Prologue:

Violet eyes met silver ones.

And then, the time stopped.

You could cut the tension with a butter knife.

There was no God in this room.

Only a gun.

A sinner.

And an ‘Angel’.

The air in the suite hummed with a silent extravagance—mixed with the smell of sweat and s*x.

Thick, velvet drapes, the color of plum, were half drawn against the city’s night light.

Muffling the sounds of the world outside.

It created a suffocating intimacy inside the room.

Tony was kneeling. 

Angel was standing.

Eye to eye. 

Face to face.

The sinner was looking up. 

And the ‘Angel’ was looking down.

And the gun?

Its muzzle was inside the sinner’s mouth.

Being pointed by the ‘Angel’.

Fingers were curled in the trigger.

They were so close—they could feel the heat of each other’s skin.

Could hear each other's breathing.

Their heartbeats collided in the space between them.

It was so… suffocating…

This was the second time tonight that Tony found himself with something shoved past his lips.

But this time, it wasn't passion that stole his breath—it was of how goddamn s*xy the ‘Angel’ was.

‘Angel.’

The name flowed smoothly on his tongue.

It suited him.

Like it was made purely for him.

‘My ‘Angel’. Mine.’

Tony found himself salivating more. 

Wanting more!

Angel had sides to him that Tony hadn't tasted yet.

He gulped.

The cold metal was wedged between his lips.

Making it hard to breathe and to swallow.

Slick with his own spit and the taste of the man who held it.

His knees ached from kneeling.

Joints screaming in protest.

But still, he didn't move.

Couldn't.

Wouldn't.

No.

‘Never gonna let go.’

His hands were still touching Angel’s hips.

Like a devotee that’s worshiping his God.

The vision in front of Tony looked like—an ‘Angel’ had fallen from heaven—just to ruin him.

To deliver justice or wrath, in silk and bruises.

The ‘Angel’ stood tall.

Trembling.

Defiant.

Desire.

His royal blue robe hung loose from one shoulder.

Barely clinging to the sharp edge of his collarbone.

It was scandalous.

Erotic.

Obscene.

A battlefield of a body on full display—thin, supple and graceful, with smooth porcelain skin that would bruise easily when grazed.

Flawless, hairless—every inch was begging to be touched!

It was flushed in blotches from rough touch and harder love.

Tony’s member stirred again—harder than earlier.

Raring to have another taste.

He never imagined craving a man’s body like this!

He had always been straight as an arrow.

Now all those past sexual partners are blurred.

Non-existent.

Angel’s chest rose and fell rapidly.

Breathless and shaking.

N*ppl*s tight and erect from the cold—or from an afterglow…

Tony desperately wanted to know.

Angel’s lips.

‘God, those delicious lips!’

Red. 

Wet. 

Swollen.

The kind of mouth you'd die to have a taste.

The kind Tony had just devoured before going down on the ‘Angel’.

And there was no hiding the evidence.

Tony’s chin was slick with it.

He felt no shame for what he did.

No.

Only lust.

Reverence.

The taste of the ‘Angel’ still lingered on the tip of his tongue.

Addictive.

Bitter.

Sweet.

Tony stared up at Angel—not with fear, but with hunger.

The gun between his lips trembled.

Angel was breathing heavily.

Shivering.

He could feel the sinner’s gaze on his body!

Trailing and igniting fire.

He cocked the gun with a soft click that echoed like thunder.

There was a hint of determination in Angel’s eyes.

He was finally delivering his judgement.

It was time.

“I said,” he whispered, voice like velvet, laced with venom.

”I’m not an object.”

It was an answer to Tony’s possessive statement from earlier.

Tony exhaled slowly, the barrel was nudging against the roof of his mouth.

Angel’s hand was now steady.

Determined.

Fingers long and elegant, clutched the weapon like a divine object.

Angel refused to give in.

Even with the evidence of pleasure still dripping down between his thighs.

“Nobody owns me,” he continued. 

Violet eyes narrowing.

“Not you…”

He pulled the gun just an inch.

“Not them...”

To let Tony speak.

“Not even God himself.”

But Tony didn't.

He bit the metal instead—like he’s catching it back.

Hard.

The crunch of his teeth against the metal sounded painful.

‘This crazy son of a b*tch!’ the ‘Angel’ cussed.

