"Detective," said Amy, her voice catching. "I think I found Warfstache's next target."

    Abe shot out of his seat—ignoring the stares of the other officers in the precinct—and rushed around her desk. He planted a hand beside her laptop and stared at it, eyes wide.

    "Another realtor?" he breathed, vibrating with energy.

    Amy draped an arm over her chair and stared at Abe, her expression tense.

    "Worse," she said. "It's that famous CEO, the one who owns all those buildings downtown." She rose her brows. "And you know what that means..."

A cold chill raced down Abe's spine, and he carefully exhaled, the possibility making his head spin.

    "Alliances..." he breathed, staring at the laptop with wide eyes. Dark Edward's photo glowed on the screen, and below it read an article concerning the celebration of his newly-owned property.

    A party, open to only a select few, but public to everyone's knowledge.

    Dread sank in Abe's gut, and he turned to Amy, lowering his voice.

    "Where's that property on?" he breathed.

    "Fifth Street."

    Abe cursed, and he ran a hand over his face, leaning back. Other officers glared or made fun of him behind his back, but he could care less. This was his entire career at stake. Warfstache was already untouchable. If he managed to work with Mr. Edwards—one of the most renowned billionaires in the States—then catching him would be beyond impossible.

    "That's right on Warfstache's territory," said the Detective, his mind whirring. "I mean, is this guy crazy? He's crazy. He's out of his mind."

    Amy pushed the laptop aside, and she stood up. "We need more evidence before we can conclude anything," she said. "Director Kjellberg won't listen to us if we come to him with nothing but a hunch."

    Abe ran a hand over his mouth, and he nodded, gazing at the article on the laptop. Unease coiled in his gut.

    "If we don't act fast, that man will either be dead—" He pointed at Edwards' photo. "—or working with the most dangerous man in the city." He turned to Amy, and she nodded, brows furrowed. "And we can't afford either of those."

———

The party was tonight.

    Dark never enjoyed parties. There were too many people, too many eyes. People like him liked to look and judge when it came to flashy events. It was a game of who could one up who.

            Rather than having fun and letting loose, people treated parties like a show, a competition. A time to gain status and network, or gossip on whose reputation was bound to crumble next.

    That was one of the downsides of being wealthy. All those jealous, hungry stares; the fake smiles and critical glances. Envy and greed always washed away any promise of a real connection.

Dark enjoyed his life, no doubt—always prided himself on reaching for the next big thing—but many people in the business world were rotten to the core.

People focused on using others to get what they wanted. Relationships were built on lies, compliments given to gain trust, to gain secrets, to gain power.

    Dark would be lying if he said he hadn't done that before.

    He would also be lying if he said someone hadn't done the same to himself.

    Dark took a deep breath and shook unpleasant memories away. He didn't want to think about the only time he'd ever gotten close to someone—the first man he'd ever given his heart to—the one who used him, broke him. Built their smiles on lies when, really, it was all a ploy—a sick joke—to accumulate more fame.

It was part of the past.

Dark walked through his house barefoot, a luxurious penthouse on the outskirts of downtown Los Angeles. It stood tall and proud like the skyscrapers in the city, every surface sleeked and shined to perfection. Even though it was evening time, he didn't bother turning on the lights. The city gave him enough ambience to see.

He remembered when the house used to be filled with noise, whenever he came home. His lover, rehearsing a role in the kitchen as he cooked dinner, or lounging in the living room and rewatching a movie he played a role in. Even if they didn't talk, just the presence of someone else being there was enough.

Dark went up a flight of stairs and headed towards his bedroom, his footsteps echoing around him.

Nowadays, the house was completely bare—not a single breath of life stirred around him, the house completely quiet. Empty.

All this space, and no one to share it with.

Dark crossed his bedroom and slid open the doors to the walk-in closet. The lights clicked on, and a huge wardrobe revealed before him. An array of suits hung on racks built into the walls, and a row of dress shoes lined the floor. At the very back stood a body-length mirror and a tall drawer, which held all of his ties and watches.

Dark ran his hands over his silk black robe and stepped into the closet, browsing his options. So many decisions, and all of them so hard to choose from...

A hint of white caught his eye from the back of the closet, and he hummed, knowing exactly what to wear.

He padded through the closet and grabbed one of the hangers, pulling out a white suit. Giorgio Armani. Used only for extravagant occasions. The all-white was a bit too bold for his tastes, but it would do.

Especially if he were meeting Wilford, he wanted to look his best.

His stomach tingled at the thought, and he swallowed, heart beating thick in his throat.

Would he even show up? Surely he would.

He slid off his bathrobe, and as he dressed himself, the fabrics sliding over his skin, he imagined dressing up for the mafia boss. Making himself look presentable, just for him. And only him.

The idea excited him.

———

A vintage Cadillac convertible rumbled with life in front of the stolen mansion, and the driver drummed his fingers on the wheel.

    "Is he ready yet?" asked the driver, Jim.

    Host sat in the passenger seat, his arm resting out the car window. The light of the dashboard highlighted his features in the darkness.

    "You know him," said Host, leaning over to switch to a new radio station. Classic rock softly crooned through the car speakers. "He's probably still deciding on an outfit."

    Jim groaned, and he slumped in the driver's seat, hands on the wheel.

    "It starts at seven, doesn't it?" he said. "We're gonna be late."

    Host chuckled, and he rose a brow at the other, his copper eye glinting. "People like us never go to parties on time—if we have to go at all," he said. "Like Wilford says, it's always good to be—"

    "Fashionably late," slurred a voice.

