Page 90 of Filthy Little Fix
"...they're saying Dante Volkov himself is on the street," says a lost whisper, and just the sound of his name brings me warmth. "Tearing through all the important guys. They hired security for Sergei..."
Sergei. Viktor's brother, or something like that.
I think about it. Was it Dante who hung a Malakov accountant on a meat hook?
"...all this for some IT guy?"
"I told them not to invade that mansion. I think it was because of it."
Laughable. Dante is a territorial man, but a mansion is just a set of bricks. He, above all, knows this.
I don't know how much I can believe a scared whisper in a hallway. But this is good. Dante burning the world, hanging idiots in suits on meat hooks for an IT guy. A good result for my work. The Volkovs are right to fear losing the one who fixes their cybernetic weaknesses. They know what I can do.
And, as much as a computer is what makes me objectively indispensable to them, the idea of a world in flames just because Dantewants meburns my nerve endings.
At some point, a metallic noise pulls me out of my head. My eyes—photophobic—burn with the light, coming in saturated beams. I see two silhouettes. A muscular, large man; and a slender, older man, wearing an expensive suit. High-ranking and a brute. How fun.
They approach slowly. The goon closes the door, and I feel his curiosity on me. When he speaks, it's in a coarse, raspy voice of someone who drinks too much.
"Is this the famousNyx?" he says, savoring the name. "What a disappointment. I was expecting a hot blonde."
Original. Nothing I haven't heard three dozen times before. The man in the suit ignores the comment. He stops in front of me, keeping the distance of someone who doesn't think I'm worth any proximity. "Leonel Hays," he says. Unlike the big guy, his voice is clear. "Or do you prefer Nyx?"
He pauses, but doesn't wait for me to answer.
"It's a shame our first meeting outside of a screen is like this. Your work for us in the past was impeccable. The Volkovs are setting fire to everything out there for you, creating hell on earth. You must feel important."
Dante wouldn't let them enter his house and take something of his. That's obvious.
The big guy doesn't stop walking toward me. He crouches down and grabs my chin with calloused, swollen fingers. He squeezes, forcing my torso up.
"Important or justwell-used? You're all marked up," he laughs, forcing my face to the side. He sees the bruises as a joke. "And it's not just from punches, is it,sweet thing?" He pushes his thumb into a purplish circle—next to the bite marks.Dante'smarks. "Does he bite you when he's fucking you, little whore? You must moan real nice."
That wording doesn't cause me any shame. I swallow my disgust—he smells of putrid intoxication—and give him a smile, letting him hold my face however he wants. "Want to hear? Hit me hard enough and maybe I'll show you."
He didn't expect that reaction, but he recovers well. He analyzes the marks on my face. I bite my lip for him, and he looks down at my groin. His synapses don't work well enough to understand that I'm not turned on.
"You like a beating to open your legs, is that it?" he says, torn between a fantastical, pornographic excitement and hatred for my courage. He doesn't let go of my face. Dante would hold on tighter.
I peek at the older man in the suit. I say, before he can interfere, "I saidhard enough.I doubt you could get close to what he does."
This is predictable. A brute who gets offended at the possibility of not being the strongestHomo sapiensin history. A man who takes a sexual comparison with another man straight to his dick, to his chromosomes, to his testosterone. To the certainty of who he is. He gets pissed.
"You little motherfucker," he says.
He grabs my collar and pulls me up. He throws a punch at my face. A direct trauma to my nose, from the side, enough to displace the straight line of the bridge—I feel my septum crack,my breathing converted to asymmetry. I was right: this punch would be too light to affect my jaw. My molars would hold. Dante, on the other hand, shattered them.
What a joke.
I spit on the floor without thinking. A reflex with a metallic taste.
"The other guy hit harder," I say. I can't even hide the contempt.
The brute roars with hatred. I peek at the boss—avoyeurof violence, watching his man about to beat a hostage, until he finally speaks.
"Enough."
The brute, disgruntled, is at least obedient. He lets me go reluctantly. He takes a step back, moves closer to his boss, like a puppy. As if he needed his leash pulled to stop him from pouncing on a piece of steak. How cute.
