“Wakey, wakey, Angelo.”

Angelo roused himself. He had fallen asleep in the chair. Sunlight was streaming in through the dirty skylights of the warehouse, telling him that a new day had dawned.

His shoulders were aching, his bladder was full, and he was beginning to lose his temper with his captor. Damien was standing in front of him, looking handsome and smug. Oh for his hands to be free. Even just one of them. Angelo could have done unspeakable things to this boy - would, once he was free.

“Good morning, Damien.” Angelo kept his voice even and pleasant. It was important to maintain self-control insofar as was possible.

Truth be told, this was the most interesting and challenging thing that had happened to him in a long time. For once, he couldn’t accurately predict the outcome of the situation. There could be no doubt that Damien was a killer. It was written in his eyes. Death should surely await. And yet, it had not come - and it’s absence was a puzzle not quite adequately explained by Damien’s assertion that this was about payback.

“Being helpless must be frustrating you terribly,” Damien smirked.

He was handsome when he smiled. It was perhaps a little narcissistic, but Angelo couldn’t help but see a younger version of himself in Damien.

It was interesting, Angelo noted, how he viewed Damien as being so young. Damien was a few years older than Mark, and quite a bit older than Bobby. And yet for some reason, Angelo ascribed almost juvenile qualities to this devastatingly dangerous man. It wasn’t based on his appearance either. He was hard and mature in aspect. It must have been something else, then. Something below the skin. Something that lurked below the eyes and came out in occasional flashes. There was something very young in Damien. Something that grew up in most men, but had stayed small in him.

The younger man had not slept well. That was obvious from the bags under his eyes and in the micro-expressions of his bearing.

“I’m not helpless,” Angelo purred. “You should get to bed earlier, Damien. You need your rest.”

A flash of acknowledgement lit Damien’s eyes. Ah, so he hadn’t slept. Not surprising. He had a mark tied up in a warehouse. A very loose end indeed. Wasn’t exactly conducive to a restful night.

“Do you often have trouble getting to sleep, Damien?” Angelo purred the question. “Do you need a daddy to tuck you into bed?”

Most men would have interpreted the words as a taunt. But Angelo saw the little flash in Damien’s eyes - a split second of wistfulness which passed so quickly it almost wasn’t there at all. sHe’d seen it though, and seeing was knowing.

“My sleep isn’t your concern,” Damien growled. He probably didn’t mean to sound as petulant as he did.

“Ah but you are my captor. Your everything is my concern,” Angelo said.

Damien smirked. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you’re rude. Do you know what I do to my boys when they’re rude?”

“What?”

“I spank them.”

It wasn’t quite true. Bobby earned himself thrashings that were far more severe than spankings, and Mark rarely earned any kind of punishment at all. He liked to be a good boy. But Angelo had the feeling that talking about spanking, the most gentle kind of domination possible, would elicit the strongest reaction from Damien.

“Would you like to go over my knee, Damien? Let me spank you nice and long and hard, absolve you of some of that terrible guilt which keeps you up at night?”

“Shut up,” Damien growled.

“You’re going to kill me anyway. Why not have me show you precisely what it is I do to my boys before I go?”

“I’m not curious about that,” Damien said, rolling his eyes in a way which was supposed to show derision, but made him look more like a petulant teenager than ever.

“I think you are,” Angelo said softly. “I think you’re lost, Damien.”

“You want me to be lost,” Damien said gruffly. “Because that’s how you operate. You prey on weak outcasts. You’re no different than a hyena. But your tricks don’t work on me, Angelo. I told you that already. Now shut the hell up, before I change my mind about letting you loose to eat and to shit.”

“Very generous,” Angelo said. “Thank you.”

Damien walked behind Angelo and used a sharp knife to snap the cable ties open. As soon as the last one was cut he stepped back hurriedly, as if he expected to be struck. Angelo was the prisoner, and yet Damien was the one blinking first. True power was found in the micro-moments. Damien could have had a full arsenal pointed at Angelo and still not have had true mastery of him.

Angelo took his time standing up, so as not to panic his captor. He was sure Damien could bring either the knife he had in his hand, or the gun in his holster to bear at a moment’s notice and being jumpy only made it more likely that he’d default to a weapon.

“There’s a toilet over there,” Damien indicated a small room at the back of the warehouse. It wasn’t exactly a palatial bathroom, but it would do. Angelo made use o the facilities, surprised that Damien didn’t make a point of watching him. That was a rookie mistake.

The problem with keeping captives was that live people were far more trouble than dead bodies. Damien obviously wasn’t practiced in dealing with the living, and that was going to cost him.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he found himself confronted with a cold Pop Tart on a paper plate. Damien shoved it at him, then yanked his head back to the chair where Angelo had spent most of his captivity.

“Go and sit and eat it. I’ll get you some water.”

It was a curious experience, being under lock and key. Angelo wasn’t exactly enjoying it, but it was educational. Damien brought a bottle of water and put it down next to Angelo, as Angelo began to make his way through the very odd piece of alleged food.

“Not what you’re used to, huh?” His captor allowed himself a smirk.

“Not quite,” Angelo allowed.

He was free now. Good. He had no intention of letting Damien tie him back up. The tables were starting to turn, and he had meant what he said. Everything Damien had done to him, Angelo intended to inflict back upon him many times over.

He finished the pop tart and took a swig of water. Choosing to stay seated, he kept the bottle in his hands and waited to see what Damien had in store for him.

“You’re a sick man.”

Angelo yawned. This was beginning to become tedious in the extreme. Damien had somehow managed to make himself look even more juvenile than he did the day before. He was wearing jeans and a graphic t-shirt which depicted a tank running over a unicorn. It would have been amusing, if Damien were half his age.

The man was desperately in need of a tailor. With the right clothing, he would look impeccable and impressive. Right now he looked as though he’d gotten his clothing from a tenth grade catalog. Some people thought jeans and t-shirts were acceptable casual wear for grown men. Those people were wrong.

“Tired?”

“Bored,” Angelo said. “You come and whine at me periodically, but you don’t seem to have it in you to actually do anything.”

In response, Damien pulled out his gun and cocked it. “Are you bored now?”

Yes. Angelo was more bored than ever. The only torment that had taken place so far, he’d had to call in on himself. This boy wasn’t capable of inflicting any real pain. He was too simple, too basic. He thought bullets were scary.

“I bet you have one of those Live, Laugh, Love plaques in your home,” Angelo drawled. “You have the same tastes in terror as a suburban housewife. And you dress like her teenage son.”

Damien snorted. “Well I’m sorry I’m not a walking cliche like you, Angelo. Mr Wannabe Not Quite Mafioso.”

Angelo stood up. Damien took a swift step back, the gun still pointed dead at Angelo’s forehead.

“Sit the fuck down or I’ll shoot you,” Damien growled.

Angelo took another step forward.

Damien’s finger slid to the trigger. Maybe he really was going to pull it.

“I’m giving you three seconds to sit the fuck down, Angelo.”

Angelo looked past the gun and fixed his dark gaze on Damien’s azure eyes. “I don’t care if you kill me, Damien. In fact, I’d prefer if you did. You see, I know what happens after this. I’m already heading toward my fifties. There are no old crime lords. It’s better to die at the peak of one’s abilities than to have age and time take everything one has ever enjoyed away.”

“So you’re a coward.”

“Age is the one thing it is wise to be cowardly about. It inflicts horrors you and I could not begin to concoct on our most deserving victims.”

“There is no we, Angelo.”

“I said you and I,” Angelo purred. “But you’re wrong. There is an us, and a we. You and I are cut from the same cloth. You just hide behind a veneer of righteousness. I used to as well, before I realized that lying to myself did not serve anyone - least of all me. One day you will see that you are no better than me. You may even be worse.”

“How am I worse, Angelo?”

“I am building something. A family. You do nothing but kill men for money.”

“Sit the fuck down,” Damien repeated crudely. “Right fucking now, or you’re gonna be shot.”

Angelo smiled coldly. “Either shoot me, or give me the gun, boy. I’m tired of these games.”

BLAM!

Angelo stumbled as his left leg went out from under him. At first it felt as though he’d been punched hard in the thigh, but that was no punch. He looked down and saw that his suit had been utterly ruined by the boy’s bullet.

Staggering backwards, he sat down in the chair, putting pressure on the wound. He knew immediately that it had missed the artery. If it hadn’t there would be blood arcing all over the place. Through and through too, the close range had punched a hole right through his leg.

“I told you to sit down,” Damien said, holstering his gun. “Next time, how about you listen to me.”

For once, Angelo was silent. He’d been shot many times before, but not by simple way of proving a point. He’d underestimated Damien, who was already taking a knee in front of him. As Angelo looked on, Damien sliced the rest of his pants off his leg, cutting the once expensive fabric into a single legged short. Then he pulled out two yellow and pink packages. Tampons.

The wound was oozing unpleasantly with blood. Angelo gritted his teeth so hard he was afraid he’d crack one of them as Damien pushed a tampon into each side of the wound. It was not a pleasant moment for Angelo. Cotton on fresh wounds did not feel good in the slightest. But the body could have made it worse, if he wanted.

“There you go,” Damien winked up at him. “That’ll keep you intact enough for my purposes.”

The younger man stood up, no longer looking like an overgrown boy. Angelo began to get the feeling he’d been tricked on several levels. Was Damien advertising weaknesses which weren’t actually there?

“I know you prefer whips and chains,” Damien said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m more a hard weaponry kind of man.”

“So I see,” Angelo nodded. He could feel his body slipping into a kind of shock. His leg was still somewhat numb, but he knew from experience that it would soon start to burn with a fire that would get into his blood and soon wrack his entire body with pain.

Up until this point, he’d considered letting Damien go once he’d taught him a lesson. Now, much darker fantasies infested his mind. Oh this man was going to pay for what he’d just done.

“Not so cocky now, huh?” Damien smirked. “I should have put a bullet in you at the start.”

“Fortunately, you simply confined yourself to giving me a head injury,” Angelo replied. “So kind of you.”

“Nobody is going to feel sorry for you, Angelo. Even the most accomplished players of the world’s tiniest violins aren’t going to make time for you.”

“You know, when you feel my leather on your ass, you’re going to scream so perfectly for me,” Angelo murmured.

“That’s never going to happen. You’re going to die here, Angelo. Not from that wound, but from one of the many others I intend to inflict before you go. The only reason you still have your tongue is because I want to hear your apologies before you die.”

“Vicious,” Angelo said, raising his brows. “Bobby would love you.”

“Bobby,” Damien snorted. “One of your lesser known victims. You’re more famous for what you did to Agent Mark Locke.”

“And what am I supposed to have done to him?”

“You keep him captive.”

Angelo gave a broken chuckle. “He’s no more captive than you are, Damien. My lovers stay with me because I give them what the world cannot. Just like you’re keeping me alive even though you should have killed me before I woke up.”

“I have my reasons for that.”

“Yes, vague reasons of vengeance, “Angelo sneered. “You want to punish me, but you didn’t do your homework and you don’t really know how. You shoot me and you expect that to do something. You think I haven’t been shot before, boy? You expect me to sit here and whimper for you? You are so far out of your league.”

Maybe he was.

Maybe he wasn’t.

Damien had known going into this that getting Angelo Vitali to break wouldn’t be easy. The gun shot had not been part of the plan though. Damien had lost his temper, which meant that even though Angelo was the one who wore the bullet, it was Damien who had lost control of both the situation and himself.

“You should let me go,” Angelo said. “You’re wasting my time and yours. Let me go now, and I’ll show you mercy.”

“No you won’t.”

“True, “Angelo flashed a shark like smile. “But the longer you draw this out, the worse it will be for you in the end.”

Why did Damien feel guilty? There was a sick stirring in the pit of his stomach, as if some part of him knew he’d just made a serious mistake. But that didn’t make sense. He was used to death and pain. They’d been his constant companions for years. So why did that look Angelo was giving him now make all the hair on the back of his neck stand erect?

It was the man’s composure. Nobody was that calm after catching a bullet. Nobody. Angelo wasn’t fucking human. He was like some kind of sexy Siciliaan zombie. In a moment of pure paranoia, Damien felt a spike of fear. What if Angelo couldn’t be killed?

He pushed the idea away as soon as it occurred to him. Ridiculous. Of course Angelo could be killed. He’d bled the same as every other man did when shot. He just wasn’t showing emotion. There was nothing supernatural about that.

Angelo sat still and silent, his eyes never leaving Damien’s face as Damien tried to quell his inner torment. Angelo’s earlier words kept coming back to him. Was he really worse than Angelo? No. That was ridiculous. He knew at his core that he was not a worse person than Angelo Vitali. This man was a monster, but in that moment he was so caught in the web of the conversation that he couldn’t defend himself.

“Tell me about Mark and Bobby,” he said, deflecting the conversation from himself.

Angelo cocked his head to the side. He was starting to look a little pale. He might even faint. He was still composed though. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you get them to stay with you? It’s common knowledge you kidnapped them both. Is it some fucked up Stockholm syndrome shit?”

“They want to be with me.”

“Bobby wants to kill you. There’s evidence of several attempts on your life. One of them was public.”

“Bobby wants to kill everyone. It’s not personal.”

“And Mark?”

“Mark is going to tear you apart,” Angelo smiled. “You would do well to watch your back.”

“You ruined his life. You destroyed his career. You made him a pariah.”

“And yet it is you he will come for,” Angelo said. “It’s not fair, is it? You know, it is wise of you to worry about Mark and Bobby. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you don’t have them. And if you don’t have them, you don’t really have me either.”

Another flash of temper raced through Damien’s blood. Fuck this guy and his ability to find every weakness. He shoved the barrel of his gun hard against Angelo’s head.

“What’s that? I don’t have you? Sure feels like I have you inches away from being a stain on the concrete.”

“It feels that way, perhaps, but, bullet holes aside, you’re an assassin who has very carefully avoided seriously harming me,” Angelo smirked. “I don’t think you’re used to getting to know your marks as people. I’m betting most of what you do is done from a distance, or from behind. You’re uncomfortable with pain. You don’t want to see it, and you don’t really want to inflict it. And that is going to be what brings you down in the end.”

“Shut. Up,” Damien ground out between his teeth. He was starting to lose his temper. Shooting Angelo was supposed to get him under control, but that bullet had only intensified Angleo’s charisma because now, in spite of everything, Damien was actually incredibly fucking impressed by Angelo. The guy could walk his talk. He was the kind of tough that Marines dreamed of being.

Angelo silenced himself, but the mocking gleam in his eyes stayed there.

“I am going to kick your fucking ass,” Damien snarled.

“I’m sure that will be incredibly tedious, “Angelo drawled. “Put some effort into it, boy. Try to be at least a little creative.”

Scrunccch…

Damien lifted his head. “What was that?”

Angelo must have heard it too. His head turned at exactly the same time as Damien’s.

The ominous crunching of something too large to be good news was clearly audible outside the warehouse door.

“Well,” he said. “One of us is in trouble.”

BOOM!

Damien was standing over Angelo, gun to his head when the doors exploded and the warehouse was suddenly filled with blazing light from a dozen halogens mounted on the top of SUVs.

Armored men rushed in, dozens of them dressed in high end mercenary clothing and carrying the kinds of weapons which made Damien’s pistol utterly worthless.

The sound of the explosion was still ringing in his ears as four men piled atop him. He was taken to the ground, a black back was shoved over his head, and he felt the familiar feeling of thick plastic cable ties being fixed around his wrists.

There was a lot of shouting and cursing as he was carried away. In seconds, Damien went from captor to captive. His body couldn’t keep up. A numb sensation of shock made thinking impossible as he was carried away, his legs kicking reflexively, but without real purpose.