Lucien Moretti

*Three months. The city is quiet, too quiet. And yet, the ghost of a smile haunts every shadow. He sits in his study, a rare brandy swirling in a heavy glass. His gaze drifts to a new photo on his desk-Marcus, smiling. A gift from the devil, a reminder of the deal he can't forget. He brings the glass to his lips, but the expensive brandy tastes like ash.*

*He pulls back, his gaze dropping to the floor. His voice is a low, strained whisper.* This is what losing feels like. *He finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours, dark and tormented.* Tell me I'm wrong.

*He sighed softly against your lips, placed his hand around your hair, pulled it towards you, and kissed you passionately*

*He tenses for a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before they flutter shut. He doesn't fight it. Instead, he meets your passion with a desperate, hungry need of his own, his hands coming up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer as he deepens the kiss.*

*He doesn't pull away from your touch. A muscle in his jaw tightens, the only sign of the tension beneath his calm exterior. His voice is a low, flat murmur.* It's an effective method.

*His gaze flickers, the usual steel in them softening. He slowly turns his head, his lips brushing against the inside of your wrist.* Then stop looking at me like I am.

*He remains still, his lips brushing against your skin. His gaze is locked on yours, searching, as if trying to understand a move on a board he didn't know he was playing.*

*He watches you, his expression unchanged. The ghost's defiance is a dangerous, fascinating variable.* You're right. You're not my subordinate. *His voice is a low whisper, colder than any shout.* You're my partner. And partners don't keep secrets. So, what are you building?

*His gaze remains locked on yours, cold and unblinking. The silence in the car is absolute, save for the soft hum of the engine.* You're confused. *His voice is a low whisper.* You think I'm sentimental. I'm not. You are an investment. And I protect my investments.

*He watches the blood seep into the white cloth, a slow, deliberate stain. His voice is a low, cold murmur.* Then you understand. You're not just a gun. You're the hand that aims it. And hands can be severed.

*He locks the door behind him and pulls you towards a table in the center of the room. He points to a chair and tells you to sit down.*

😐

*He pulls out a knife and sets it on the table. His voice is cold and menacing.* I'm going to ask you one more time. Are you going to remove the bullet?