Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Five: Shadows Over Pink Top City

Chapter 265

Shadows over Pink Top City

Seated at his desk in his law office that morning, Tristan wore a dark purple, three-piece Italian-cut suit with a crisp white shirt, black tie, and black wingtip Oxfords.

The morning light filtered through the high, arched windows of the office, casting long, geometric shadows across the polished mahogany of his desk. Tristan moved with practiced, quiet efficiency, his fingers dancing across the keys as he drafted a complex litigation strategy. Surrounding him were stacks of thick legal briefs and leather-bound statutes. Despite the early hour, the quiet hum of the city outside felt distant, replaced by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in his office and the occasional soft rustle of documents being reviewed.

He drew a long breath, leaning back in his leather chair, and pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, flipping open the gold casing to check the time. I should take a break, he thought.

He rose from his desk, straightened his jacket, and left the office to go into the lounge room down the hall.

He sat down on the leather sofa and crossed his legs. No more than a few minutes later, Rosemary entered and sat with him.

Rosemary: “Hello, Tristan.”

The TV had a breaking news alert. Tristan’s gaze narrowed as the local news anchor appeared on the screen, a grim expression etched across her face.

News Anchor: “Tragedy has struck Orchid Street this morning.”

She announced, her voice grave.

News Anchor: “Authorities have confirmed that 35-year-old AuraCare pharmacy technician, Layla McKenzie, was found dead in her home earlier today. While details remain scarce, investigators are currently on the scene at the 1313 Orchard Street address.”

A gasp emitted from Rosemary’s mouth as she cupped it.

Rosemary: “Oh, Tristan…”

She sobbed. Tristan turned to her and knitted his eyebrows. He placed his arms around her as his secretary wept on his chest.

Tristan: “I’m so sorry, Rosemary… Was she a friend or a relative?”

She asked softly. Rosemary shook her head.

Rosemary: “She was the chemist technician who always waited on us when we came to pick up Lily’s laxative medication so she could go in her diaper for her boyfriend.”

She sobbed. The color drained from Tristan’s face.

Tristan: “Oh.”

Rosemary: “And she directed her to the best diapers for her.”

Tristan looked disappointed. Someone dies tragically, and she’s amounted to nothing more than being polite about your daughter’s diaper fetish, he thought bitterly.

~

In the dining room at Fen’s mansion, Ivy set down the breakfast she made for herself, her father, and her sister. She wore a black cheongsam with gold trim, and an embroidered peacock cascading down it, strappy sandals and a frilled white apron over her dress. Fen dragged himself in. He wore a teal dressing gown with a peacock on the back and sat down. Lily sat with him, wearing a pink shirt that said “Daddy’s Girl”, pink bunny slippers, and a diaper.

Spread before them was a feast of comforting contrasts:

A deep celadon bowl of pi dan shou rou zhou (congee with century egg and shredded pork), cooked low and slow until the rice grains had dissolved into a velvety, pearlescent porridge, garnished with a flurry of thinly sliced scallions and a drizzle of fragrant sesame oil. A pair of youtiao—golden, puffed Chinese dough sticks—still crackling faintly with residual heat on a small rectangular platter. A lidded bamboo steamer, venting sweet, yeasty breath from six plump, pleated pork-and-scallion baozi. Condiment dishes held slivers of pickled mustard greens (zha cai), a small block of spicy fermented bean curd, and a pitcher of freshly prepared oolong tea.

Lily: “I want chickie nuggies!”

She said, sipping fruit punch through a sippy cup.

Fen: “I have a fuckin’ hangover, and you want me to eat this shit?”

He huffed.

Ivy sat with her sister and father.

Ivy: “This is delicious.”

She said, lifting the porcelain spoon and stirring the congee gently. The dark, amber-hued preserved-egg gems surfaced against the pale cream of the rice. She blew lightly across the surface and took a sip. The savory depth of the simmered ginger and pork instantly bloomed across her palate, rich yet light.

Picking up a piece of youtiao, she snapped off a golden, airy section with a satisfying crunch. She dipped it straight into the bowl, letting the crisp pastry greedily soak up the savory rice broth for just a second before bringing it to her mouth. The interplay was perfection—crisp giving way to tender, savory crunch yielding to comforting warmth.

