His phone went off in the middle of the night. He heard the buzz on his nightstand, the single vibration that suggested it was a camera notification. With a heavy sigh, he shifted, extracting himself from the way Rayne wrapped around him like a vice while she slept. It was no small feat, the woman was tiny but with her leg thrown across his hips and her arm draped across his chest, she made it difficult to stray far. With one eye open, he tapped the screen, the blue light offensive in the dark.
He sighed and tossed the phone back on the nightstand. Eskil. He hadn’t seen the man in sometime now and it was a bit of surprise that the private investigator had taken this long to show up - uninvited - at his penthouse. Rolling over, he ignored the next vibration that would have told him Eskil had walked into the empty apartment. Tucking Rayne back into his side, he went back to sleep, not checking his phone again until morning.
“That fucker…” He snarled, sitting in the backseat of his car as Omar drove to the office. Scrolling through the cameras and video feed, it looked like a murder had taken place in his penthouse. Blood stained his couch crimson and bloody handprints smeared down the wall. Only a small part of him worries for Eskil’s safety, but he knows the man is more than capable of taking care of himself. Usually that didn’t involve leaving evidence all over his apartment. After sending a quick text to his own head of security, a clipped demand to fix his penthouse, Enzo tossed his phone down on the seat beside him.
Present day…
Quit playing games with me, Vincenza.
Just like that, his temper flared all over again. He hadn’t gone to check on Eskil, he hadn’t even gone to see what the apartment looked like after it had been cleaned and the furniture replaced. He was content to continue ignoring the petulant man. Until now. Staring at his phone’s screen, he scowled at the message. But he didn’t reply. He didn’t even get to his feet to leave - not until the end of his day. Not until the sun dipped below the horizon and he was supposed to be heading home. Rayne would be waiting for him.
The elevator climbed each floor silently until the doors slid open to reveal his own apartment. It was quiet. Too quiet. But rather than stalk through the apartment in search of Eskil, Enzo heads to the kitchen - pouring himself a glass of bourbon.
Kicking off his socks and shoes, Enzo tosses his jacket and tie over the back of his new couch before he occupies a chair that faces the hallway. The same hallway that leans down to the multiple bedrooms, including his. Eskil was still here, he knew it, and not just because the security system hadn’t gone to alert him of the other man’s departure. Eskil had grown impatient and was now demanding his attention. Well, he certainly got it.
The sound of bare feet padding down the hall was followed by Eskil making his appearance. Finally. Some might claim Enzo had no right to be impatient when he hadn’t even bothered to announce himself in the apartment. But he had no doubts that Eskil had gotten through his firewalls to access the entire buildings cameras as well as the security system at the mansion. Idly, Enzo swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes on his phone as he fired off one last text. I’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up. The device clicked softly as he locked the screen, tossing it on the end table beside him. Only then did he grace Eskil with his gaze. The older man’s words were barbed, each carefully chosen to grate at his nonexistent patience. From calling him baby, to insinuating he was late, Eskil treaded dangerous waters. But it was the game they played - Eskil testing to see how far he could push the mafioso and Enzo responding in kind.
Tonight though, he wasn’t entirely sure he was invested in this game. Enzo wasn’t someone you summoned. You didn’t make demands of him. He was the one who did summoning, who made the demands. “Seems more like you’re the one who got lost,” His voice is smooth, a richly accented sound. “On your way to the hospital.” His eyes dropped to Eskil's side, where his bandaged wound was hidden under one of Enzo’s shirts. Getting bloodstains out was nearly a job requirement for his staff thankfully. Too bad the couch was unsalvageable.
Lifting the glass to his lips, he let the booze burn a path down his throat to warm his belly.
