Dark sat in bed, loosely holding a wine glass, while scrolling through his phone.

    The room was pitch black, save for the city lights filtering through the balcony doors. His phone screen glowed bright over his face, deepening the shadows in his features. His mind was soft, fuzzy—thoughts sluggish and eyelids heavy.

    He wondered vaguely what Wilford was up to; wondered if he was still with Vanessa, sleeping with her, pleasing her, right in the room across from his.

    Jealousy burned in his chest like the alcohol he downed.

    He should really stop, he told himself. It wasn't like him, allowing himself to lose control; allowing himself to let go of the image he confined himself to.

    Maybe that's why getting close to Wilford unnerved him. Wilford, who made him lose control. Wilford, who let loose the strings he held onto.

    Dark tipped his head back and sighed, setting his wine glass on the nightstand. He looked at the endless notifications on his phone, the mess that was now his business, and wondered drunkenly why he kept pushing, kept reaching for more.

    When does anyone ever not want more? rang his own words in his head. Sharp, cutting, coming back to bite him.

    It's part of our nature, came his thoughts, to always want more.

    Dark sighed. He didn't know what more meant, now. More money, more power, but what was the point when he was already on top of the world?

    Maybe more meant something different. Maybe more meant something new, something he'd been avoiding, something he swore he would never commit to after Markus had died.

    Maybe more meant breaking down his walls, and giving Wilford a chance.

    Maybe more meant allowing himself to like him.

    Dark's heart quickened at the possibility, and he forced himself out of that train of thought, blaming it on his drunkenness. His eyes flicked back to his phone, back to the notifications, the statistics, the emails and missed calls—and before he knew it, he was scrolling through contacts, the names blurry, and clicked on one of them.

    He didn't know who he called—didn't even know he was until the rings thrilled in the room—and, squinting, pulling the phone closer, realized who he was calling.

    He didn't know what led him to it. Didn't know why he did it. Didn't understand why he called Mark, of all people—and felt eager for his response, no matter how reckless he was being—and felt, very slightly, a longing for his voice.

    And then the call picked up.

———

"It's... it's from Mr. Edwards himself," breathed Wilma.

The car went dead quiet, and Celine grabbed the phone from Wilma's hand, her vision sharpening, her mind focused. A thrill raced up her spine—the excitement that lay dormant in her always. The desire to kill Dark, once and for all. The desire to make him suffer, feel all the pain of the world, before his inevitable fall.

This was just a taste. A tease. She licked her lips.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she lifted the device to her ear, tipped her chin up, and listened closely. She breathed deeply, not saying a word. Her eyes flicked onto Blank, driving, then to the back of the car, where Wilma sat with Mark's body limp beside her.

    A breath came through the line, shaky, and Celine held her breath, trying to dampen the thrills racing in her chest.

    She had heard Mr. Edward's voice on the television before. Through videos she'd found on her husband's phone. But now—now she would be talking directly to him. Now, she would show him what real pain felt like.

    "Mark?" came Mr. Edward's voice through the line. "It's... me. I have—" His voice slurred, clearly drunk. "—a lot of explaining to do..."

    Celine's eyes glinted.

    "Hello, Mr. Edwards," she said quietly, voice a low, menacing croon. She relished the hitch of Dark's breath through the line—then closed her eyes and smirked. When Wilma gazed at her, watched as her lips parted with glee, she could have sworn she saw a glint of sharp teeth, like the glisten of a monster.

    Celine leaned back in her seat and grinned.

    "I'm afraid your bodyguard," she said smoothly, "is fast asleep."

———

Dark stood up, his vision swimming, the room tilting around him. He stumbled to the side, trying to keep himself calm, trying to keep his breaths steady.

    He stumbled out onto the balcony, sucking in the fresh air, the cold air, hoping it would sober him, force him to think clearer.

    "Who is this?" he breathed, gazing at the city below, all around him, like he could find the culprit.

    A steady silence met his ear.

    "I have a feeling you know already," came that smooth, crooning tone—a dangerous melody. "You've known for a while now, haven't you, Mr. Edwards?"

    Dark's fingers tightened around his phone, knuckles going white. He didn't know what to do. He thought about Wilford—wondered what he would do in this situation, figured he dealt with things like this in the mafia all the time—but Wilford wasn't here, and the thought of Wilford pained him, so he pushed it aside. Tried to think straight, tried to keep his voice calm, calculated, because this, right now, anything he said could tip the scales out of his favor.

    Anything he said could kill Mark.

    "Celine," said Dark after a while, the words an exhale. His other hand curled around the railing. "What have you done with Mark?"

    His voice betrayed him—edged too finely on the lines of emotion—and Celine noticed it with painful scrutiny.

    "I didn't know how much you cared about your bodyguard," she said, voice dripping with poison. "You seem so stressed, knowing I have him." A stretch of silence, the sound of clothes rustling, bodies shifting.

"It wasn't hard luring him in... so gullible, this one. I see why you kept him," she said, talking about Mark like he was nothing more than a tool. "Did you know he was looking for you this whole time? Working with the FBI..."

Dark's lashes fluttered, guilt forcing the breath out of him. What?

"Poor Mark... what would he do? When he finds out what you've been doing behind his back," crooned Celine, her voice pure poison. "All this time, searching for you... and you've been working with the man he and his friends have been so hellbent on saving you from."

Her soft, piercing chuckle came through the line. Dark swallowed hard.

"I think I should tell him everything," said Celine, and there was an eagerness in her voice that Dark didn't like; the kind that had the power to bend the truth just enough to make the story look entirely different. "I think I should tell him," she said, "that you're a part of the mafia now. And you don't want anything to do with the likes of him."

Dark's face paled. "Celine—"

    "I'm so close to his throat..." breathed Celine, and every word she hissed sunk thorns into Dark's skin. "I could kill him right now, if I really wanted to. Should I make his death slow?"

    He imagined her hand, trailing over Mark's throat. Dangerous.

    "Or should I kill him cleanly?" taunted Celine. "Make it easier on him?"

    "Stay away from him," Dark growled, his tongue loose from the alcohol. He was letting his emotion show—letting everything show—and it was going to ruin him. Celine was going to ruin him, ruin Mark.

    His outburst satisfied her.

    "If you want him back," said Celine, "you have to come to me." Another silence, endless, and Dark couldn't take it, felt the need to say something, anything, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing he'd make it worse. He needed to know where she was, if she could just give a location—

    "Goodnight, Mr. Edwards."

    Panic flared in his chest. "No—wait—"

    The line hung up, and Dark stared at his phone in horror, his vision splitting. His heart pounded in his chest, pounded in his ears, and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep it together, trying to come up with something, anything.

    The door clicked open, and Dark froze in place, clutching his phone. Steps sounded behind him—a shuffle of noise—and then the glass doors opened behind him, slowly but surely.

    Dark swallowed, the city a blur around him, and then Wilford stood at his side, his presence a whirl of senses: the twinge of tobacco; the strength in his posture; the pink of his stache, his hair.

    Wilford cleared his throat, shifting, and Dark's eyes flicked onto him.

    "I'm... not really good at this sort of thing, but..." Wilford was saying, but Dark was too distracted to focus on his words. He saw his lips moving, saw the way he carried himself, like he was ashamed... and when he looked into those soft brown eyes, he couldn't take it anymore. The guilt, the charge between them, the tension.

    He'd stepped too far into temptation, and now a life was on the line.

    "This," said Dark, stepping back. "All of this, it's over."

    Wilford's lips parted, and his eyes widened, locking onto Dark's. He wished he could forget that look, but it burned into him like fire.

    "W-wait, what?" said Wilford, voice breaking. "But I—"

    Dark clutched his phone, and he shook it, tongue loose from the alcohol.

"I called Mark," he breathed, teeth bared. "And he didn't answer." His throat tightened. "Celine did."

———

A languid, pleased smile played on Celine's lips, and she handed the phone back to Wilma, who took it reluctantly. She gazed at the woman through the darkness of the car, brows furrowed.

    "You didn't tell him where we'd be," said Wilma, voice quiet but firm. "You said if we got Mark, I got my brother."

    "Haven't you learned anything, by being here with me, Wilma?" breathed Celine, her voice soft. She tipped her head, gazing at the other woman through the corner of her eye. "Everything I do, everything anyone must do, requires patience."

    "I've been patient," said Wilma, her voice a whisper, but harsh. "I've been nothing but patient."

    "I know you want your brother, Miss Barnum," said Celine carefully. "But you forget what I want, as well." She turned in her seat, steadying her in her gaze. "I want nothing more in this world," she said, "than to make Mr. Edwards suffer."