A sick grin crept up Tony’s face.

He licked the tip of the gun.

Re-enacting what he did earlier.

Eyes never leaving Angel.

Seducing.

But, Angel’s lips twitched.

It wasn't a smile.

It was a grimace.

And it was him declaring war to Tony.

“Only—I—own—myself,” he finally hissed.

Enunciating every word.

Angel stepped back, slowly.

Like a prey gradually retreating from a beast.

Trying to get out of Tony’s grip on him.

Letting the hem of his robe fall completely open—for distraction.

Moonlight shone across his naked body.

Glistening with sweat, and bruises.

His thighs were full of bite wounds down to the sole of his feet.

A testament to the way Tony had claimed him not ten minutes ago.

But he wasn't the one conquered.

Angel refused to believe it.

He was the one holding the weapon, did he not?

So why is it that he still felt threatened by Tony’s presence?

The hair at the back of his head stood up, as if screaming at him that Tony was dangerously unhinged!

And that he had to get out!

Run!

Away from this b*st*rd!

‘Before it's too late.’

Tony’s hand, resting lightly on Angel’s hips, twitched.

It moved fast.

Then it slithered around Angel like a snake.

Strong.

Measured.

Cold. 

Possessive. 

Unrelenting.

Effectively stopping his hunt from stepping back.

Away from the hungry wolf..

Two hands were now on both Angel’s *ss cheeks.

Strong fingers pinching it.

Angel groaned.

‘It hurts.’

Tony then pressed sensually to it—massaging as if saying sorry—before placing his hands.

But unable to resist..

He started cupping it.

Long fingers digging in on the soft flesh.

As if all of his strength lived in that grip.

It almost made Tony lose his mind.

Angel’s round buttocks fit perfectly into his hands!

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he thought darkly.

There was now madness in his eyes.

His shoulders and arms tensed.

His veins bulge.

Angry.

And not letting the ‘Angel’ step back again.

Holding him in place.

‘Where he belongs.’

Angel’s legs now couldn't move.

He stilled.

Careful not to hurt Tony with the gun still inside his mouth because of the sudden move.

‘I almost pulled the trigger! This crazy b*st*rd!’ Angel’s face twisted.

He glared him.

But Tony’s mind was already in a frenzy.

He ached to drag Angel down onto the carpeted floor.

And have his way with him.

To claim him all over again—slow, filthy and without mercy.

He imagined Angel laying down on his back to the soft carpet.

The sea of deep sapphire contrasting to his milky white skin.

‘What a sight!’

Then kiss him until they forgot that they were running for their lives.

With an annoyed ‘tch’, Angel pulled the gun from Tony’s mouth.

‘Threatening him with a gun was useless.’

A long saliva dripped down the gun.

The silence was so loud.

Then—

“You said you loved me,” Tony murmured, lips curling upward.

Dangerous and knowing.

Angel scoffed, “You must be hard of hearing. I never said that.”

“You said I'm yours,” Tony insisted.

“No!” Angel pointed back the gun at Tony.

While his other hand reached for the b*st*rd’s face.

Angel wanted to tear it! Claw it!

But unable to hold anything on the b*st*rd’s face, he reached for Tony’s dark hair instead.

It felt silky between his fingers.

Then he pulled it—lifting Tony’s head.

“You were the one who said that! I never! I-I just moaned!” Angel could feel his face reddening—even though he was the one with the gun.

The weight in the air thickened.

Tony’s silver eyes darkened.

A storm behind glass.

Still on his knees.

Dripping in sweat and Angel’s taste. 

Mouth was bleeding a little on the corner.

‘Maybe from the gun,’ Angel felt guilty.

And yet, even kneeling, with only his tight jeans on, Tony looked like a king.

‘A barbarian king,’ he groaned inside his mind.

Angel hated him for that.

And craved him all the same.

“I'm not a masochist or a sadist,” Tony whispered, smiling.

“But I like it. I like how you hurt me.”

His hands gripped Angel’s *ss—hard.

Fingers were brushing over his bruised hole.

Angel flinched.

In pain and in hunger.

He could feel himself hardening again.

‘He already wrung me dry earlier! Cruel b*st*rd!’ he groaned.

“Fine. You’re not an object,” Tony finally relented. 

Voice was quiet and raw.

“But Angel…”

He paused.

“You’re still mine.”

**

Chapter 1: 

Five months ago. Somewhere in East L.A.

The last thing Tony remembered was a pair of eyes.

Doe-like.

Innocent.

Shimmering like they’d never seen war.

Then pain.

Then nothing.

He woke up coughing.

Heat licking at his skin.

He was inside the warehouse.

The same goddamn warehouse he and his team had been investigating—for three f*ck*ng whole months.

Now it was burning.

The air was thick with smoke and ash.

Flames chewed through steel beams like they were made of paper.

His ears rang like hell.

His wrists were zip tied.

And his face?

Pressed to the cold concrete.

A brutal contrast to the firestorm around him.

‘It’s not been burning for too long then..’ Tony thought, mind racing.

He could still smell the perfume on his nose.

Faint.

Sweet.

Burning.

“F*ck,” he spat, rolling onto his side, eyes stinging from the smoke.

His head felt like it came from being grounded like a beef.

He tried to move.

Slow and deliberate.

Taking a good look around with little movements that he could.

And assessing his body for more injuries.

He was alone.

No.

Worse than alone.

His team was dead.

All of them.

Six of the best operatives the CIA had on payroll.

They were ghosts.

Men and women who didn't officially exist.

Gone.

Dead.

‘Sh*t. They would never let this go. Six is a lot of manpower.’

How was he so sure?

He didn't need a pulse to check.

He could spot them.

Fresh blood still oozed from Max, Jessie and Olivia’s head—

One bullet each.

And the other three?

Peter. Calvin and Diane.

Based on their unnatural body angle and the blood pooling beneath them—it was very highly likely that they’d already gone to meet their maker.

And it was all because Tony had let his guard down.

Because he let some pretty girl come close—close enough for someone else to hit his head.

After the girl keeps on whispering some nonsense.

Asking for help. 

‘What b*llsh*t,’ he cursed.

‘F*ck f*ck f*ck! This one is on me.’

He never saw it coming.

She’d been so convincing.

Too convincing with her crocodile tears.

Showing her full cleavage.

Flawless cleavage.

And soft.

Deliberately sticking it to his chest.

‘F*ck f*ck f*ck..!’

And worst of all?

He hadn't even gotten her name.

And that p*ss*d him off the most.

‘Why did they leave me alive?’ he wondered after a while.

They should have killed him too.

That would've been cleaner.

And they were making the world safe by killing the likes of him.

A cold b*st*rd.

Now he was a liability.

A loose end.

Alive and responsible for six deaths.

He could already picture how the CIA would sack him.

He started to crawl, dragging himself forward—using his front body toward the exit.

His eyes were peeled open for any enemies that might be still lurking nearby.

And once he had regained a bit of his strength, he snapped the zip ties behind him.

‘It’s too late to get their bodies out.’

He looked back one last time.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I really am.’

Then he walked out.

His whole body feels heavy.

Once he was outside, he patted himself down for his satellite phone.

‘Gone.’

Sh*t.

He staggered, felt the warm blood sliding down the back of his head.

From the hit.

‘What did they hit me with? Gun? Pipe?’

Did it matter?

His eyes drifted one more time in the warehouse.

It continued to burn.

Like a hell’s gateway.

Orange flames almost reached the sky like throwing hands.

Spitting smoke and ash into the air as if trying to erase the sins committed inside.

Sirens howled in the distance—too late.

As always.

The fire was greedy.

It consumed everything.

Then an unexpected explosion.

Tony was thrown back from the impact.

Coughing.

Clothes scorched.

Skin stinging from the blast debris.

He didn't move and stayed on his back.

Staring up.

The sky was already dark.

Warm blood continued to drip from behind his head.

‘I thought I was cold blooded,’ he thought.

‘Not warm.’

His ears were ringing more loudly now.

Somewhere around him, metals screamed.

They were coming.

Tony let his head fall back.

Tension was leaving him.

And in its wake, reality is settling in.

His team. 

His elite team—was gone.

Reduced to corpses and charred bones.

All six of them.

Max. Jessie. Olivia. Peter. Calvin and Diane.

He had trained them himself.

He remembered their laughs.

Their bickering.

Their goddamn loyalty.

Now they were gone.

Because of him.

‘Because I can't keep it in my pants.’

