"Right there," breathed Detective Abe, pointing through the crowd. "That's him."

Amy pulled away from Abe's arm and searched through the sea of bodies, eyes sharp from years of training. She spotted a man in white, crossing the room and heading towards a large staircase.

"Mr. Edwards," breathed Nelson. She nodded at Abe, and they continued along the outskirts of the crowd, keeping their profiles low as possible. Her fingers tightened over her clutch purse with her gun in it, ready for any sign of attack.

They stopped near a cluster of bodies, hiding themselves but giving them a good enough view to see Mr. Edwards. Detective Abe plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray, but he didn't drink it.

Might as well try to blend.

———

Celine stole the name of another person on the waitlist in order to get inside.

She gazed around the building with Blank at her side, who stood like a vagrant in comparison. While a shimmering, black silk dress adorned her figure, Blank's ragged suit still draped down his body. At least he'd cleaned the blood from his face.

They walked past the grand foyer and into the noise of the party, settling among the sea of bodies. Celine's eyes drifted over her surroundings as they walked, mischief in her gaze.

Her eyes landed on the back of a head—a man in a dull suit, standing near a staircase—and her lips curled into a pout.

"Oh," breathed Celine, brows furrowing. "How unfortunate."

She walked closer to the man, and Blank followed, deadpan eyes searching their surroundings.

"What is it?" he muttered, voice quieter under the clamor of chatter, clinking glasses, and laughter. He didn't bother trying to raise his voice.

Celine carefully pointed through the crowd, and Blank followed her finger, eyes landing on the man. His expression hardened, and his eyes glinted.

"It seems," breathed Celine, "that our little CEO is acquainted with the FBI."

He and Celine gazed at Detective Abe, and at his side, a woman that they didn't know. Most likely his partner. An agent. And very likely armed.

"The Detective was never much of a threat," Blank murmured, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "But he's still an obstacle."

Celine ran a hand over her chin and nodded, humming to herself. "Yes, exactly..." she crooned. "He always does ruin the fun, doesn't he?"

She turned away—putting distance between her and Detective Abe—and settled in a different part of the crowd. There was a flash of pink in the corner of her eye, but it passed before she could acknowledge it.

"Keep an eye on them," said Celine, turning her head towards Blank. "He'll only make things more difficult if he spots us."

———

It was only a few minutes spent in the venue that Wilford stilled, standing among the bodies.

He didn't have to look for Mr. Edwards.

He did the work for him.

A glass clinked—a toast—and the noise of the party fell into murmurs and shared glances, the music fading to nothing. Wilford's hand lingered on the stem of his lollipop as he glanced around like the others, searching for the source of the sound.

And then, leaning against the railing of a stairway, was Dark Edwards, tapping a fork against his wine glass. All eyes turned towards him, and he smiled, all charisma, all confidence. A look that stunned everyone in the room.

Wilford's lashes fluttered, and as he focused on Dark's figure, the rest of the party slid into the backdrop, all details and partygoers blurring around him.

Holy... shit, he thought, lower belly coiling with heat.

Wilford carefully walked closer, sliding past people, who looked equally enraptured. His gaze lingered on Dark's figure—on his alluring angles, and the way that white suit complimented his body so well. Not only that, but beyond the fierceness of his gaze, and the tilt of his smirk on those lips he wanted to kiss, there was an energy around him that Wilford rarely found in other people.

It went above confidence, above charisma. It was a sly, coiling danger; the kind that waited in the shadows, watching, calculating... and striked when its opponent was most vulnerable.

He saw it in people who knew exactly what they wanted. Who would go at all lengths to attain their desires.

Wilford felt so hot he had to take off his fur coat.

"I have to thank you all," came Dark's voice, which echoed through the building, "for joining me tonight."

Fuck. Could he get any more flustered? He hadn't expected Mr. Edwards to sound like that. His voice, so low, with a seductive drawl—

He wondered what that voice would sound like at his ear, whispering all sorts of—

Wilford tried to focus on the sweetness of his lollipop. But then that made him think of other things.

Damn the way his mind always went to the gutter.

"I generally don't celebrate so extravagantly," said Dark, eyes drifting over the crowd, "but as my company grows, and my relationships with each and every one of you transform, this only seems necessary." He smiled, eyes glinting. "Tonight isn't just a celebration," continued Dark, raising his glass. "It's a toast to the future, and the things we'll accomplish together. The lives we'll change."

His glass glinted under the lights, and the sea of people mimicked him, smiles on their faces.

"To the future," Dark said, tipping his glass.

"To the future!" the crowd echoed, clinking their glasses together and downing their drinks. Dark sipped his own glass, the wine sliding down his throat with a tang.

"Now, without further ado," said Dark, "have fun and enjoy yourselves."

The chatter swelled again, all noise and distraction, and the music kicked back in, bouncing off the walls. Dark descended the stairs and let himself pause—a short breath to collect himself, to recharge. Parties were so draining, personas so irritating to keep. He didn't understand how some people could do this everyday.

He preferred the quiet of the office, and the fatigue of a day's hard work.

Mark parted through the crowd and sidled up to Dark, eyes still searching, examining every person in the party. Dark glanced down at him and rose a brow, smirking.

"Shouldn't you be drinking?" he teased.

Mark gave a sour chuckle. "They didn't have Kool-Aid," he said. "You business-people and your alcohol."

"Right," said Dark with amusement, turning his eyes towards the sea of people. "I forgot you can't drink."

He tilted the wine glass to his lips, but right before he could sip, the crowd parted, and his eyes locked with another pair of eyes that burned right into him. A man, who held himself with a stunning confidence, with his button-up popped open at the collarbones, and silk pink pants that hung off his hips. The man carefully tipped his head towards Dark, never breaking his gaze, and the room crackled with an energy that lit up his insides.

Dark's breath caught, and he lowered his glass, time slowing around him. The party blurred around him, until all he could focus on was the man. Soft, curly pink hair, pink stache, pink lips, reddened by the lollipop in his mouth.

Wilford Warfstache.

Infamous mafia-boss, cold-blooded killer, and absolute wildcard.

Oh god... thought Dark as he grew hot under his collar. The photos of him online put him to shame.

Mark glanced at Dark, and his eyes widened at his frozen faze. "What?" he breathed, following his gaze. "What is i—"

Mark's voice caught in his throat, and he reached for his gun. Dark held out a hand. Caught his wrist before he could draw the weapon.

"Not yet," said Dark softly, transfixed under Wilford's gaze. "I want to speak with him first."

"Sir, you can't be serious—"

Dark sent Mark a glare, and he wavered, stepping back. There was fear in the bodyguard's eyes—an emotion Dark rarely saw in him.

As much as it should have unnerved him, it didn't.

Dark's gaze flicked back towards Wilford, his body tense. The mafia boss hadn't moved an inch, but his eyes conveyed everything. A hunger, primal, like predator to prey. A dangerous interest.

"Stay in the background," Dark told Mark, his voice careful. "Don't give him a reason to hurt anyone."

Mark grit his teeth, and he glared in Wilford's direction, fingers itching to use his gun. When Dark didn't move, his order standing clear, Mark cursed and gave in.

"Fine," he hissed. He stormed off and did exactly what Dark ordered—stayed in the background, watching in case anything went wrong, but never close enough to be noticed, to distract.

If something happened, he'd be too far away to act right away. Mark knew that. Dark knew that. And he ordered it, anyway.

It was begging for something bad to happen.

Dark took a deep breath, gathering his wits—but instead of walking forward, towards Wilford, towards his heated gaze—he went the other way.

He could feel Wilford's gaze burn into him as he walked through the crowd. Towards the bar. He spared a glance through the crowd. Could see a flash of pink, mimicking his path, following him.

Dark couldn't help but swallow, the anticipation making his heart pound in his throat.

He needed more wine.

Dark slid his glass onto the barside table, motioned to its half-empty state, and the bartender poured more red wine for him with a smile. Edwards returned the gesture, his mind racing, and when he turned around, Wilford was right there, body so close, face so close.

Stunned, Dark stepped back, and his back hit the table. Wilford smirked at his reaction and leaned to the side, gazing over Dark's shoulder at the bartender. His hair fell before his eyes at the motion, and his necklace glinted over his collarbones. Dark had to take a moment to recollect himself; had to remind himself not to let his eyes wander.

"Red wine," Wilford mused, the slur of his accent thick. "Shame. I'm more of a whiskey guy myself."

The bartender slid Dark's glass of wine across the table, and Wilford grabbed it, grinning beneath his moustache. His gaze slid onto Dark's, and he held out the glass for him to take, brow raised.

"For you," he breathed.

Dark took a deep breath, his stomach filling with butterflies. When he took the glass from Wilford's grip, their fingers brushed, and a thrill raced down his spine. He never remembered feeling this flustered, even with his first (and only) lover. He didn't even know Wilford, yet.

Dark collected himself and narrowed his eyes, exhaling carefully.

"You must be Mr. Warfstache," he breathed, searching his features. It felt so surreal, talking to him; he practically sparkled under the lights. "Some of my associates told me about you."

Wilford smirked, and he stepped closer—if he even could. Dark was already trapped against the table, but with Wilford advancing on him, their chests were practically brushing. Bodies pressing so close—so close he could feel the heat between them, growing unbearable with how many layers he was wearing.

His "No Touching" rule blared in the back of his head like an alarm, and he felt a sudden need to push the mafia boss away.

"You must know why I'm here then," said Wilford, his breath fanning across Dark's neck. Dark's breath shuddered at the feeling, unused to such attention in so long, and he took a long sip of wine to try and grab his bearings. His breath clouded in the glass.

"I do," breathed Dark as he lowered his glass. He licked his lips, and Wilford made a show of glancing at them without shame.

Hell... this man was more intense than he bargained for.

"You want this property," said Dark, motioning to the building. "I assume you're here to talk me out of it. Or..." He slid away from the table to give himself space, and stood in front of Wilford on his own terms. "You're here to kill me, and take what's 'rightfully' yours."

He motioned to the flash of gold in the pocket of Wil's fur coat, which draped over his arm. His signature revolver.

"Either way," said Dark, regaining his confidence, now that he had space to breathe, "I won't let you succeed."

Wilford's eyes went half-lidded, and he smirked. He ran his tongue around his lollipop, made a show of sucking it, and popped it back in his mouth, letting the stem rest like a cigarette at his lips. Dark carefully inhaled, trying to keep his eyes trained on Wilford's.

"I never do enjoy it," said Wilford, "when a deal is too easy." He waved a waiter over and winked at them when he handed over his coat. And with it, the golden revolver in its pocket.

No weapon, not anymore. Unarmed.

The music kicked into a smoother beat—one more fit for slow dancing—and the people around them began to link together, couples swaying onto a growing dance floor. Wilford's eyes glimmered with opportunity, with excitement, and he held out a hand in offering.

Dark glanced down at his hand, then noticed the change in music, and glanced at the dance floor. Back at Wilford's hand, splayed before him.

He wasn't seriously—

"How about a dance?" breathed the mob boss, gaze intense.

Dark's jaw hardened, and his fingers tightened over his wine glass.

"I'm afraid I'm going to decline—"

Wilford grabbed the wine glass and set it on the table, then grabbed Dark's hand, pulling him through the crowd. Sparks went up Dark's spine at the contact, and he wondered if Wilford felt it too, or if he simply hadn't been touched in so long.

Most likely the latter.

When they reached the dance floor, Dark's blood went cold. There were so many eyes, so many people looking at him—and not in a favorable way. People leaned towards each other and gossiped as they watched Wilford lead Dark among the slow-dancing couples. A woman in red tugged on a man's suit, eyes wide.

"Abe—" breathed Amy, fingers tight in the detective's suit. "Are you seeing this?"

Abe nearly crushed his glass, and Amy slid it out of his hand before he could. His eyes were wide, jaw clenched—every fibre of him trying not to rush forward and tackle Warfstache to the ground.

"Yeah," said Abe, voice tight. "I see it."

Wilford Warfstache, leading Dark Edwards into the middle of the dance floor. A duo that could tear Los Angeles apart, if they worked together.

Wil stopped, and he turned towards Dark with a grin, pulling him closer by his hand. Dark's heel clicked as he stepped forward, and he glared, tearing his gaze away from the hundreds of eyes watching them.

"Mr. Warfstache—"

Wilford grabbed Dark's belt and pulled him close, their hips meeting. Dark's breath caught, his eyes flicking over to the crowd, watching, waiting—

"Please," said Wil, guiding Dark's hands to his shoulders. "Call me Wilford."