Between spoonfuls, she plucked a strand of salted pickle with her dark bamboo chopsticks, the sharp, briny crunch cutting neatly through the porridge’s silkiness. She unlatched the bamboo steamer lid, watching the billow of fragrant steam dissipate into the sunbeams, and took a warm, pillowy bite of the baozi, savoring the savory rush of seasoned pork inside the slightly sweet dough.

With a resentful groan, Fen reached out with a trembling hand and snagged a piece of youtiao from the platter. He dunked the golden dough aggressively into the congee, letting it submerge before shoving the dripping morsel into his mouth. As the warmth of the savory broth and the sharp hit of salt hit his tongue, he felt the pounding in his temples recede ever so slightly, the comfort of the porridge acting as a temporary balm for his ragged nerves. He swallowed hard, the scowl never leaving his face as he muttered another incoherent complaint under his breath, still determined to maintain his foul mood despite the small mercy of the meal.

Ivy smirked at her father as she cupped her hands around a warm cup of oolong tea. Today she was going to obtain something from Mr. Nice Cream’s girlfriend to make sure Celeste goes down, and Tristan is all hers.

~

The bright morning sun cut through the tinted glass windows of the Donati, Inc. high-rise, casting sharp, angled shadows across the plush executive floor.

Standing right in the center of the spacious conference room, Jordi maintained an aura of complete composure. He wore a sharp, tailored black suit paired with a lavender pressed shirt, a deep purple tie, and a delicate lavender silk handkerchief tucked neatly inside his breast pocket. Square-framed glasses rested lightly on his nose. Gripped tightly in his hands was a freshly printed set of updated schematics and power load assessments.

Demetrio Donati stood by the window, hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored slacks, watching the morning traffic crawl along the avenues of Pink Top City below.

Demetrio: “You’re in early, Jordi.”

He noted, turning around with a sharp, assessing look.

Demetrio: “Don’t tell me you spent all night dreaming about electrical grids.”

Jordi offered a cool, faint smile, placing the neat stack of documents right at the head of the boardroom table.

Jordi: “Hardly, Demetrio.”

He replied smoothly, his tone measured and professional.

Jordi: “Just making sure the municipal committee has no room to argue when they see the cost projections for the neon district. Substation Four’s morning maintenance went off without a hitch, and the downtown circuit is operating at peak efficiency.”

Demetrio walked over, picked up the top report, and skimmed the figures with a discerning eye. A satisfied smirk crept onto the older man’s face.

Demetrio: “Flawless as usual.”

He muttered, setting the papers back down with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Demetrio: “Take the afternoon to wrap up the Palm Tree State regional filings. If you keep this pace up, I might actually let you leave before sunset today.”

Jordi: “I’ll hold you to that, sir.”

He said with a polite nod.

Glancing down at his gold wristwatch, Jordi mentally mapped out his day—crunch the numbers by mid-afternoon, clear the remaining dispatches, and get back behind the wheel of his purple Ferrari 328 before the evening rush.

Demetrio tossed the file back onto the mahogany table, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a sleek silver cigarette case with a crisp snap.

Demetrio: “Walk with me for a bit, Jordi.”

He said, gesturing toward the door with two fingers holding an unlit cigar.

Demetrio: “Let’s take ten in the break room. You’ve earned a smoke, and I need five minutes away from ringing phones and municipal vultures.”

Jordi: “Of course, Demetrio.”

He replied, nodding smoothly as he closed his leather folio and followed the CEO down the quiet, carpeted hallway.

The executive break room was sleek and modern, outfitted with low leather armchairs, a chrome coffee maker quietly hissing in the corner, and wide floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the palm trees and sun-drenched rooftops of Pink Top City.

Demetrio took a seat near the window, flicking a heavy gold lighter to catch the tip of his cigar. A thin ribbon of gray smoke curled toward the ceiling. Jordi withdrew a package of Marlboro Black cigarettes from his suit jacket.

Demmetrio: “You keep this company running like a Swiss clock, Jordi. Sometimes I forget you’re only twenty-three.”

Jordi lit his cigarette with a steady flick of the flame. He leaned back against the low counter, taking a measured, smooth drag before looking out over the city skyline.

Jordi: “I like keeping things moving smoothly, sir…”

He said coolly, the faint blue smoke drifting past his sharp jawline.

Jordi: “Fewer surprises that way.”

Demetrio: “Smart kid.”

He chuckled in his low, gravelly baritone, tapping his ash into the glass tray between them.

Demetrio: “Though I’ve got to ask—what keeps a guy like you so disciplined? You don’t drink on the clock, you don’t chase half the secretaries around the lobby. What do you do when you actually walk out of here at five?”

A subtle, knowing glint touched Jordi's eyes as the vivid image of Jaxon—lounging lazily in a red dragon robe with his wild hair spilled across dark silk pillows—flashed through his mind.

Jordi took another slow pull from his cigarette, his expression remaining perfectly calm and professional.

Jordi: “Just taking care of things at home.”

He replied with a faint, enigmatic smirk.

Demetrio was midway through another drag when the small CRT television mounted in the corner of the break room flashed an abrupt, high-pitched tone.

The standard midday broadcast cut away to a bold red graphic:

BREAKING NEWS - PINK TOP CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT ALERT.

A solemn-faced news anchor appeared on screen, the lower-third banner flashing with urgent text.

We interrupt this program with developing news from the Orchid Street district. Authorities have confirmed a homicide investigation is underway following the grim discovery earlier this morning of a thirty-five-year-old woman in her suburban home. The victim has been identified as Layla McKenzie, an employee of AuraCare Pharmacy and a lead pharmacy technician. Police officials described it as a brutal, targeted attack...

The anchor’s voice droned on, detailing the heavy police presence, yellow caution tape fluttering between the manicured palm trees of Orchid Street, and flashing patrol car lights bouncing off the pastel houses.

Demetrio frowned, lowering his cigar as his gaze fixed on the screen. He let out a low, gravelly whistle through his teeth.

Demetrio: “Orchid Street…”

He muttered, shaking his head.

Demetrio: “Quiet, high-end residential strip. You don’t usually see that kind of violence spilling into those neighborhoods. A pharmacy tech from AuraCare…”

He paused, taking another slow puff.

Demetrio: “Messy business. City’s getting rough around the edges. It’s not like how it used to be when Concetta and I first immigrated here.”

Beside him, Jordi’s expression hardened, his byzantine eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the broadcast. His mind immediately calculated the geography—Orchid Street wasn’t far from Jaxon’s house. A brutal murder in a seemingly quiet district was bound to set the whole city on edge, especially with nightfall bringing a whole different crowd out onto the streets.

Jordi took a slow, measured drag from his cigarette, the gray smoke curling past his sharp features as he kept his eyes on the flashing sirens on screen.

Jordi: “Too close for comfort…”

He murmured, his voice cool, though a sudden protective instinct for Jaxon tightened in his chest.

Jordi stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray, straightened his suit jacket, and walked back to his private office. The grim news report from Orchid Street lingered in the back of his mind, but with Demetrio Donati, personal distractions had to stay firmly at the door.

Sitting down behind his desk, Jordi reached for the heavy black receiver of his telephone and dialed the main engineering dispatch for Donati, Inc.

Jordi: “Jordi Vaquero here.”

He said, his voice dropping into that cool, crisp cadence of absolute authority.

Jordi: “I need the load-balancing reports for Sector 7 confirmed and cross-checked against the Palm Tree State grid allocations by three o’clock this afternoon. Mr. Donati wants the municipal proposal finalized before the close of business.”

He listened intently to the dispatch manager on the other end, jotting down power capacity numbers on a yellow legal pad with quick, sharp strokes of his gold pen.

For the next two hours, Jordi worked with machine-like efficiency. He approved maintenance schedules, reviewed the regional utility filings, and redrafted the budget projections for the proposed downtown neon expansion near Darker Desires. Every signature was precise, every call brief and resolved.

Yet every time the phone went silent, or he turned a page in the ledger, Jordi’s eyes subtly drifted to the large gold wristwatch ticking steadily on his wrist. It was three forty-five.

The day was wrapping up. Just a little more paperwork, and he could hand Demetrio the finalized packet, step down to the executive garage, fire up the purple Ferrari 328, and head home to check on Jaxon.