Enzo was very much aware of what had been transpiring over the last week. The dead congressman. The warehouse that he knew was Eskil's and how it now was nothing more than a pile of burnt rubble. According to the news, it burned down the very same night that Eskil showed up here, bleeding. A dark brow arched, thick with implication. He knew. And he knew that Eskil knew he knew. Harboring a potential murder was hardly the worst sin Enzo had ever committed. He wasn’t worried about backlash, he knew that Eskil would cover his own tracks, even if only because he knew Enzo could easily hang him out to dry. But he did want to know what happened. More than that though, what did Eskil think of his latest bedmate? He’d be more surprised if Eskil didn’t know than he would be to find out that the other man had watched every second of footage.
Shrugging off the wall, Eskil strolls into the shadowed living room and past where Enzo is lounging to head into the kitchen, flicking on the light as he enters and makes quick work of preparing his own drink. Ordinarily, he would have made one for Enzo too, but he'd ignored the hacker for long enough that Eskil isn't feeling particularly inclined to give him anything at all. "Sorry about the couch, though," he quips when he returns, dropping onto the replacement piece that's set perpendicular to the chair Enzo is in, one arm sprawling over the back of the couch and the other lifting his drink to his lips. "I totally meant to almost bleed out on your fancy fuckin mattress instead." He's fucking asking for it, and Eskil doesn't give a single flying fuck.
Working his way under Enzo's skin and twisting the knife is one of his favorite pastimes.
An impatient sound hums in the back of his throat. Enzo very nearly rolls his eyes. His expression doesn’t shift until Eskil suggests he’s been pussy-whipped into stupidity. Then a dark brow lifts. ”I guess I was wrong to assume you were tech savvy enough to look up the address I’ve provided you to the underground hospital.” He growls. ”Maybe it’s time to find your replacement.” His tone turns dismissive and he sighs, like he’s bothered by the trouble he’s going to have to go. Like he doesn’t have a waiting list of those vying for the elusive position at Enzo’s right hand. The two men were tied irrevocably together when it came to business and while few knew who provided Enzo with his information, they all wanted his favored position. Still, Enzo isn’t above replacing him, though a part of him would be disappointed. Despite the ways in which their poke and prod at each other, they work seamlessly together. He doesn’t want to replace Eskil, but that’s hacker doesn’t need to know that, which is exactly why the mafioso toys with his position.
Mismatched eyes track Eskil as he goes to the kitchen to pour himself a drink before he flops down on the new couch with a half assed apology.
Eskil is no stranger to getting on Enzo’s last nerve. It’s what they do best. ”Is this you being jealous?” One corner of his full mouth tips up in a smirk. ”It doesn’t suit you.” Eskil has always been his dirty secret, a skeleton in his closet that he plays with often. But lately, he’s spurned the older man, leaving him out in the cold with Rayne sleeps comfortably in his bed. He settles deeper into his seat, long legs spread in front of him, bent at the knees - like he’s waiting. Lifting his glass, he sips his drink, watching Eskil over the rim of the glass. ”If you want something, you better start asking.” He knows Eskil won’t. ”Nicely.” He almost sneers.
There’s something faintly knowing in his eyes. Eskil is, and has always been, a brat. He fights tooth and nail every step of the way for the simple fact that he likes it when Enzo takes what he wants. There’s not a bone in his body that doesn’t anticipate another fight from Eskil. To dig his blade in further, with his free hand, Enzo pats his thigh, like a master beckoning his pet closer. Eyes glitter mockingly.
The alcohol settles with a familiar burn in his chest, sliding down his throat in a slow swallow as Enzo needles more, seeming amused with himself. It's easy for the mafia heir to have his cake and eat it too, but Eskil isn't particularly bothered by the jab. He even goes so far as to chuckle—albeit not a particularly friendly one—and shakes his head in denial. "Nah," he says, fixing Enzo with a sharp, icy stare, "this is me being fucking annoyed that you thought getting your dick wet was more important than being briefed on the situation." For the better part of a week, no less. It's arrogant, and—Eskil still stands by what he said—stupid.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes when Enzo taunts him to ask nicely for what he wants, Eskil tosses back the rest of his drink and discards the glass on a side table, rising to his feet—and Enzo's challenge. He prowls towards the lounging predator, stopping between his spread legs. "How nice do you want me to be?" he goads softly, leaning down with slow deliberation to brace his hands on the chair's arms and subsequently putting their faces much closer together. "Should I say 'please daddy' or would you rather I skip the pleasantries and just suck your cock right now?" He's expecting Enzo to snap at any moment, either from the position he's put them in or his taunting words; he's counting on it. "Just one problem with that, though," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, "I'm the one who has something you're gonna want." Surprisingly, Eskil isn't talking about his dick.