“F*ck*ng b*tch,” he cursed under his breath.

“F*ck*ng pretty b*tch!” he snarled. 

He slammed his fist to the ground.

The other hand covered his face.

Fighting back his tears.

**

Three days later. CIA’s Manhattan field office.

“You’re suspended, Santa De Leones.”

Tony sat stiff in the office chair across from Nick Gates—the deputy Director.

His head was wrapped in bandages.

His hands too.

His knuckles split.

His jaw was also patched with bandages.

One of his eyes was swollen shut.

Not from the incident, but from one of the agents—Diane’s husband.

He let the b*st*rd hit him.

He wasn't sure why.

“You mean fired,” Tony muttered, voice dry.

“No, suspended. Pending internal investigation. The fact that you’re alive makes this worse,” Nick exhaled.

“You’re the only witness—and the only one who screwed up.”

Tony laughed bitterly.

“You think I don't know that?”

He stood.

Ignoring the pain that flared down his spine.

He started to limp towards the door.

“You sent me and my team to handle a black ops arms deal in East L.A. You gave me intel that was useless,” he stopped limping and tried to stand up straight.

He didn't look back at Nick.

“We had to investigate for three months because of it, to make sure. To make sure that there are no mistakes,” Tony exhaled then gritted his teeth.

“And then blame me when the whole place goes up like a bonfire?”

Nick didn't flinch, one of his eyebrows was rising.

“You’re the best we had Santa De Leones. Were.”

Silence.

“And I know you personally. You have a weakness for pretty faces. You screw up because of that.”

Tony’s head turned to his right.

Sensing that there was something that wasn't right with what Nick said.

“Don't be dramatic. Unless there is no pretty woman involved, you don't mess sh*t up.”

Silence again.

Then, “Turn in your badge. Take some f*ck*ng time off. Lose that penchant of yours for pretty things. I suggest going to Europe or Zimbabwe.”

Nick’s eyes were dead serious.

“And, you look like f*ck*ng hell itself.”

**

Chapter 2:

Two months later. Florence, Italy.

The wine didn't help.

Neither did the old stone buildings.

The cobblestone streets.

Or the way the Italian sun dipped lazily over the Arno River every evening like it had nothing better to do.

Orange and gold.

He hated how beautiful it was.

He felt itchy.

Like something inside him wouldn't sit still.

Tony still felt the blood on his hands.

Even after three showers a day.

Even after two months.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Even when f*ck*ng beautiful Italian women.

All his injuries had healed—save for his knuckles, always split and raw from punching walls.

But the guilt?

That didn't scar over as easily.

Florence was supposed to be a getaway.

A much needed break.

A temporary vanishing act—arranged by the six ghosts he used to call his team.

Calvin had been the one to book the hotel.

Olivia made the itinerary.

Peter picked restaurants.

And the other three?

They promised they’d bring in the ‘fun’.

All planned and done before the operation that turned into a goddamn massacre.

Still, he came.

As if honoring their vacation plans would somehow mean they weren't dead.

But he had never felt more alone.

And their deaths lingered—like cigarette smoke in old curtains.

From the third night on since he got here, until now, he drank too much.

Had s*x too much.

As if each vice could drown away all the sorrow or at least mute the guilt for a while.

Tony stood on the hotel's small balcony now.

Overlooking the warm and lively street.

A half empty bottle of wine dangled from one hand.

He wore an orange Hawaiian shirt, white shorts and cheap sandals—the kind that screamed ‘tourist’.

His black hair was a mess—like a thousand hands had run through it.

His other hand was gripping the wrought iron railing, supporting the full weight of a man barely holding it together.

Below—the cobbled street buzzed faintly with life.

Distant chatter.

The occasional scooter’s rumble—the city’s eternal hum.

But up where he is, was silent. 

Quiet.

Too quiet.

And his mind felt colder than the scattered marble statues standing silently—judging him from below.

Like ghosts from centuries past.

He even named them.

The statues.

Of course he f*ck*ng did.

The woman with a pot was Marsha.

The child that seemed like praying was Henry.

And the one missing the nose?

That was John.

Tony squinted at them, eyes glazed and dry.

“Cheers Marsha, Henry and John,” he muttered. 

Half raising the half bottle of wine in salute.

“Go on, judge me like everyone else is!”

