Page 70 of Filthy Little Fix

I hold my breath. I bite my own tongue not to externalize it, not to let on how much Dante turns me on. He leans over me, slowly, and a woody trail of his cologne invades all my senses. Tobacco, cologne, whiskey—maybe a hint of leather. He presses the button on the back of the monitor and turns off the screen.

Click.

The sound ends the discussion. The screen is now a black rectangle, with an indicating yellow light—hibernating.

I have to brace myself in the chair not to stop Dante from moving away. I want him like this, so close that I can trace the most insignificant hints of his scent—a note of gunpowder, a note of soap.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Svetlana says. She sounds impatient, more than she should be. It's not the first time Dante has gotten on her nerves in a short span of time.

Dante straightens, but doesn't remove his hand from my shoulder. I wish he would squeeze hard. That he would slide his hand under my clothes.

"Asset management, Svetlana," he says. "He's no good to us with his brain fried by exhaustion. He'll do as I commanded."

He presses my shoulders in a silent order.Stand up.

I obey. Anything he wants.

Dante gives me a slight nod toward the door. The order is clear.

I obey.

When I pass Svetlana, I feel her icy gaze. She's furious.

The door closes behind me, and I'm left in the hallway with Luca, who is always profoundly uncomfortable being alone with me.

He gestures for me to follow him. Dante should have given the order in advance—eatandsleep, like a little pet. We walk in silence through the corridors, and from a distance, I can hear the muffled sound of raised voices coming from the office.

We arrive at an impeccably clean industrial kitchen, large enough to serve a battalion. Two cooks are dozing.

Luca clears his throat. The first one jolts awake, slaps the second, and both are standing with their faces creased from sleep and their spines straight.

"Yes, sir," one of them says. I have the impression he almost salutes. It would make sense. Luca has the best posture among all the enforcers I've seen, and he was only slightly less broad than Dante—he must have a military background.

"Prepare something for him," Luca orders. "Real food. The boss will check."

The cooks nod, terrified, and begin to move with a nervous efficiency. They don't question anything. They can't.

I sit on a high stool near a stainless steel counter.

The sound of the distant argument is still audible. They must be cursing at each other. Dante demanding control, and Svetlana demanding results.

Luca remains standing near the door. He's a guard made of stone and suit, always awake and available—a little robot at the Volkovs' command.

I yawn. Without any stimulus, my body feels heavy. I focus on the distant ticks of a clock, the metallic noises of the cooks, and the hum of the family quarrel. Something shatters on the floor. Dante is the type to break things against the wall. Or is it Svetlana?

"Do they fight a lot?" I ask.

Luca stares at me. He shows no reaction to the hum. Yes, they definitely fight a lot. "The Volkovs are passionate."

"Passionate," I repeat. "That's one way to put it." He doesn't have much freedom of speech here. It's understandable. All the Volkovs have a temperamental history. I watch him—the rigid posture, the very well-polished shoes, the tattoos on his hands. Coordinates, winged dagger. Special forces. I give him a half-smile. "And you,soldier? Do you often babysit like this?"

Luca's stone mask waves. It's not much. It's an almost imperceptible twitch in his jaw. His eyes drop to his hands, making sure the tattoos are still there, perhaps remembering how he got them.

When he raises his gaze to me again, it's with more caution. Reluctant respect.

"My job is wherever the family needs me," he replies. "In the field, yes; and unpredictable asset management."

He called me anunpredictable asset? He's blaming me for turning him into a babysitter. I almost want to apologize.