    Jim jumped, and Host glanced out the window. Wilford stood next to the car, hands in his pockets, and he dressed to perfection.

    He sucked on a lollipop as Jim and Host took in the sight of him.

    A fur coat draped down his shoulders, and he wore a yellow silk shirt, the top few buttons popped open to reveal the expanse of his chest. A thin, gold chain rested over his collarbones, twinkling under the moonlight. Even his hair was all done up. Bouncy pink curls framed his face, looking softer than cotton candy.

    "Well?" mused Wilford, taking a step back so the others could see the rest of his outfit. "How do I look?"

    Wilford pulled the fur coat back, flashing his pastel pink pants and white dress shoes. White suspenders hung at his hips, accenting the flashy belt that tied everything together. It certainly didn't match the aesthetic of a man going to a stuck-up party for businessmen—more so a nightclub—but he looked stunning.

    Host gave Wilford a once-over and met his eyes. "Since when did you care about that?" he asked, pulling his arm back into the car.

    Wilford smirked, and he pulled the lollipop out of his mouth, circling his tongue around it.

    "I want to look good for my date," he mused, eyes twinkling. "Is that so bad?"

    Host huffed through his nose, and he exited the car and pulled the seat forward so Wil could get in. Wilford ducked under the hood and sat in the back seat of the Cadillac, the leather sinking under his weight.

    "Besides," continued Wilford as Host sat back down and shut the car door. "Businessmen are so quick to judge." He waved his candy idly as he spoke. "It's a given he'll be difficult to talk to, so I figured I'd swoon him the moment he looks at me."

    He earned a chuckle from Host. Jim pulled the gear shift, and the car rolled out of the driveway and down the road.

    "It would be like love at first sight," sighed Wilford dramatically, popping the candy back in his mouth. He slumped in the back seat and kicked his feet up on Host's headrest. "You know, like when Anastasia first met Mr. Grey—"

    "Wil—please—" said Host, facepalming. "Can you stop referencing that movie?"

    "It was a good movie," he mused.

    "You just watched it for the sex."

    Wilford grinned, but he didn't deny it. "Just you wait," he said over his lollipop, gazing out the window. The city came into view, glittering and bright, and the noise of traffic swelled around him. "By the end of tonight, I'll have Mr. Edwards around my arm like a dame."

    Host glanced over his shoulder, and Wilford winked.

    "It'll be a piece of cake."

———

It was dark in the Director's office, with the space illuminated by a single lamp in the corner.

    Detective Abe and Agent Nelson stood in front of a large, oak desk, waiting stiffly for an answer. Tension coiled in the air as Director Felix Kjellberg leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen on his knuckles. Every click of the pen made Abe's anxiety tick up.

    The Director inhaled, mulling on a thought, and the two FBI agents leaned forward, listening closely.

    "It's too much of a risk," said Kjellberg with a Swedish lilt.

    All hope drained from the air, and the tension sagged. Abe opened his mouth to speak, but Kjellberg held up a hand.

    "I didn't say you could speak, Detective," he said. His blue eyes flicked up, cutting like knives, and Abe straightened himself with a swallow. Even Amy stiffened at his gaze.

    "This... evidence," said Kjellberg, motioning to the scraps on his desk. "It's all theoretical at best."

    "Sir, if you just look at the patterns—"

    "Do you want a repeat of last time, Detective?" said Kjellberg, glaring at Abe. "It was this same situation, with your theories, and your supposed word... that you said you had Warfstache cornered."

    Abe went red with embarrassment, but Kjellberg didn't stop there. He leaned forward on his desk, expression threatening, and glared, unrelenting.

    "And... what exactly did we find at the rendezvous, Detective?" he breathed, voice dangerous. "That circus show, yeah?"

He didn't have to continue; just had to let the memories flood Abe's head, remind him of his place, keep him suppressed. Abe bowed his head in defeat and clenched his fists at his sides, and it was over.

    Kjellberg leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, gazing at the two agents.

    "I'm not providing backup," he said, "unless you two witness a life in danger."

    "Sir, there is a life in—"

    "You don't know that, Detective," said Kjellberg. He ran his thumb over his nails, expression deadpan.

    "However," he said, and the agents perked up, "I won't stop you from going to the party."

    Abe's breath hitched, and his eyes lit up.

    "You'll need to go undercover," said Kjellberg. "Conceal carry, hidden vests." He waved a hand. "Keep an eye on Edwards and make sure he's safe."

    Abe's shoulders slumped in relief, and he wearily smiled. "Sir—thank you, sir—"

    "I'm not finished," said Kjellberg, holding up his hand. "I will make it clear that your only task tonight is to look after the CEO. That is your one and only job." He rose a brow, glaring at Abe and Amy. "There will be no interfering, no speaking to him... don't even search for the possibility of Warfstache. You keep your eyes on Edwards, and that is it."

    Abe opened his mouth to rebuttal, but Amy placed a hand on his elbow. He glanced at her, and she sent him a pointed look. They may not have gotten the approval they wanted, but it was still approval. Arguing would ruin their chances of going at all.

    Abe took a deep breath, and he nodded.

    "Yes, sir," he said. "Thank you."

    Amy nodded, and she gave her own thanks. Kjellberg waved a hand in dismissal.

    "Good luck, agents," he said. Amy opened the door, but before they could leave, the Director added, "And Detective?" Abe glanced over his shoulder, and Felix sent him a cool stare. "Don't give me a reason to fire you."

...

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

Love, Victor xoxo