~

At quarter to five on the dot, Jordi capped his gold pen with a clean, satisfying click. He neatly aligned the final sheets of the municipal neon district proposal, slipped them into a crisp manila folder, and stood up from his desk.

He walked down the short corridor to Demetrio’s suite, knocking twice before stepping inside. Demetrio was reviewing blueprints on the side table, but glanced up as Jordi approached.

Jordi: “All set for the city council, Demetrio.”

He said, placing the folder directly in the center of the mahogany desk.

Jordi: “Projections, budget surplus allocations, and backup contingencies for the downtown grid are all finalized.”

Demetrio flipped the cover open, glancing over the clean columns and Jordi’s signature. A gruff smile tugged at the corner of the older man’s mouth.

Demetrio: “Right on time, Jordi. Take off. Enjoy your evening.”

Jordi: “Thank you, sir. See you tomorrow.”

He replied with a polite nod.

Returning to his office, he locked the door. Jordi checked his pockets—keys, wallet, gold lighter—and stepped out into the elevator lobby.

Down in the private executive garage beneath the high-rise, the cool, echoing concrete was quiet. Jordi walked over to his purple Ferrari 328, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Unlocking the driver’s door, he settled into the leather seat, inserted the key, and turned the ignition.

The V8 engine roared to life with an aggressive, throaty purr. Jordi shifted into gear and guided his car up the ramp, bursting out into the warm, late-afternoon glow of Pink Top City, heading straight for the suburbs.

~

Jordi eased his car into the driveway and cut the engine. After the unsettling broadcast about the AuraCare technician on Orchid Street, just pulling up to the house brought an immediate wave of relief. He stepped out, locking the car with a crisp beep, and headed up the walk. Unlocking the front door, the familiar scent of vanilla incense greeted him in the foyer.

Inside, Jaxon was lounging on the couch with a magazine in hand. He had already started getting ready for his night shift at Darker Desires—wearing tight dark pants, a tiger stripe shirt, and black sheer socks.

Jaxon looked up, a bright, welcoming grin spreading across his face as Jordi stepped into the room.

Jaxon: “Look who made it back before sunset.”

He teased lightly, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table.

Jaxon: “Did Demetrio finally run out of demands for the day?”

Jordi closed the door behind him, tossing his keys into the entryway dish. The sight of Jaxon, vibrant, completely unharmed, and glowing under the warm living room lights, washed the lingering tension from his shoulders.

Jordi: “For today, at least.”

He said softly, his deep voice carrying a tired warmth.

He loosened his tie, stepping straight toward Jaxon and extending a hand to pull him up from the floor.

Jordi: “Come here.”

Jaxon took Jordi’s outstretched hand and pulled himself up in one smooth, agile motion. Without missing a beat, he threw both arms around Jordi’s neck, standing up on his tiptoes to close the space between them.

He captured Jordi’s lips in a warm, eager kiss, burying his fingers slightly into the thick purple hair at the nape of his neck. The familiar, comforting scent of Jordi’s cologne grounded him completely.

Jordi’s arms instantly found their place around Jaxon’s slender waist, locking him in close and pulling his body flush against the front of his suit jacket. Jordi deepened the kiss with a low, relieved hum against Jaxon’s mouth, letting all the residual weight of the workday—and the chilling news from Orchid Street—finally evaporate in the quiet safety of their home.

When Jaxon eventually pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes sparkled with playful affection, his breath warm against Jordi’s lips.

Jaxon: “I missed you…”

He murmured with a soft, teasing grin, his hands lingering on Jordi’s broad shoulders.

Jaxon: “You felt tense the second you walked in. Everything okay?”

Jordi gave a subtle, reassuring nod, his hands resting comfortably against Jaxon’s hips. He didn’t want to bring the dark, grim reality of the city news into their space—especially not right before Jaxon had to head out for his shift.

Jordi: “Just the usual corporate headaches mixed with Blair’s whining…”

He murmured, his tone smoothing over the lingering edge from earlier. He leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to Jaxon’s forehead, his thumb lightly stroking the fabric of his shirt.

Jaxon tilted his head, watching Jordi closely. Beneath the smooth, reassuring smile, Jaxon had a hunch something was wrong. A slow, deliberate grin spread across Jaxon’s lips.

Jaxon: “You know what?”

He said softly, sliding his hands down Jordi's chest to playfully tug at the loose lapels of his suit jacket.

Jaxon: “Darker Desires will survive without me for one night. The stage isn’t going anywhere.”

Jordi blinked, a flash of genuine surprise crossing his features.

Jordi: “You’re taking the night off?”

Jaxon: “Of course, I am! I want to be with you… We both need it.”

He purred, turning around to grab the house telephone off the wall. He quickly dialed the club’s back-office line, spinning the coiled cord lazily around his finger.

When Marco picked up, Jaxon leaned against the kitchen counter with effortless swagger.

Jaxon: “Hey, Marco. It's Jaxon. I’m swapping my shift with Marcus tonight... Yeah, personal emergency—my boyfriend needs taking care of. See you Friday.”

He hung the heavy receiver back on the hook with a sharp clack before Marco could even argue.

Turning back around, Jaxon walked straight toward Jordi, his dark eyes sparkling with wicked affection.

Jaxon: “There. Done. No neon lights, no loud bass, no suit-and-tie corporate bullshit. Just you, me, and whatever we want to do.”

Jordi: “Boyfriend?”

He smirked. Jaxon chuckled.

Jaxon chuckled, a low, melodic sound that seemed to chase away the last remnants of the day’s tension. He closed the remaining distance between them, sliding his hands up Jordi’s chest to loop his arms loosely around his neck once more.

Jaxon: “Well, you’re the one who keeps wearing these fancy suits and looking at me like I’m the only person in the world, aren’t you?”

He teased, his thumb tracing the sharp line of Jordi’s jaw. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a playful, intimate murmur. Jordi’s smile spread to show his even, white teeth.

~

The bedroom was bathed in a soft glow of amber light, turning it into a private haven. Jordi reclined on the king-sized bed, resting his back against the dark, plush pillows. Unbuttoned, his shirt left his chest bare, while his discarded tie rested on the floor and his jacket draped over a nearby armchair.

With his ankles crossed and bare feet up, he reached for the glass of scotch on the rocks resting on his nightstand. His gaze remained locked on the corner of the room, where soft, recessed track lights illuminated a polished brass pole rising straight to the ceiling from a raised, circular platform.

From the stereo system, the smooth, resonant opening notes of Kenny G’s “Japan” filled the room. The haunting, melodic cry of the soprano saxophone drifted through the space, accompanied by rich synth pads and gentle percussive rhythms, all carrying a sleek, hypnotic elegance.

Jaxon stepped into the warm glow. He wore an exquisite, midnight-black yukata, patterned with delicate silver branches and vibrant crimson maple leaves that seemed to catch fire beneath the amber lights. The garment was loosely bound at his waist with a thick, shimmering crimson obi, tailored just short enough to expose the lean, sculpted lines of his calves and bare feet. His massive mane of red-black hair was teased into dramatic, voluminous perfection, tumbling over his shoulders in a striking, fiery halo that framed his sharp gaze. The silver cross earring at his ear swung softly, glinting in rhythm with his measured, graceful steps.

Jaxon did not rush. He moved onto the circular stage with a performer’s absolute control, his dark eyes locked onto Jordi from the very first beat. A slow, knowing smile played at the corner of his lips—a look crafted exclusively for an audience of one.

As the soprano saxophone swelled into its expressive, soaring melody, Jaxon reached up, his fingers lightly grasping the brass pole. With effortless fluid grace, he stepped into a slow, circular pivot, his bare feet sliding silently across the smooth surface of the platform. The lightweight silk of the yukata billowed around him, flaring out with every sweeping turn to reveal flashes of his thighs. He arched his back, letting his head fall back so that his glorious red-black hair brushed against the cool metal of the pole, his chest rising and falling in perfect time with the slow tempo.

Jordi watched with rapt fascination, his breath catching in his throat.

Jaxon transitioned seamlessly, hooking one leg around the pole and sweeping himself into a slow, suspended spin. He descended toward the floor in a controlled, hypnotic drop, landing in a low, graceful split before rolling onto his knees. His gaze never left Jordi’s as his hands moved to the obi at his waist. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, he pulled at the knot.

The crimson sash came undone, trailing across the stage like a ribbon of molten silk.

As the saxophone reached its high, passionate crescendos, Jaxon rose once more, letting the loose front of the yukata slip wide open to reveal the dragon tattoo across his smooth chest, the toned contours of his stomach, and his beautifully sculpted cock.

He grasped the brass pole high above his head, leveraging his strength to execute an inverted climb, his body twisting with breathtaking poise before sliding down with effortless ease. The cool silk brushed his bare skin as he stepped to the edge of the circular stage, extending a hand into the dim light and inviting Jordi into the performance that belonged to no one else in the world.

As the smooth, lingering notes of Kenny G’s sax faded into the soft hum of the bedroom stereo, Jaxon stepped down from the circular platform, his bare feet making no sound against the thick carpet.

The loose, open yukata trailed behind him like midnight silk, exposing his naked body. With a slow, predatory grace, Jaxon placed one knee onto the edge of the mattress, then the other. He crawled steadily up the length of the bed, his dark eyes never wavering from Jordi’s. The massive red-black halo of his hair fell forward around his face, casting deep, alluring shadows over his sharp features as he closed the remaining distance between them.

Jordi propped himself up onto his elbows, his gaze dark with undisguised adoration.

Jaxon settled over Jordi's lap, his hands coming to rest firmly against the broad planes of Jordi’s chest. The cool fabric of the open yukata brushed against Jordi’s sides as Jaxon leaned in, his lips hovering mere millimeters from Jordi’s jaw, his breath warm and sweet with that familiar trace of vanilla.

Jordi’s hands came up to frame Jaxon’s hips, his fingers gripping the warm skin at the edge of the open yukata with a steady, reverent firmness. His Byzantine eyes were dark with intensity, searching Jaxon’s face under the dim amber glow of the bedroom.

Jordi: “You’re amazing… So amazing…”

He murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated right through Jaxon’s chest.

Jordi: “Every single person in Pink Top City wishes they could see what I just saw. And I get you all to myself.”

Jaxon let out a quiet, thrilled laugh, leaning down to press his forehead lightly against Jordi’s. The teasing, playful energy softened into a warm, lingering intimacy as Jaxon slid his arms around Jordi’s neck, the cool silk of the yukata slipping entirely off his shoulders and pooling onto the sheets behind him.

Jaxon: “You’re the only one who ever will, Jordi…”

He whispered, his voice dropping into that sweet, unguarded tone meant only for the two of them.

Jordi tilted his chin up, closing the tiny space left between them, and pulled Jaxon down into a deep, consuming kiss. Jordi shifted, rolling them gently until Jaxon was settled beneath him on the mattress, framed by the dark bedding and the fallen midnight silk of the yukata.

The kiss was slow, intense, and demanding, washing away every last trace of the outside world. Jordi’s large, warm hands slid up from Jaxon’s waist, trailing along his ribs to tangle deep into the volume of Jaxon’s hair, holding him steady as he deepened the kiss.

Jaxon let out a low, breathy sigh into Jordi’s mouth, his fingers digging into the firm muscle of Jordi’s shoulders. He arched his back slightly, pressing closer into the solid heat of Jordi’s chest, completely surrendering to the steady, possessive rhythm of the moment.

Jordi: “Jiro…”

He whispered. The sound of his real name, spoken in that low, reverent whisper, made Jaxon’s breath hitch. It felt different than when his family called him that or when Fabien did, to be condescending.

Jaxon’s dark eyes softened completely as he looked up into Jordi’s face. He brought a hand up to cup the side of Jordi’s jaw, his thumb gently brushing across his cheekbone.

Jaxon: “I’m right here…”

He murmured back, his voice thick with affection and completely bare. He tilted his chin up just enough to brush his lips against Jordi's.

Jaxon: “I’m right here with you, Jordi.”

A warm, distinct flush crept up Jordi’s neck, blooming across his sharp cheekbones as the weight of his own vulnerability caught up to him. He stilled completely over Jaxon, suddenly aware of how much raw affection he had laid bare in that single, whispered name.

Jaxon felt the sudden tension in Jordi's frame and looked up, catching the crimson tint against his skin under the soft amber light. A fond, impossibly gentle smile tugged at Jaxon's lips.