Dark's gaze flicked back onto Wil's. "This is highly inappropriate—"

"Really, now?" breathed Wilford, as they began to move along to the beat. "What's the harm in an innocent slow dance?"

Dark's fingers tightened in Wilford's shoulders, and his breath caught at the feel of strong muscle beneath that silk shirt. And the way his shirt popped open, inviting, revealing the expanse of his chest—

Oh god, he was flustered. He was so flustered, under Wilford's guiding hands, so warm on his hips—under the prying eyes, watching as they swayed to the music.

"I would really rather," breathed Dark, "a casual conversation—"

Wilford's thumbs dug into Dark's hips—just a tease, a little test to feel his flesh—and Dark's breaths cantered, his knees threatening to buckle.

How was he so affected by this man?

He had to pull himself together. Remember who exactly he was pressed up against, remember where exactly he was.

Wilford smirked, more than thrilled to see such a high-regarded and reserved man crumble under his grip. God, if simple touches had him so heated, he wondered what other things would have him reacting.

Not a good thought to have in public, especially when everyone's eyes were on you.

But certainly an enticing one.

"You enthrall me, Mr. Edwards," said Wilford, his eyes glittering. He stood a few inches taller than Dark, still guiding him across the dance floor. "All these eyes, all these people, and yet—you never let anyone get too close, do you?" Wilford leaned forward, and Dark's breath caught as the other's moustache tickled his neck. His breath ran hot in his ear. "Always letting them look, but never touch."

His hands tightened over Dark's hips, and he sucked in a breath.

Fuck... fuck, how was he supposed to handle this?

Dark tried to steady his breaths, his body practically trembling, and he leaned his head back in an attempt to get some distance. Wilford smirked at his reaction.

"I would appreciate it," breathed Dark, "if we spoke in a more civil manner."

Wilford smirked down at him, his face so close, eyes glinting with an emotion he couldn't place. If he tilted his head—leaned just a few inches closer—they would be kissing.

"Oh, lighten up, sweetheart," breathed Wil, the pet name sending Dark's mind spinning. "You want to put up a fight for this place. Let me have this one dance."

Dark's jaw hardened—brows furrowed in the slightest—but even if he wanted to pull away (which, deep down, he didn't), there were too many eyes.

It always came down to that. Reputation. The rumours, the prying stares.

He didn't want to make a scene, so instead, he took a deep breath, relaxed the best he could under Wilford's embrace, and swayed with him.

"Very well," he breathed, tilting his chin up. He locked eyes with Wilford, trying to suppress the shudders coursing through him, and tightened his hands over Wilford's shoulders. Ran his thumbs into them, feeling the muscle there. "One dance."

Wilford's eyes twinkled with excitement, and his grin widened.

"Perfect," he breathed.

———

The unlikely couple in the middle of the dance floor stunned all the partygoers around them.

Celine narrowed her eyes at the sudden wave of gossip, and she went to investigate, sliding between bodies and waiters with trays. Blank lingered a few feet away, following slowly, but he was more focused on the Detective and his partner.

They looked... shocked. The woman, stunned yet making sure the Detective was alright. And then Abe, with his face pale, then red, his fists and jaw clenching with fury.

Blank stepped forward, and he nearly bumped into Celine. His brows furrowed, and he glanced at her, noting her equally shocked features.

He glanced up, towards the dance floor, and realized why.

Celine tensed at his side, danger coiling through her at a threatening rate.

"What the hell... is he doing here?" she breathed, her eyes glittering with fury.

There was Wilford, hands claiming on Mr. Edwards' hips, guiding them over the dance floor along with the smooth beat. Their presence illuminated the dance floor, washing out the other couples.

Celine turned her gaze on Blank, and the man stepped back, holding his hands up in defense.

"I-I didn't know he'd be here," he said quickly. "I promise."

Celine scowled, and she glared at the two on the dance floor, her fingers twitching. One of them, a man who tore her life apart. The other, a goddamn pain in her side.

She'd only ever met Wilford a few times in her life, and it was always infuriating.

If there was anything worse than Detective Abe, that obstacle, it was Wilford Warfstache.

The man had no restraint.

Celine took a deep breath, collecting herself, and began coming up with a plan.

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo