I eat him out until he’s screaming my name and painting the black seats white.
I hear a slight knock on the car’s privacy divider. I wipe my mouth and start putting myself together. Elias lies lazily on the long cushion, watching me.
“I have to go to work now.” I lean down and kiss his mouth.
He nods dreamily, his eyes already half lidded.
“Put your clothes on and shower when you get home. I’ll see you tonight for dinner, okay?”
“Whatever you say.” He tugs on his shirt.
I kiss him again. “Be good.”
“I’m always good,” he jokes.
“Not when you’re alone with me,” I murmur against his lips.
“Go to work, old man.”
??? ??? ???
The city presses against my office windows like a living thing—lights breathing, traffic folding into itself. I like the way it looks at night from up here: a map I can redraw with a single decision. It calms me, usually. Tonight, it scratches at the edge of the calm like a fingernail. I am thinking not of ledgers or shipments or the next move on the board; I am thinking of Elias and how I will annoy him when I get home.
There’s an art to provocation. A raised eyebrow, a cold phrase, a deliberately crooked tie left where he will find it. Small cruelties that remind him who holds the script. He deserved tobe ruffled. He has brought himself into my orbit like a deliberate piece of chaos, and the thought of tracking the trifle of his smugness with a small, elegant irritation gives me a private pleasure.
That is what I tell myself, sitting behind the desk, fingers steepled. Let him know the rules. Let him eat them occasionally and rebel again. It is a game I know how to play.
Hartford knocks once and comes in with the practical rhythm of a man with bad news and a skill for timing. My father’s right hand, and now mine. He’s got a folder in his hand, and that’s the wrong sound for tonight. Wrong like a loose wire in a safe house.
“Boss,” he says. He doesn’t bother with the ceremonial courthouse voice. The man knows me too well.
“What is it?” I ask, already feeling the slow throttle in my chest.
“We got a tip about the shooting in the alley.” Hartford stands straight, holding a file under his arm.
I stare up at him, waiting, but he doesn’t continue. “And?”
He takes a breath. “Some kid from Moretti’s pack. Xavier Long. A civilian spotted him in a car, and we ran the plates. All traces back to Moretti.”
“Well, we did expect them to retaliate, yes?” I lean back in my chair.
“There’s more.”
He opens the folder and slides a photo across the desk. The picture is grainy, but the faces are clear. Elias, my Elias, laughing, curly hair slightly wild. Beside him, arm looped around his shoulder, is another man: younger than me, soft jaw, dark hair cut short.
“Elias with Xavier Long. Three days ago.”
My mouth goes dry around the edges before I know why.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, more heat than question in my voice. I look at Hartford.
“Where did you get this?”
“Camera at the cinema, boss. Seems like Xavier has been trailing Elias for the last month—has a habit of keeping tabs. Long is on file. Small-time until now. But he’s got family in offshore debt collectors. The PI got him at the popcorn stand.”
My eyes slide up to Hartford. “And who hired the PI?”
He shifts to his other foot. “Me, sir. I know he’s become… an infatuation of yours. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to wake up with a knife in your chest.”
