Page 80 of Filthy Little Fix

One of them is on me before I can process a single thought.

The stranger presses his black glove against my mouth. It's impersonal. Another arm pins me, dragging me with a black open cylinder to take cover behind the desk. The substance ison the glove. I try to hold my breath. It doesn't matter. A sweet, acrid smell floods me.

My muscles go slack. My vision tunnels. The shrieking alarms, the gunshots, the screams—it all fades into a distant, muffled dream.

The last thing I see is the masked man, a captor doing his job. No malice. No anger. A gray fuckingjob.

The world turns black.

And I think of him.

CHAPTER VI

EIGHTEEN

DANTE

Clauses.Percentages. Acquisitions. The buzz of a conversation I could ignore.That wire transfer raised some red flags. The statute of limitations is still in effect. You're looking at a potential RICO case. We can restructure the assets offshore. The names of the companies, the names of the people. They blur. They sound the same. Shelf corporations. Shell companies. Nominee directors. Blind trusts.

More of the same.

I fucking hate reunions.

I look at the skyline of Philadelphia. Glass. Angles. All sharp and new. Skyscrapers—if you can call them that. It didn't used to look like this. Back then, it was just the old banks, the brick buildings, the weight of history in stone. The City Hall was the tallest, with William Penn watching over like some tired saint. I remember being a kid and hearing the old-timers complain. They'd spit on the sidewalk and curse the new steel towers that had the audacity to look down on him. Something cracked after that. I used to like the idea of a place that didn't need to reach for the clouds. It all feels like a cheap imitation. Too quiet, toosterile. A place like this could never holdhim. Nyx belongs to New York.

God,Nyx. Even here. Even now.

I try to think about anything else. The case, the names, the files on the table. He gets in. That smirk. That fucking laugh.

I imagine what he'd say about this view. I shouldn't. He'd call it soulless, leaning on the glass like he owns it. He'd mock it, the shiny new money and the suits and ties; the boardroom, the bullshit.

Every sentence starts to bend his way.

"You seem distracted, Dante. Everything alright?" Charlotte whispers at my side.

A lawyer, one of the brightest. Smart, blond, pretty. Her eyes linger too much, her voice a bit too soft. It's tempting to entertain it like I did countless times before. The same voice, the same eyes. She could be another distraction, just as empty as all the others.

But Nyx. Nyx with his laugh.

"Just business," I say.

She touches my arm. It's soft. Nyx has soft edges too.

Fuck, why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been anyone else? I should have him killed. I should have him shot in the fucking face for this, for being in my head like this. I can't even have a simple reunion with some idiots without thinking of him.

Charlotte whispers again, "Are you sure? You seem..."

I don't want her here. I don't want any of this. I want… something else. Something raw, unpredictable, infuriating. Something that burned.

I pull my arm back and get up. The lawyers around the table go silent.

"I need a smoke," I say.

I leave. No one tries to stop me—no one dares to.

My guards follow. Two of them, always. I go to the parking lot, to the car. I lit a cigarette, lean against the hood, and even the taste of this fucking cigarette reminds me of him—in my office, giving me a Dunhill pack with an adoring smile.

Why him?