Chapter 1: Champagne and Carnage at 30,000 Feet
The jet bounced once, a hard, sudden jolt that made the champagne in the crystal flute slosh perilously close to the rim. Angel Ricciardi didn’t look up. His entire focus was on the tiny, glittering brush in his hand as he applied a fourth coat of ‘Fuchsia Firework’ to his left pinky nail. The color was perfect. It caught the dimmed cabin lights and threw them back as a thousand sparkles.
Outside the oval window, swollen black clouds churned. Lightning fissured the sky, a brief, silent flash that turned the plush pink velvet of the seats a sickly purple for a heartbeat.
“Luca,” Angel said, his voice a soft, melodic whine. He blew gently on his nails. “This is flat. It’s lost all its bubbles. Get me a fresh glass. And not from that bottle. It’s been open for an hour. It tastes like regret.”
Luca, a man built like a refrigerator stuffed into a Tom Ford suit, stood rigid by the galley. His eyes, flat and dark, flickered past Angel to the rear of the cabin. A low, rustling sound came from there, the sound of heavy plastic being unfurled.
“The Don said to stay put until we’re through this turbulence, Signor Ricciardi,” Luca said, his voice a gravelly baritone. He didn’t move.
Angel finally lifted his head. His long, curly white hair was piled in a messy, elegant bun atop his head, a few artful strands framing a face of such delicate, ethereal beauty it sometimes stopped conversations. His eyes, a deep, dark blue like twilight over the ocean, fixed on Luca. He didn’t frown. He pouted. His full lips, glossed a matching sparkly pink, pushed out in a gesture of profound disappointment.
“Do I look like I’m going to get up and do cartwheels, Luca? I’m sitting. I’m painting. My champagne is flat. It’s a simple equation.” He held out the flute, wrist limp. “The new bottle is in the cooler. The one with the gold foil. Not the silver. The gold.”
From the back of the cabin, there was a wet, heavy thump.
Angel’s eyes didn’t waver from Luca’s. He just wiggled the glass, the liquid inside catching the light. The sigh he let out was a masterpiece of long-suffering exasperation. It was the sound of a kitten being asked to fetch its own yarn.
Luca’s jaw tightened. He looked again toward the rear. Another man, Marco, gave a minute, almost imperceptible nod. He was kneeling, rolling something large and dark in a sheet of thick, industrial plastic. The tarp made a crinkling protest with each revolution.
Defeated by a pout, Luca took the flute. “Yes, Signor Ricciardi.”
As Luca turned to the cooler, Angel went back to his nails, humming a snippet of a pop song. The jet bounced again. The bottle in the cooler clinked. The sound from the back became more systematic, a series of efficient pulls and tucks, followed by the sharp, definitive rip of duct tape.
A moment later, Luca presented the fresh glass. Bubbles raced joyously to the top in a frantic, effervescent stream. Angel took a delicate sip. “See? That’s the difference between living and merely existing, Luca. Thank you.”
The door to the forward lavatory clicked open, and Dominic Ricciardi emerged.
The atmosphere in the cabin shifted, tightening like a coil. He filled the space effortlessly. He was a tall man, his shoulders broad beneath a simple black cashmere sweater. His hands, now meticulously clean, were covered in intricate, dark ink that disappeared under his sleeves. More tattoos, hints of scrollwork and thorns, peeked above his collar. His hair was short, wavy, and black as oil, his jaw shadowed with stubble. But it was his eyes that commanded the silence. Piercing, black, and utterly devoid of compromise, they swept the cabin, missing nothing.
They landed on Angel, and the severe line of his mouth softened, just a fraction. It wasn’t a smile. It was a minute relaxation, a tiny exhalation of tension only she could elicit.
“You’re pouting, angelo mio,” Dominic said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the hum of the engines. He walked over, his steps steady despite the turbulence. He didn’t so much as glance at the bundled tarp being secured with a final strip of tape by his men.
“The flight is bumpy and Luca was being stingy with the Perrier-Jouët,” Angel said, holding up his hand to admire his work. The sparkles danced. “Do you like it?”
Dominic took the offered hand, his own tattooed, lethal fingers engulfing Angel’s slender, beautifully manicured one. He brought it to his lips, not kissing it, just resting them against the knuckles. A statement of possession. Of absolute reverence. “It’s very pink. It suits you.”
“It’s ‘Fuchsia Firework,’” Angel corrected, snatching his hand back to continue his inspection. “Pink is a state of mind. This is an event.”
From the back, Marco cleared his throat. “All secured, Don Ricciardi.”
“Good.” Dominic didn’t turn. His eyes were on his husband. “Take it to the rear compartment. I don’t want it in here. The smell is unpleasant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Angel watched, over the top of his champagne flute, as Marco and another man hefted the long, tarp-wrapped bundle. It was awkward, ungainly. A dull black dress shoe, not Luca’s or Marco’s style, fell off with a thud onto the plush carpet. One of the men bent to pick it up, shoving it unceremoniously against the plastic. They maneuvered it through the discreet service door at the very back of the main cabin, sealing it away.
Angel took another sip. “He was rude, you know,” he said conversationally. “When you were in the meeting earlier. He said my taste in art was ‘tragic and nouveau riche.’ He said the Hockney was a reproduction.”
Dominic lowered himself into the velvet seat opposite Angel, his movements fluid with controlled power. He picked up the discarded polish bottle, rolling it between his fingers. The liquid glittered. “Did he.”
“Mmhmm.” Angel nodded, finishing the last nail. He screwed the cap back on with a series of precise little clicks. “And then he implied our wedding was a… what was the word? A ‘transactional spectacle.’ He laughed when he said it. A nasty little laugh.” Angel looked up, his blue eyes wide and clear. “I don’t like people laughing at you, Dom. Or at us.”
The storm outside chose that moment to unleash a barrage of rain. It hammered against the fuselage like a thousand tiny fists. The plane shuddered but held its course.
Dominic stared at his husband. The gentle, spoiled creature painting his nails and complaining about champagne was the same one who had just coolly informed him of a man’s fatal social miscalculation. There was no malice in Angel’s tone. It was a simple statement of fact, delivered with the same weight as his complaint about the bubbles.
“He won’t laugh again,” Dominic said, his voice quiet. A final verdict.
“I know.” Angel smiled then, a sweet, radiant thing that lit up his whole face. He held out his hands, fingers splayed. “Aren’t they pretty? I think they need rings. More rings. That vintage dealer in Milan emailed me. He has a cabochon pink sapphire. It’s the size of a gumdrop.”
Dominic reached into his pocket. He didn’t pull out his phone to make a note. He pulled out a small, black velvet pouch. He tossed it onto the pink velvet between them. “From Geneva. A distraction for the flight.”
Angel’s pout vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated delight. He snatched the pouch, his earlier grievances forgotten. He loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into his palm.
It was a pair of earrings. Diamond teardrops, but not simple ones. Each was a cascade of stones, graduating in size, and at the very center of each cluster was a perfect, pear-cut pink diamond that caught the light and shattered it into a rosy shimmer.
Angel’s breath hitched. “Oh.” It was a tiny, awed sound. He immediately pulled the simple diamond studs from his ears, letting them fall carelessly onto the seat, and replaced them with the new ones. He turned his head from side to side, feeling their weight. “How do they look?”
“Like they were made for you,” Dominic said. His gaze was intense, tracing the line of Angel’s throat, the way the diamonds brushed his jaw. For him, this was the transaction that mattered. This silent, worshipful exchange. A problem eliminated. A gift given. A beauty adored. The economy of his world was simple.
Angel scrambled up from his seat, ignoring the fasten seatbelt sign glowing ominously. The plane dipped. He stumbled a step, but Dominic’s arm shot out, steadying him with an easy strength. Angel barely noticed. He padded over to a small, mother-of-pearl inlaid cabinet, opened it, and pulled out a hand mirror with a gilded, flaking frame. He admired himself, turning his face.
“They’re perfect,” he declared. He drifted back, dropping onto the wide seat beside Dominic this time, curling his legs beneath him. He leaned his head against Dominic’s shoulder. The scent of the man—sandaled wood, expensive soap, and something darker, metallic—was as familiar and calming as his own perfume. “Thank you for killing him for me.”
Dominic’s arm came around him, his large hand splaying possessively over Angel’s side. “I didn’t kill him for you. I killed him for disrespecting you. There’s a difference.”
Angel nuzzled against the cashmere. “Semantics.” He was quiet for a moment, listening to the storm and the strong, steady beat of Dominic’s heart under his ear. “Will there be trouble? From his people?”
A low, humorless chuckle vibrated through Dominic’s chest. “His ‘people’ are currently deciding which of his cousins gets to take over his mediocre operations. They’ll send flowers and an apology for his poor manners. They know the difference between an obstacle and an earthquake.”
Angel absorbed this. His world was this: the cocoon of the jet, the unwavering fortress of Dominic’s presence, the glittering things that rained down upon him. The bloodshed was a distant rumor, a muffled thump from another room. It existed to preserve the sanctity of his bubble.
“I’m hungry,” he announced, the morbid topic dismissed as easily as the empty champagne flute.
“What do you want?”
“Those little prosciutto-wrapped figs. And the truffle arancini. Not the ones from the airport, the ones Sofia packed. And the chocolate torte. But just the top, with the gold leaf. The bottom is too dense.”
Dominic nodded toward Luca, who had resumed his post, a silent statue once more. Luca moved to the galley.
“And a vodka tonic for you,” Angel said, tilting his head up to look at Dominic. “You only drink the clear stuff after… after business. I know.”
A flicker of surprise, then profound tenderness, passed through Dominic’s dark eyes. He cupped Angel’s cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin. “You notice too much, little one.”
“I notice you.” Angel stated it as the simplest fact in the universe.
The food came, on delicate porcelain. Angel ate the figs delicately, licking the honey from his fingers. He scraped the top layer of the torte with his fork, leaving the base. He fed Dominic an arancini, his fingers hovering by the man’s lips. Dominic ate from his hand, his gaze never leaving Angel’s face.
The violence, the corpse in the hold, the storm outside—they were all on the periphery. Here, in the center, was this: a spoiled, beautiful boy and the deadly man who worshipped him. A closed ecosystem of desire and devotion.
As the plane began its initial descent, the turbulence smoothing into a gentle sigh, Angel sat up, arranging his hair. “I want to go to the house in Lake Como first. Not the penthouse. I want to see the wisteria. You promised it would be in bloom.”
“The wisteria is in bloom,” Dominic confirmed, his hand resting on Angel’s thigh.
“And I want a boat. A little one. Pink.”
“The boat will be white. The upholstery can be pink.”
Angel considered this, then nodded. “Acceptable.” He looked out the window as the clouds parted, revealing the first scattered lights of the city below, gleaming like fallen stars. “He really did have a nasty laugh. It sounded like a choking seagull.”
Dominic finished his vodka, the ice cubes clinking. “I didn’t notice.”
Angel smiled, knowing it was a lie. Dominic noticed everything. That was why he was the king. And why Angel, curled beside him in a cloud of pink velvet and diamonds, was his sole, unquestioned queen.
The jet tilted, wheels groaning into position. Luca and Marco braced themselves, their postures rigid, eyes scanning the cabin out of ingrained habit. Angel simply reached out and took Dominic’s hand, intertwining their fingers. His sparkly pink nails were a shocking contrast against the knotted, ink-darkened skin of Dominic’s knuckles.
“Will Sofia be at the house?” Angel asked, his mind already leaping to the next need. “I want her peach bellinis by the pool tomorrow. With the edible orchid ice cubes, not the soggy ones that melt too fast.”
“She will have them.”
“Good.” Angel squeezed his hand. The plane touched down with a squeal of rubber and a roar of reversed thrust. The corpse in the rear compartment shifted with a muffled, final thud.
The cabin lights brightened. The journey was over. The mundane ritual of arrival began. But Dominic didn’t move to get up. He just watched Angel, who was now checking his reflection in the dark window, adjusting an earring.
This was the heart of it. The empire, the fear, the violence—it all served this single, silent purpose: to keep this creature in his bubble of pink and sparkle, blissfully untouched, gloriously unaware. And as Angel turned back to him with a contented, effortless smile, Dominic knew he would wrap the whole world in tarp and throw it into the hold if that’s what it took to preserve that smile.
The doors opened. The humid night air of Italy, fragrant with diesel and damp earth, washed in. Luca descended first, scanning the tarmac. Marco followed.
Dominic stood, then turned and offered his hand. Angel took it, unfolding himself gracefully.
Together, they stepped out of the pink velvet womb and into the cool, dangerous night. Behind them, in the silent, dark hold, the plastic-wrapped bundle waited for its final, unceremonious journey. Ahead, a blacked-out Rolls-Royce sat idling, a uniformed driver holding the door.
Angel slipped inside, a flash of white hair and a glint of pink diamond. Dominic paused, one hand on the roof of the car, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the private airfield one last time. A man materialized from the shadows near the hangar, gave a sharp nod, and vanished again. All was secure.
He slid in beside Angel, who immediately nestled against him, already talking about the thread count of the sheets at the Como house. As the car pulled away, smooth and silent as a shark, Dominic’s encrypted phone buzzed once in his pocket. A text. He read it without expression.
Disposal confirmed. No witnesses. The cousin sends his gratitude and a crate of '98 Sassicaia.
He deleted the message and put the phone away. His arm settled around Angel’s shoulders, pulling him closer. The scent of fuchsia nail polish and champagne filled the car.
“The sapphire,” Dominic said quietly, interrupting Angel’s monologue about linen spray. “The gumdrop one. Tell the dealer we’ll see it tomorrow.”
Angel’s smile in the dark was brighter than any diamond. He had already forgotten the sound of the choking-seagull laugh. All he remembered was the gift. The attention. The love, vast and impregnable as a fortress.
The car merged onto the autostrada, speeding toward the lake, the lights of the city blurring into streaks of gold. Behind them, the private jet stood empty, a shell holding only the ghost of perfume and a single, forgotten, black dress shoe under a seat.