," he urged.

Host motioned a hand towards the laptop. "Do you mind if I...?"

Wilford made a dismissive motion, and Host leaned over, opening a new tab. He typed in a name, and a plethora of results showed up. Articles, organizations, latest news. He carded through all the information and brought up a profile of the man in question.

"I consulted the tax records for the property," said Host, "and found out who bought it."

Wilford pressed the barrel of the gun against his lips, his moustache brushing against it. Host leaned away to give Wilford some space, and he squinted at the screen, looking at the profile.

He stilled.

"Dark Edwards, CEO of Edwards & Co," said Host at his shoulder.

Wilford grabbed the laptop and pulled it into his lap, staring—not at the information of the man—but the picture of him. It was a professional headshot that captured every sharp and angle of Mr. Edward's features; hair slicked back to reveal cut cheekbones, a strong jaw. Black collar pulled up at his throat to contrast against his pale, greyish skin. His gaze pierced through the screen with an intensity that felt so real—like he was really there, staring right at Wilford, through him—and Wilford's skin thrilled with goosebumps.

"Well fuck me," he breathed, collar heating. "This man is gorgeous."

"That's against the point," said Host, brows furrowing. "This is the man who bought your—"

"Shush-ush!" Wilford said, holding up a finger. He opened another tab and pulled up images of Dark, scrolling through all of them. There were an array of interview screenshots, professional photos, and candid photos of the man in the street, or stepping out of his car. They were endless. They were hypnotizing.

Wilford wanted to see more.

"Okay," said Wilford, fanning himself. "Continue."

Host huffed through his nose, and he folded his hands behind his back.

"I made a few calls, got more information on him," said Host. "He's throwing a party in three days. For that property on Fifth Street." Host rose a brow. "The one that you wanted."

"Yes, yes..." said Wilford, stroking his moustache. "What time?"

"I'm not sure, yet," said Host. "The woman I spoke to said nothing was official, yet."

Wilford smiled, and he stared at the images of Dark.

"Well, if there's a commotion on Fifth Street, we'll know when to come," he breathed. His eyes glittered with delight, and he let himself take in the images with pleasure. "Just look at him, Host. God. He's like my Christian Grey."

"You did not just—"

"He's a billionaire, he's smoking hot, and he looks like the type to own a red room," Warfstache said playfully. "I'm living in my own fanfiction right now. Let me savor this."

"It would be easier to just kill him," Host grumbled.

"Ohh, no, no," said Wilford, running his fingers along his revolver. "I'd rather talk to him first. Maybe a little more than that." He chuckled, and Host groaned. "Hell, I'll even ask him out to dinner."

"Don't let your feelings get in the way of your endgame," muttered Host. "He may be... attractive, but that doesn't change the fact he's a selfish, rotten businessman."

Wilford smirked, and he shut the laptop. "You know me better than that," he mused. He jumped to his feet and handed the laptop to Host. "Keep researching him, and update me if anything changes."

Host gave a firm nod.

"If our chat goes well, and he's got good connections," said Wilford, walking out of the room, "he might even be a valuable asset."

Thank you so much for reading! 👀 Have a wonderful day UwU

Love, Victor xoxo