For all the griping, the disagreements, the sharp jabs and everything else, Enzo does trust Eskil. He trusts him to not only find out information but to handle it as well. Eskil is one he doesn’t have to micromanage. That’s not to say he doesn’t keep tabs on what the hacker is doing, he’s just one of the few that Enzo believes is competent to handle a job from start to finish as well as any additional problems that might arise. So why is he throwing such a fit? Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, Enzo considers the man in front of him. ”Are you going to tell me then? Or do you need to stomp your feet some more?” There’s no denying his new obsession with Rayne has taken center stage, but his business hasn’t suffered from it. He isn’t suddenly making rash decisions or neglecting his responsibilities. But while Rayne is new and shiny, Eskil is a relationship he has cultivated over years. The only one being neglected is Eskil himself.
There are no promises between them and there never have been. Enzo doesn’t dangle a future in front of the man’s face, Eskil knows what he’s getting from Enzo. A secure job and a good time. There’s no white picket fence in their future. It’s an understanding between the two men that has been years in making and at the end of the day, they still hold each other’s secrets. There’s something between them, even if it never goes anywhere.
Enzo has gotten to his place in this world not just with violence and an unforgiving reign, but by reading people. By guessing their next move based on their body language, their expressions, the words they use. The way they react to his words. And his words has Eskil coming when called. The older man rises, coming to stand between parted legs. Unfazed, Enzo watches as Eskil leans down, gripping the chair arms, bringing them face to face. Eskil put up a good front with his sour attitude and barbed words, but he’s still quick to jump to his to feet.
How nice do you want me to be? Enzo smirks. But Eskil can’t help but continue to thrum the fine strings of his patience. Setting his glass down on the end table, he doesn’t answer right away. ”Impatient tonight?” He chides, ignoring the fact that a man older than himself just asked if he should call him ‘daddy’. It doesn’t stop his cock from hardening in his slacks though. Eskil knows his way around a blowjob and he knows exactly what Enzo likes. Reaching up, Enzo threads his fingers through Eskils hair, gripping short locks tightly in his fist. He’s never been gentle and he isn’t about to start now so he tips Eskils head back, cranking his neck painfully if he doesn’t sink to his knees. ”If you want to cum tonight, then you better start talking.” He growls as his expression darkens. Patience has never been his strong suit. A part of him knows the Eskil is toying with him, drawing it out as he greedily eats up the attention. But he’s here, and if Eskil was smart, he’d realize that meant something.
He makes no effort to pull away from the long fingers sliding into his hair, despite knowing that it will come with a familiar bite of pain; he doesn't expect tenderness from him, and nor does he want it. Eskil isn't quite so reactive to mere words—it takes at least some physical contact to entice him, and fuck if Enzo fisting his hair roughly and jerking his head back doesn't have his dick twitching in his sweats. Well, Enzo's sweats. His growled demand ripples delightfully down Eskil's spine, prompting a twisted little simper across his lips even as he slowly yields to the pressure, his knees finally hitting the floor and reversing the power dynamic.
Eskil's palms land on Enzo's thighs, teasing with a rough scrape of his nails upwards, though he stops just shy of reaching anywhere too particularly intimate. It's fucking hot—and frankly, distracting—to be forced into such a submissive position, but Eskil reminds himself—furiously—that work needs to come before play tonight. They have a goddamn problem, and he's been sitting on it with growing frustration for days now. Even Eskil, for all his delight in fucking with Enzo (and just fucking him), knows when he needs to cut the shit. He just couldn't help himself when Enzo makes it so easy.