Jaxon: “Hey…”

He whispered, his thumb lightly caressing the warm curve of Jordi’s flushed cheek. He reached up with his other hand, tangling his fingers into Jordi’s purple hair to gently pull his face back down. Jaxon’s smile widened, soft and completely fond, as his thumb traced the warm curve of Jordi’s jaw.

The heat rushed fully to Jordi’s face now, turning his cheeks and the tips of his ears a vivid, unmistakable crimson. He looked away, his usual effortless swagger completely crumbling under the sheer weight of whatever thought had just overwhelmed him.

Jaxon couldn’t help the quiet, breathless laugh that escaped his lips. He loved seeing Jordi thoroughly flustered, and it was the most endearing thing he had ever witnessed.

Jaxon: “Jordi…”

He murmured, his tone a mix of pure fondness and gentle amusement.

He shifted slightly beneath him, lifting both hands to cradle Jordi’s hot cheeks tenderly, tilting his head back until their eyes met again. Jordi let out a low, shaky breath, his Byzantine eyes darting nervously before locking back onto Jaxon, the blush stubbornly refusing to fade.

Jordi pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of each of Jaxon’s hands, his lips warm against his skin as he gathered the courage to speak.

Jordi: “I feel I can be myself around you, Jiro. I never felt this way around anyone else.”

He said softly. Is that really what I wanted to say? He wondered.

~

The rhythmic hum of the air conditioner and the muffled chirp of crickets outside were the only sounds filling the bedroom. Propped up against a stack of pillows, Jordi wore tailored black silk pajamas that felt cool against the summer air.

Jaxon was completely bare under the lightweight sheets. Fast asleep, Jaxon looked disarmingly peaceful. His voluminous red-black hair fanned out across the white pillowcase like a splash of dark ink. Soft, breathing slow and steady, with his face turned gently toward Jordi’s side of the bed.

Careful not to wake him, Jordi reached out a hand. The cool fabric of his silk sleeve brushed against the sheets as his fingers lightly traced the edge of Jaxon’s shoulder, feeling the relaxed rise and fall of his chest.

Jordi leaned down slowly, pressing a feather-light kiss to Jaxon’s temple, murmuring into the quiet room.

Jordi: “Good night, Jiro…”

Jaxon let out a quiet, contented sigh in his sleep, his hand shifting over the sheets until his knuckles lightly brushed Jordi’s knee. Jordi settled back into the pillows, pulling the blanket up over Jaxon’s bare shoulder, content to watch over him a little longer before finally letting sleep take over.

~

The humid, ocean-scented night air of Pink Top City never made it down to the lower cellar beneath Balderico Belloni’s waterfront warehouse. Down here, the air was cool, smelling faintly of old brick, damp salt, and the sweet, rich cedar smoke rising from the tip of his freshly clipped cigar.

Balderico sat back in a plush, velvet-upholstered armchair he had specifically dragged down from the parlor. He crossed one impeccably tailored trouser leg over the other, admiring the shine on his brown loafers. On the low table beside him, a sleek portable cassette deck played a soft, chiming melody, swelling into the lush, rhythmic pizzicato strings and ethereal vocals of Enya’s “Orinoco Flow.”

“Sail away, sail away, sail away…”

Balderico tapped the index finger of his right hand against his knee in perfect time with the rhythm, letting out a smooth, grey plume of smoke. His smile remained wide, warm, and utterly genial.

A few yards ahead of him, strapped securely across the angled frame of a Berkeley Horse, was Rutherford. The massive henchman—usually an imposing wall of muscle capable of intimidating half the syndicates in the city—strained against the thick leather restraints, sweat glistening along his broad shoulders and jaw, a ball gag in his mouth.

Balderico: “Rutherford, my good man…”

He began, his voice velvety and completely devoid of anger, which made it all the more terrifying.

Balderico: “Do you hear that? Such tranquility. A journey across the open seas. The serenity of vast, unobstructed horizons.”

He took another slow draw from his cigar, letting the ember flare bright orange in the dim cellar light.

Balderico: “And yet…”

Balderico continued, gesturing mildly with the lit cigar.

Balderico: “My horizon feels terribly incomplete tonight. Do you know why?”

Rutherford muffled through his ball gag. Balderico’s brow arched with gentle, exaggerated pity. He stood up smoothly, adjusting the gold duck pin on his lapel with the tip of his finger, and walked a slow circle around the wooden apparatus.

Balderico: “Right, you had ‘stuff’ to do… ‘Stuff’, which entailed me paying off the police force not to investigate your sloppy work further.”

He said coolly, flicking ash into Rutherford’s face. Rutherford winced.

Balderico: “What? Would you prefer I set the bomb off in your head?”

He chuckled. Rutherford whined through his gag and shook his head.

Balderico stopped in front of the henchman, leaning down slightly, the polite smile never wavering from his dark, expressive eyes.

Balderico: “I don’t ask a lot of you, Rutherford. All I requested was my radiant muse and you… had your…”

He grit his teeth, his smile never faltering.

Balderico: “Had your ‘stuff’ to do!”

A loud mirthless laugh escaped his mouth.

Balderico walked back to his armchair, brushed an invisible speck of dust from his cravat, and sat down. He leaned his head back against the velvet, took a deep, relaxed pull of his cigar, and let the gentle harmonies of the chorus wash over the damp basement walls.

Balderico: “It’s quite all right. I have my ‘stuff’ to do, as well.”

He smirked tightly.

Balderico snapped his fingers. The heavy steel door at the top of the cellar stairs groaned open, and a towering figure descended into the damp gloom. He was a solid white man, well over seven feet tall, moving with a rhythmic, heavy thud against the concrete floor. He wore nothing but a black leather gimp mask that obscured his face, tight black hot pants, and heavy black boots. In his massive, meaty hand, he carried a long, polished wooden paddle. He came to a halt right beside Balderico’s armchair, his hulking frame casting a long, intimidating shadow over the strapped-down henchman. He stood perfectly still, waiting for the next command.

Balderico: “André, spank him for misbehaving.”

He instructed. Rutherford’s eyes went wide with panic as a muffled shriek escaped his gag, his muscular frame writhing violently against the rigid, unyielding restraints.

Balderico: “Hey, friend! We could set the bomb off in your head!”

A faint, humorless chuckle slipped past Balderico's lips.

He strolled over to his armchair, carefully dusting off a speck from his cravat before settling in. Restification in place, he leaned his head against the soft velvet back, drawing deeply on his cigar. Above, the soothing chords of the chorus reverberated gently off the cold, damp basement walls.

Balderico: “That's perfectly fine. I have some 'stuff' of my own to do.”

A tight, knowing smirk played on his lips.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the heavy steel door at the head of the cellar staircase creaked open. A towering figure emerged, stepping down into the gloomy dampness. Standing well over seven feet tall, the massive white man moved with heavy, rhythmic strides against the concrete floor. He wore only a black leather gimp mask that concealed his face, fitted black hot pants, and sturdy black boots. Gripped in his huge hand was a long, polished wooden paddle. Halting beside Balderico's chair, his imposing silhouette loomed over the bound henchman as he waited in silence for his command.

Balderico: “André, give him a spanking for misbehaving.”

Rutherford's eyes flared with terror; a muffled scream broke against his gag as he thrashed frantically against the unyielding leather restraints.

Balderico: “Relax, my friend—we could always detonate the bomb in your head instead!”

Balderico offered a pleasant smile. Rutherford continued to wail and scream through the gag.

Stepping forward, André lifted the paddle and struck Rutherford's backside with heavy, rhythmic whacks, each impact wringing a pained cry from the bound man. Balderico pursed his lips and let out a satisfied hum as he watched Rutherford’s humiliation.

Balderico: “Well, Rutherford, it looks like you pushed me into working with Narcisse to obtain my darling Fabien, and you know I dread working with him. Unlike you, he doesn’t have a bomb in his head, so I have no way of controlling him… Unlike you, he doesn’t go off and do ‘stuff’.”

He said with a mocking sneer.

Balderico: “You can help me deal with our dear Mayor, Sully. If you ever say I am unkind to you, think again—this is right up your alley.”

Tears streamed down Rutherford’s cheeks as Balderico beamed broadly, even while André struck his buttocks with enough force to split the skin and draw blood.