The statues said nothing of course.

Just stood there.

Watched him in stone silence.

“Ha-ha,” he chuckled. “Stoned silence. Now that’s f*ck*ng funny.”

Then he took another swig.

“Hah..”

And then—his eyes saw him.

Two establishments away below.

Crossing the street towards a bar.

Long, curly brown hair.

A bit tall.

Delicate build.

Wearing a white long sleeved shirt, tucked into faded blue jeans.

Brown boots.

A long necklace swinging gently as he walked, catching the last orange glint of sun.

‘Is he a model having a photography session?’

No.

Not quite.

The streets were free from those bulky b*llsh*t they used in photography.

He had seen those setups before.

And he looked.. skittish.

Not confident.

Eyes darting everywhere.

Until they landed on Tony.

Even though it's very brief.

And lasted only a second—

He saw them.

Violet eyes.

A one in a million eyes.

So f*ck*ng pretty.

He knew he should’ve looked away.

Should’ve gone inside and finished his wine.

Instead, Tony dropped the bottle.

Grabbed his room keys.

And followed the boy with the violet eyes.

He moved with urgency.

**

Angel’s POV

He hated this city.

Not because it was ugly—it was anything but that.

On the contrary..

This.. city of Florence was too beautiful.

Too golden.

Too poetic for the kind of life he wanted to live.

And poetry?

It couldn't save you from the mafia.

Angel chewed his lips.

He wanted to go back to America.

Period.

Angel’s legs moved fast.

His head was down but vigilant.

Hands tucked into the long sleeves of his white stretchable shirt.

His boots tapped against the cobblestone with urgency.

His long necklace swayed slightly with every step.

Eyes darting.

‘Where are they?’

The Luchese had a habit of sending men who looked like they stepped out of a funeral.

Black suits.

Pale eyes on dark sunglasses.

The smell of cigars and gun powder and the quiet violence they exude.

Ten days ago, he’d still been in boarding school.

Angel was an exchange student.

And he was living his life to the fullest.

The USA was a country of freedom!

Then one night, he got a call from his mother.

Saying he has to go back home.

Back in Italy.

His father had a heart attack.

And they were afraid he wouldn't live for another week.

Bound by duty as a son and not as love, he immediately flies back.

Only to find out, his father is well and healthy.

Although yes, he’ll die in a week.

The Luchese family was collecting his father's debt.

And the business that he was so proud of?

The restaurant he built with his blood and sweat?

It was on the verge of ruin.

With no way to pay and no way to get another loan, his father sold him off to the Luchese.

His last resort.

The Luchese mafia family was known for their high quality boots business.

They all know it was just a front.

They were dealing with arms-dealing in the back.

‘And they use me to pay off their debt to the old geezer?’

The perverted family head?

Known for his penchant with young men?

He shivered.

‘No way in hell!’

So, last week, he ran away from home when no one was looking.

The Luchese head was still abroad.

Getting a surgery.

His men had failed to guard him, saying Angel won't go anywhere.

They’re lax.

Too lax.

Because they knew that Angel’s father had taken his passport, and hid it.

And they knew Florence like the back of their hand.

And now, Angel Dolci found himself hopping from one hotel to the next.

And just a few days later.

His money was running out.

He had cards, yes.

But he was afraid to use it.

Afraid that a single swipe would alert them and tell them his location.

‘I’m getting paranoid. Those goddamn mafias!’

But his guts and instinct had saved him before. 

More than once.

So he knows enough to listen to it.

He could feel the hair on his back raised.

Grounding him back to his reality.

They were here.

He could feel it.

Ever since his father and mother sold him off like a blood soaked IOU, Angel had been waiting for the knock on his hotel room’s door.

Waiting for the taxi to go somewhere he didn't say.

A gun once he opened his eyes.

It was all cliche.

And now..

Here he was..

Running.

He’d rather die than to go back to his family with his own two feet.

He turned a corner and saw it.

The bar.

He knew that bar.

Small, unassuming.

Always played bad american music.

But it had an escape route.

His violet eyes sharpened.

Giving a look around his surroundings.

Then he crossed the street.

Unknowingly—

In the far small balcony above him—a man dressed in an orange Hawaiian shirt was watching him with a hint of interest.

And that sh*t was about to go down.

**