    She leaned forward, gaze endless. "He took a part of my life, Wilma," she said. "He is the reason I've been hurt for so long." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you want that same fate for your brother?" she breathed. "Don't you want him to feel the pain you've felt—the pain that he caused you?"

    Wilma stilled, wavering under her gaze.

    "I'm not giving Mark up," said Celine, "until I know Mr. Edwards has lost his mind over it. Over the unknown." Her eyes flicked onto Mark's unconscious figure. "I want him to spend every hour thinking about what I might do to him. I want him to worry until that's all he is, a man reduced to nothing."

    She held Wilma's gaze a moment longer.

    "Only then," she said, "will I tell him where we are."

    Wilma sighed, but deep down, she understood. Fingers graced the side of her face, and she glanced up, meeting Celine's eyes again. They were kinder, this time, in a sick sort of way.

    "It's going to be great, Wilma," she said softly. "All this waiting, all this unease you're feeling... it's all going to be worth it."

    She smiled at her, and Wilma felt those tingles again, felt herself drawing closer to Celine, to her words.

    "Trust me," breathed Celine. "You're going to love the finale I have planned." Her eyes glittered. "And you'll play a part in it."

———

    'Celine did.'

    The words rang out between them, but before Wilford had a chance to say anything, Dark stormed off the balcony and grabbed a coat from the closet, getting ready to leave.

    Wilford threw open the glass doors. Moonlight caught Dark's figure, but he dipped into the shadows before the light could catch his eyes.

    "Dark—"

    "I thought it was Mr. Edwards, now," said Dark sourly, shoving on his coat. He pocketed his phone.

    "Look, I was upset this morning, so I—"

    Dark crossed the room. He grabbed the handle to the room door and glared at Wilford, catching his eyes. He couldn't handle it anymore—the way he looked at him, the light haloing his figure from behind.

    "I don't have time for this," he said.

    "Dark—"

    Dark swung open the door and stepped outside, coat trailing past him.

    "Dark!"

    Wilford sprinted through the room and caught the door before it closed, finding the back of his figure walking away.

    "Dark, godammit, stop!"

    Wilford lunged forward and grabbed Dark from the collar of his coat, pulling him back. Dark stumbled back, about to catch his footing, when Wilford swiveled him around and slammed him into the wall, fists curled in his shirt.

    "What do you think you're doing?" Wilford demanded, face up in his.

    A thrill raced up Dark's spine that he pushed away. He bared his teeth. "What do you think I'm doing?" he spat. "I'm going to find Mark before Celine tries to kill him—"

    Wilford pushed Dark against the wall, eyes burning, intense. "You cannot go out there alone," he hissed, breath hot on Dark's face. "You hear me?"

    Dark glared, fight in his eyes. Wilford glared right back, sizing him up.

    "You go out there," said Wilford, "and you're as good as dead." Wil pressed his forehead against his. "That's what she wants, Dark. She wants you at your weakest, so she can pin you right where she wants you."

Dark breathed hard, and he thrashed in Wilford's grip, hating how his body and mind were at war with each other. On one hand, he wavered at the treatment—body weak with how close they were, how violently Wilford held him. On the other hand, he worried about Mark—mind panicking that if he didn't do something now, he'd end up dead.

"I was alone before," growled Dark. "I'll do it alone now."

Dark pushed off the wall, but Wilford slammed him back down, eyes burning, tearing through him. The businessman seethed.

"I have to find him," he said. "Wilford, if you don't let me, then—"

"You'll both die," spat Wil.

"Yeah?" Dark threw back, sick on emotion, drowning in it. "And why would you care if I died?"

Wilford reeled back as if the words stung, and Dark shoved him away, his heart on overdrive, pounding in his throat. The mafia boss stepped back, looking at Dark like he couldn't believe what the man was saying.

"Don't you... get it? Dark, I care about—"

"When we first met, you didn't give me a choice," said Dark. "And I don't like my options right now, but this time—" He glared at Wilford with all the hate he could muster. "This time, I have a choice." He breathed hard. "I can either stay with you and wait around," he growled, "or I can go out there and save my friend's life."

"Dark... you have no idea how my world works," said Wilford, approaching him carefully. "The moment you step outside—"

"I'll take my chances," spat Dark, stepping away. "Goodbye, Wilford."

He met the mafia boss' eyes one last time—refused the urge to get lost in them—and turned away, down the hall, away from Wilford and everything about him.

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo