Chapter 4: Domestic Homicidal Ideation
The first sensation was warmth. A solid, pervasive heat along his back, the length of his spine, the curve of his hips. Then weight. A heavy arm slung possessively across his waist, a muscular thigh thrown over his legs, anchoring him to the mattress. Angel stirred, not yet opening his eyes, and let the feeling seep into him. Safe. Owned. Cocooned.
He blinked slowly. The master bedroom was awash in the diluted gold of morning, the sky beyond the half-drawn velvet drapes a soft periwinkle streaked with pink. Dust motes danced in the slanted light, spinning over the rumpled expanse of black silk sheets. The air smelled of sleep, of his lavender-scented skin cream, and dominantly, of Dominic—sandalwood, clean sweat, and the faint, metallic scent that clung to him no matter how many showers he took, the ghost of gun oil and cold steel.
Angel turned his head on the pillow. Dominic was still asleep, his face inches away. In repose, the ruthless lines were softened. The stern brow was smooth, the harsh set of his mouth relaxed. His short, wavy black hair was mussed, a curl fallen over his forehead. Angel watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the powerful movement beneath the dark tattoos that peeked from the sheets. He traced one with his eyes—a dagger piercing a crown, the ink faded with age and stretched over the hard plane of his pectoral.
With infinite slowness, Angel raised a hand. He didn’t touch the tattoo. Instead, he used a single finger to stroke a path through the coarse, dark hair on Dominic’s chest, following the natural line of his sternum. Up, then down. A feather-light caress.
Dominic’s breathing hitched. A low, unconscious sound rumbled in his throat. Angel smiled, a private, cat-like curl of his lips. He continued the lazy tracing, committing the geography of him to memory all over again.
Dominic’s eyes fluttered open. They were black, pure obsidian, still clouded with sleep. They focused on Angel’s face, and the darkness in them shifted, warming from within. He didn’t smile—Dominic’s smiles were rare, precious things—but his entire being seemed to soften, orienting itself around the sight before him.
Angel leaned up, his waist-long white hair spilling over Dominic’s shoulder like a silk shroud. He placed a soft, closed-mouth kiss on the sharp line of his husband’s jaw, feeling the prickle of stubble against his lips.
“Mmm,” Dominic groaned, the sound vibrating through Angel’s body. He turned his head, just a fraction, to catch Angel’s lips with his own.
The kiss was slow, deep, and tasting of sleep. It was a reclamation, a silent morning ritual. Angel melted into it, letting Dominic’s tongue sweep possessively over his, his smaller body yielding against the immovable bulk beneath him.
When they parted, Angel kept his forehead resting against Dominic’s. His deep blue eyes were luminous in the morning light. He whispered, his voice husky with disuse and affection, “Happy Valentine’s, moya lyubov.”
A rough hand came up to cup the back of Angel’s head, fingers tangling in the white curls. “Every day is Valentine’s with you,” Dominic murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp. It wasn’t a line. It was a statement of fact, as concrete as the bed they lay in.
Angel preened, a flush of pleasure warming his cheeks. He nuzzled into the touch. “You say the sweetest things before coffee.” He shifted, rolling onto his back but staying tucked under Dominic’s arm, his head on his shoulder. “Did you sleep well? You were… quiet.”
“I slept,” Dominic said. His hand drifted from Angel’s hair to stroke the bare skin of his arm. “No dreams. Just you.”
“Good.” Angel draped an arm across Dominic’s torso, his fingers playing with the simple silver band on his left ring finger. His own matching band felt cool and permanent against his skin. “I have a surprise for you.”
“You are my surprise.”
“Another one, then,” Angel said, with a playful nip at his shoulder. “But you have to get up.”
The process of disentangling themselves was slow, reluctant. Dominic finally swung his legs out of bed, the muscles in his back and arms rippling with the movement. He stood, naked and unconcerned in the morning light, a monument of sculpted power and brutal ink. Angel lay back on the pillows, watching him with open appreciation, tracing the familiar scenes of violence and devotion etched into his skin—the serpents, the sacred hearts, the dates in Roman numerals, the prayer in Gothic script across his shoulder blades.
Dominic pulled on a pair of black silk lounge pants and tossed a matching robe to Angel. “Come.”
The house was silent, a cathedral of marble and wealth in the early hour. They padded barefoot down the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing softly in the vast foyer. Instead of heading to the main living areas, Angel led Dominic through a set of double doors into the east wing’s sunroom. It was a glass-and-steel conservatory filled with orchids and climbing jasmine, the air humid and fragrant. In the center, where a wrought-iron table usually stood, was a new piece of furniture, covered by a deep purple velvet drape.
“Close your eyes,” Angel commanded, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Dominic obeyed, a faint, amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. Angel took his hand and guided him forward a few steps. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the velvet cloth away.
It was a chair. But not just a chair. It was a throne. A massive, high-backed masterpiece of carved ebony and blood-red velvet upholstery. The arms were intricately sculpted wolves, their mouths open in silent snarls. The crest at the top was not the Ricciardi dagger and serpents, but a new design: two stylized angels, their wings interlocked, framing a single, perfect sapphire.
“For your study,” Angel said, his voice laced with pride. “I had it commissioned in Florence. The wood is from a single, two-hundred-year-old tree. The velvet is from a mill that only services the Vatican. The sapphire…” He trailed off, running a slender finger over the cool, blue stone. “It matched your eyes. The day we met. Do you remember?”
Dominic opened his eyes. He stared at the chair for a long, silent moment. His expression was unreadable, but Angel could see the pulse jump in his throat. He reached out and ran a hand over the head of one carved wolf, feeling the savage artistry.
“It’s wasteful,” Dominic finally said, his voice low.
Angel’s smile didn’t falter. “It’s yours. You deserve a throne, Dominic. You rule an empire. You should sit like a king.” He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Dominic’s waist from behind, pressing his cheek between his shoulder blades. “And now, when you’re in your study, making your… decisions, you’ll be sitting in something I gave you. Something beautiful and strong. Like you.”
Dominic turned, pulling Angel into his arms. He kissed him, hard this time, a kiss of possession and profound, wordless gratitude. When he broke away, he kept his forehead pressed to Angel’s. “It is perfect. Like you.”
Angel beamed. “Your turn. I have a gift for you, too. Wait here.”
He disappeared in a swirl of silk, returning a moment later with a small, black velvet box. He held it out, his expression suddenly shy, a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes.
Dominic took the box. He opened it.
Nestled on the satin were two items. A pair of cufflinks, fashioned from what looked like antique, tarnished silver. But upon closer inspection, the design was clear: tiny, exquisitely rendered brass knuckles. And beside them, a key. It was old-fashioned, heavy, made of black iron.
Dominic picked up a cufflink, holding it to the light. “These are…”
“From the man in Biloxi,” Angel said softly. “The one who said you had a ‘pretty little pet’ and suggested he might like to play with me. You remember.”
Dominic’s gaze snapped to Angel’s. The memory was crystalline, vicious. A backroom poker game, two years ago. A fat, sweetyed man with lecherous eyes and a loose tongue. Dominic had left the table. The man had been found the next morning in a ditch, his fingers broken, his tongue removed, his pockets emptied of everything except a single, monogrammed silver cufflink.
“These were his,” Dominic stated, his voice flat.
“I had them melted down. Recast. I kept one of the originals… for sentiment. But I wanted you to have these. To wear them. So you know.” Angel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So you remember that every time someone looks at me with anything less than reverence, you end them. And I keep a piece of them for you.”
The room was very still. The scent of jasmine felt suddenly cloying. Dominic stared at the tiny, brutal jewelry in his palm, then at Angel’s serene, expectant face. A fierce, almost painful wave of adoration tightened his chest. This was his boy. His perfect, beautiful, vicious boy.
“And the key?” Dominic asked, his voice rough.
Angel’s shyness returned. He looked down, playing with the belt of his robe. “It’s silly.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s to the old icehouse. By the north garden. The one that hasn’t been used in years.” Angel looked up, his blue eyes glittering. “I had it cleaned out. Reinforced. Soundproofed. Climate controlled. I… I thought it might be useful. For when you need a place to work without… interruption. Somewhere private. Away from the main house. I had a proper chair installed. And tools. The best ones. German steel.”
He was giving him a torture chamber. A Valentine’s Day gift of a private, soundproofed, state-of-the-art interrogation room.
Dominic felt something crack open inside him, a floodgate of pure, undiluted obsession. He dropped the box on the velvet seat of the new throne and took Angel’s face in both hands. He kissed him not with passion, but with a kind of devastating reverence, a sacrament.
“You think of everything,” he breathed against Angel’s mouth.
“Only for you,” Angel whispered back, his hands coming up to curl around Dominic’s wrists. “Only ever for you.”
They breakfasted on the sun-dappled terrace overlooking the infinity pool. The table was laid with crystal and silver, a spread of pastries, exotic fruits, and caviar that neither of them touched much. Angel sipped orange juice; Dominic drank black coffee, his eyes never leaving his husband.
“Daddy calls today,” Angel said, peeling a blood orange with precise, neat motions. The citrus scent sprayed into the air. “His flight arrives at seven. Lorenzo will collect him?”
“Lorenzo and Marco. A three-car detail.” Dominic watched a bead of juice trail down Angel’s wrist. He caught it with his thumb, bringing it to his own mouth. “He is staying a full week?”
“At least. He misses the sun, he says. Moscow is so dreary this time of year.” Angel offered Dominic a segment of orange. He took it with his teeth, his lips brushing Angel’s fingertips. “He will want all the details about the… nuisance. With the lieutenant.”
“He will be impressed with your handling of it.”
“I hope so.” Angel’s expression clouded for a fleeting second. “He worries I’ve gone soft. Living in a palace, spoiled by a handsome husband.”
“He knows you better than that.”
“Does he?” Angel’s gaze was distant, fixed on the shimmering surface of the pool. “Sometimes I wonder what he sees. His little angel. Or the man you see.”
“I see you,” Dominic said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “All of you.”
Angel’s smile returned, brighter. “I know.” He pushed his plate away. “I should get ready. I want to perfect the zakuski table for his arrival. He’ll complain about American ingredients, but he’ll eat two plates.”
He rose, but Dominic caught his hand. “Angel.”
“Yes, my love?”
“The key. The room. It will be used soon. For the distributor in Jacksonville. The one causing Leo problems.”
Angel’s eyes lit with understanding. “A messy signal needs a clear source.”
“Indeed. I will handle it personally. After your father’s visit. It will be a… demonstration.”
Angel leaned down and kissed the top of Dominic’s head, a benediction. “I’ll have your new cufflinks polished. You should wear them when you do.”
The day bled into a routine of luxurious preparation. Angel moved through the estate with a quiet, focused energy, directing the staff in fluent, polite Spanish. He tasted sauces, rearranged flowers, argued gently with the chef over the authenticity of the pelmeni dough. He changed his outfit three times before settling on a simple cashmere sweater the color of cream and tailored white trousers, his hair piled in an artfully messy knot.
Dominic retreated to his study, to the new throne. He sat in it, feeling the solid, unyielding support of the ebony at his back, the plush give of the velvet beneath him. He placed the black iron key on the massive, empty desk before him. It was a promise. A dark and intimate secret shared between him and the boy flitting through the halls below.
At six-thirty, the house was a monument of readiness. Angel stood with Dominic in the grand foyer, under the dripping chandelier. He fussed with Dominic’s collar, though it was already perfect.
“Stop,” Dominic murmured, catching his wrist. “He is your father, not a tsar.”
“He is both,” Angel retorted, but he stilled, taking a deep breath. His composure was a porcelain mask, but Dominic could feel the fine tremor in his hands. The need for paternal approval was Angel’s one true vulnerability.
The crunch of gravel on the drive announced their arrival. Through the iron-gated windows, they saw the procession: Lorenzo’s black SUV in the lead, followed by a sleek, armored Maybach, and another SUV trailing. They pulled to a stop with military precision.
The door of the Maybach opened. A man stepped out.
He was older, perhaps in his late sixties, but he carried his age like a well-tailored overcoat. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had thick, steel-grey hair swept back from a severe, handsome face. His eyes were the same deep, dark blue as Angel’s, but where Angel’s held a deceptive softness, these were chips of glacial ice, scanning the facade of the mansion with swift, calculating appraisal. He wore a long, black wool coat over a charcoal suit, no tie. He projected an aura of contained, absolute power, the kind that needed no shouting.
Angel’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. Then the mask solidified into one of radiant, filial joy. He was out the front door before Dominic could stop him, flying down the steps.
“Daddy!”
Ivan Ivanov opened his arms, and Angel walked into them, not with a run, but with a graceful, eager step. The older man embraced him firmly, kissing him once on each cheek, then holding him back to look at him.
“My Angel,” Ivan said, his voice a deep, accented baritone. “You look well. The sun agrees with you.” His sharp eyes flicked over Angel’s shoulder to where Dominic now stood in the doorway. “Dominic.”
“Ivan,” Dominic nodded, descending the steps with a measured pace. The two men shook hands, a brief, firm clasp that was more assessment than greeting. “Welcome.”
“Your home is as imposing as ever,” Ivan said, his gaze sweeping the edifice. “A fortress fit for a king.” He said it without warmth, a simple statement of fact.
“It is Angel’s home,” Dominic replied, his arm sliding around Angel’s shoulders as he returned to his side. “We merely live in it.”
A ghost of a smile touched Ivan’s lips. He reached out and tucked a stray white curl behind Angel’s