His expression smooths, his lips settling into a flat line as he states, "you have a mole."
His mouth curls with satisfaction at Eskils surrender. His bravado fades the moment his knees hit the floor and Enzo enjoys every second of it. Eskil lives and breathes as a brat, defiant until the very end. It’s what they do best. The constant back and forth, the power struggle that inevitably ends with Eskil at his feet. Nails scrape roughly across his thighs and list claws up his spine. He’s the outlet Enzo thrives on, content and capable to take the brunt of his aggression. But when he did finally bend to Enzo’s will? Well, that’s only a part of the fun. A better man might have brushed his mouth in a light kiss, something gentle - an apology for his absence, for not coming sooner, for not making sure he was okay. But Enzo isn’t a better man. Leaning in, he has every intention of crashing his mouth down on Eskils in a punishing kiss. Until… You have a mole.
His entire body stills and his eyes sharpen as he zeroes in on Eskils. He waits for a just kidding, a savage joke that would earn the hacker a hell of a punishment. But Eskils face is smooth, serious. Rage explodes, white hot in his chest. Nostrils flare. Lips press into a thin line but he doesn’t release his hold on the other man. Not yet. All he can hear in that moment is the blood rushing in his ears. This is a problem. One that could topple empires. His empire. An all consuming anger is directed not only at the mole, the person who has the balls and audacity to betray him, but also Eskil. Six fucking days. For six whole days Eskil sat on this information, petulantly waiting for Enzo’s arrival. His jaws clench and his fists somehow tightens more in the hackers hair. Surely he feels it? The chaotic energy that rolls of Enzo in tsunami like waves. The unspoken promise that Eskil would be begging for mercy before Enzo went home.
A moment later, he releases him, dropping his hand like he’d been burned. ”Striscis.” Strip. The singular command is barely above a murmur despite the way his growl vibrates with his barely controlled temper. Eskil would take the brunt of it tonight. Leaning back, his relaxation was a lie, a trap. His self control is wrung tight, waiting for something - anything - to cause it to snap. Mismatched eyes are fixed on Eskil, waiting with bullshit patience.
Enzo has seen Eskil undress enough times that he knows every inch of the man. He was a whole head shorter than the mafioso and while he was fit, he had nothing on Enzo. Still, those mismatched eyes trace every ridge of muscle that he’s intimately familiar with. ”E chinarsi sul divano.” And bend over the couch. Idly, he reaches for his belt, the metal clanking softly in the quiet penthouse. It’s followed by the smoothing of leather against cloth. Gathering it in his large palm, something dangerous glints in his eyes, something that dominates the room. He lounges like a lazy predator, his thick arms stretched out on either chair arm, his legs spread. His cock pressed uncomfortably against the zipper of his dress pants, all but begging to be released.
There isn't one.
Eskil isn't lying.
Lorenzo seems to come to this realization, his fingers twisting even more roughly in the silver strands of his hair. Eskil winces, for once refraining from making some snide remark about leaving him with bald patches—because he can absolutely feel the coiled tension that Enzo is barely holding onto, and there's no doubt in his mind that he's about to serve as the outlet for it. It's not the first time he's borne the brunt of the Italian's temper, and golden pussy be damned, he really fucking hopes it won't be the last.
They both sit there for a long moment, eyes locked and nostrils flaring, and then the pressure on his scalp is gone in an instant, the deceptively soft command that follows vibrating with the unspoken promise of violence. His dick offers an excited jerk in his pants, eager and willing to play. He exhales a low breath once he's released, his attentive stare tracking Enzo's movement as he lounges back in the armchair like he might just sit there all night and make demands from his throne. They both know it's a lie. He's a coiled snake, just waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
Leaning back on his heels, Eskil grabs the hem of his borrowed t-shirt and pulls it over his head, dropping it unceremoniously on the carpeted floor. His bare torso—and bandaged wound—on display, he can't help the way his nipples harden at the exposure to the air and in response to Enzo's unwavering stare. His skin is inked, like Lorenzo's, but not nearly as extensively; most of his artwork is on his arms and shoulders, leaving plenty of smooth olive skin to admire. Still needing to support himself to rise to his feet, his hands land on the mafioso's knees, bracing himself to push upright and ignoring the protesting burning ache beneath his ribs.
There's a large part of him that wants to make Enzo work harder for the rest of his obedience, especially with the next purred command that drips from him, laced with venom. It isn't submission that gets Eskil off—it's being forced into it. But maybe, for once in their twisted, fucked up dynamic, he's considering putting Lorenzo's needs above his own.
But then he remembers that Enzo ignored him.
For six days.
The slight, brief temptation to comply flees him, but nothing on Eskil's features change as he slots his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, shoving down both without fanfare and freeing his half-hard cock. His gaze drops from Enzo's face to his hands, watching him remove and gather his belt with meticulous calm; eyes hooded, Eskil takes a step back out of immediate reach and gives himself a singular, lazy stroke. Turning before a fist or weapon can come flying for him, he finally meanders towards the couch, his fingertips skimming across its spine as he walks along the back of it—his lower half now hidden from view—and glances over his shoulder at Enzo. "This couch?" he hums, his tone casual. "This...brand new...beautiful, white couch?" Eskil continues, rounding the far side and offering a slow, fully aware smile of what he's doing. Lazily, he drops into the cushion furthest from Enzo's chair, sealing his fate with, "I don't think I will."
Eskil wouldn't be Eskil if he didn't forget his place by the time he made it to the couch. Enzo doesn't react as the now nude hacker flops down on the farther couch cushion. In the back of his mind, he makes a note to order another couch. Evidently Eskil has forgotten about his stab wound thats about to be very angry. Slowly, as if he's completely unbothered, Enzo rises. Like a big cat unfurling from its perch, the mafioso approaches, taking the most direct path. "Its going to be that kind of night then." The air around him is charged, a dangerous combination of excitement and rage. He doesn't need to look as he twists his belt into a pair of cuffs, he's done it enough times.
There's not a moment wasted, Enzo is quick and efficient. Long fingers wrap around Eskils wrist that rests across the back of couch that he's currently Lounging on. Jerking the smaller man forward is seemingly effortless. Twisting his arm, Enzo simultaneously forces him down, head first, onto the neighboring couch cushion and pins his arm behind his back. And Enzo isn't kind, he'd doesn't take it easy on Eskil or his injury. The moment his cuffs are securely in place, he pulls them tight, until he can see the edge of the leather bite into his skin. And then he's behind him, the couch cushion dipping as he kneeled on it. He takes a moment to admire the view.
He had a great ass. Round and tight. Waxed to Enzo's exact specifications. A hand came down hard on one cheek, a red palm print immediately blossoming. Its a sight to behold. He repeats the process on the other cheek. There's no warning when he grips Eskils balls and squeezes. He pulls them down, stretching to a point that neared on discomfort. But he doesn't touch his cock. Not yet. Enzo isn't willing to give him that pleasure yet. "You waited six days to tell me I have a mole." His voice is dangerously low. "Six. Fucking. Days." By now, his own cock is rock hard in his pants. His nostrils flare with a harsh breath. Desire is only fuel to his fiery temper.
Slap!
"Count."
It’s an unforgiving slap to Eskils balls. There's no question about what Enzo wants, what he expects. What he demands. Six times. At least. Depending on how docile Eskils feeling. It would be a night of sixes. Even if Enzo’s patience was stretched impossibly thing, he is relentless, consistently inconsistent. He doesn’t offer Eskil the reprieve of consistency, of knowing what to expect. Only when he got a perfectly counted six slaps did he relent. So he offers a reward. A slow stroke of his cock, from base to tip and back. He doesn’t bother keeping satisfaction off his smiling lips at the sounds Eskil makes.