by Loki Renard
Fuck. Damien was starting to respond. He could feel a swelling at his crotch, the beginnings of lust. But he didn’t want Angelo. He definitely didn’t want to want him, that was for certain. The man had a reputation for seduction, but Damien wanted to stay well clear of any erotic elements. So why had he applied the probe several times across the very top of Angelo’s belt? And why was he even now stroking the tip of it dangerously close to Angelo’s dick?
He told himself it was to taunt Angelo, and there was no doubt that Angelo was responding. Damien could feel the ridge of the man’s erection as the probe passed back and forth.
“You’re a sick man, Mr Vitali,” Damien said, shaking his head.
“As are you,” Angelo replied. “We sick men find one another in so many ways. Usually I do the capturing, but this is interesting too.”
“It won’t end the way it usually does for you, Angelo.”
“I think it will,” Angelo smiled. “This is new to you, boy. You’re learning so much about yourself, so much you won’t be able to express outside the confines of the world I control.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no shortage of men I could tie up,” Damien smirked.
“True, but not many who would allow you to work out your frustrations on them in this way - and still fewer who would promise you every bit of the pain you’re inflicting in return.” Angelo’s voice lowered to a quiet purr. “Untie me, Damien. Let me show you how this is truly done.”
“Ha!” Damien smirked. “Nice try, but no. There’s a chain of command here, Angelo. You answer to me.”
“Chain of command.” Angelo’s brows rose. “You’re ex-military. So is my boy Mark. The thing I love about military men is their ability to do just as they’re told without thinking. The things I have ordered Mark to do would make your toes curl, Damien.”
Damien was working hard to keep his features composed, but there was a way to regain control of the situation - the electric probe, bought to bear three times in very quick succession against each of Angelo’s nipples and then finally, directly to the erection in his pants.
“Che palle!” Angelo swore, his jaw clenching as his muscles went uncomfortably tense with the zaps of current. “You’re learning.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m learning,” Damien said, standing over Angelo. “The question is, are you?”
“It’s hard to teach old dogs new tricks, boy.”
“Maybe. But I’ll have you sitting up and begging for me before I’m done with you. And don’t call me boy. You can call me sir.”
“Yes, sir,” Angelo said, his lips twisting with what looked to Damien suspiciously like delight. “Would you untie me?”
“Why?”
“There are physical needs which can’t be performed tied to a chair, at least, not with any measure of dignity or hygiene.”
“Do I look like I give a fuck about your dignity or hygiene?” Damien laughed as the first real flicker of concern passed across Angelo’s face. Good. Now he was learning. They could fuck about with electrodes all day, and he could play out the fantasy of still being in charge of a boy, but in the end, he was tied to a chair and there was no way out without Damien’s say so.
5
Seven hours after Angelo’s capture…
A jet black BMW M5 swept down the freeway toward NYC, keeping carefully within a mile of the speed limit. Mark and Bobby were on their way to rescue Angelo.
Hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road. Mark was not happy. Heading into the city, even under cover of total darkness, felt like walking into the lion’s den. He was about the most hated type of person there was in the eyes of law enforcement: a rogue agent. No criminal was viewed with as much derision as someone who had crossed the line from lawful to lawless.
“Scared?”
Bobby’s dark eyes gleamed next to him.
“Do you have those leads ready?” Mark ignored the question. He was the most scared he’d been in a long time, but he was also the most determined to find Angelo and deal with the situation as it needed to be dealt with. There were three guns strapped to his body in various locations. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use them, but he had a feeling that they were rushing headlong into danger.
“I’ve got someone coming to our safe house. One of my old contacts, Bobby said between puffs.
“A friend?”
“Not exactly.” Bobby smirked. “We don’t make friends. We make allies. This guy owes us a favor. A big one.”
“I hope so.”
Mark didn’t even ask who it was. He didn’t really care. He had no connections of any use, having to stay hidden meant that all he really had in his life was Bobby and Angelo. Half of that life was missing - and now he was on the verge of potentially throwing the other half of it away entirely.
All it would take would be getting pulled over, and his life would be over. He was wanted in a serious way. If he was caught, there would be no bail. It would be a prison cell forever, probably solitary confinement given he was ex-law enforcement and wouldn’t be safe in general pop. He could feel adrenaline rushing through him with every beat of his heart. This was Angelo’s fault, and yet he was trying to save him. This was fucked up, upside down and wrong - just like everything had been since he met Angelo.
6
“Wakey, wakey, Angelo.”
Angelo roused himself. He had fallen asleep in the chair. Sunlight was streaming in through the dirty skylights of the warehouse, telling him that a new day had dawned.
His shoulders were aching, his bladder was full, and he was beginning to lose his temper with his captor. Damien was standing in front of him, looking handsome and smug. Oh for his hands to be free. Even just one of them. Angelo could have done unspeakable things to this boy - would, once he was free.
“Good morning, Damien.” Angelo kept his voice even and pleasant. It was important to maintain self-control insofar as was possible.
Truth be told, this was the most interesting and challenging thing that had happened to him in a long time. For once, he couldn’t accurately predict the outcome of the situation. There could be no doubt that Damien was a killer. It was written in his eyes. Death should surely await. And yet, it had not come - and it’s absence was a puzzle not quite adequately explained by Damien’s assertion that this was about payback.
“Being helpless must be frustrating you terribly,” Damien smirked.
He was handsome when he smiled. It was perhaps a little narcissistic, but Angelo couldn’t help but see a younger version of himself in Damien.
It was interesting, Angelo noted, how he viewed Damien as being so young. Damien was a few years older than Mark, and quite a bit older than Bobby. And yet for some reason, Angelo ascribed almost juvenile qualities to this devastatingly dangerous man. It wasn’t based on his appearance either. He was hard and mature in aspect. It must have been something else, then. Something below the skin. Something that lurked below the eyes and came out in occasional flashes. There was something very young in Damien. Something that grew up in most men, but had stayed small in him.
The younger man had not slept well. That was obvious from the bags under his eyes and in the micro-expressions of his bearing.
“I’m not helpless,” Angelo purred. “You should get to bed earlier, Damien. You need your rest.”
A flash of acknowledgement lit Damien’s eyes. Ah, so he hadn’t slept. Not surprising. He had a mark tied up in a warehouse. A very loose end indeed. Wasn’t exactly conducive to a restful night.
“Do you often have trouble getting to sleep, Damien?” Angelo purred the question. “Do you need a daddy to tuck you into bed?”
Most men would have interpreted the words as a taunt. But Angelo saw the little flash in Damien’s eyes - a split second of wistfulness which passed so quickly it almost wasn’t there at all. sHe’d seen it though, and seeing was knowing.
“My sleep isn’t your concern,” Damien growled. He probably didn’t mean to sound as petulant as he did.<
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“Ah but you are my captor. Your everything is my concern,” Angelo said.
Damien smirked. “You’re so full of shit.”
“And you’re rude. Do you know what I do to my boys when they’re rude?”
“What?”
“I spank them.”
It wasn’t quite true. Bobby earned himself thrashings that were far more severe than spankings, and Mark rarely earned any kind of punishment at all. He liked to be a good boy. But Angelo had the feeling that talking about spanking, the most gentle kind of domination possible, would elicit the strongest reaction from Damien.
“Would you like to go over my knee, Damien? Let me spank you nice and long and hard, absolve you of some of that terrible guilt which keeps you up at night?”
“Shut up,” Damien growled.
“You’re going to kill me anyway. Why not have me show you precisely what it is I do to my boys before I go?”
“I’m not curious about that,” Damien said, rolling his eyes in a way which was supposed to show derision, but made him look more like a petulant teenager than ever.
“I think you are,” Angelo said softly. “I think you’re lost, Damien.”
“You want me to be lost,” Damien said gruffly. “Because that’s how you operate. You prey on weak outcasts. You’re no different than a hyena. But your tricks don’t work on me, Angelo. I told you that already. Now shut the hell up, before I change my mind about letting you loose to eat and to shit.”
“Very generous,” Angelo said. “Thank you.”
Damien walked behind Angelo and used a sharp knife to snap the cable ties open. As soon as the last one was cut he stepped back hurriedly, as if he expected to be struck. Angelo was the prisoner, and yet Damien was the one blinking first. True power was found in the micro-moments. Damien could have had a full arsenal pointed at Angelo and still not have had true mastery of him.
Angelo took his time standing up, so as not to panic his captor. He was sure Damien could bring either the knife he had in his hand, or the gun in his holster to bear at a moment’s notice and being jumpy only made it more likely that he’d default to a weapon.
“There’s a toilet over there,” Damien indicated a small room at the back of the warehouse. It wasn’t exactly a palatial bathroom, but it would do. Angelo made use o the facilities, surprised that Damien didn’t make a point of watching him. That was a rookie mistake.
The problem with keeping captives was that live people were far more trouble than dead bodies. Damien obviously wasn’t practiced in dealing with the living, and that was going to cost him.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he found himself confronted with a cold Pop Tart on a paper plate. Damien shoved it at him, then yanked his head back to the chair where Angelo had spent most of his captivity.
“Go and sit and eat it. I’ll get you some water.”
It was a curious experience, being under lock and key. Angelo wasn’t exactly enjoying it, but it was educational. Damien brought a bottle of water and put it down next to Angelo, as Angelo began to make his way through the very odd piece of alleged food.
“Not what you’re used to, huh?” His captor allowed himself a smirk.
“Not quite,” Angelo allowed.
He was free now. Good. He had no intention of letting Damien tie him back up. The tables were starting to turn, and he had meant what he said. Everything Damien had done to him, Angelo intended to inflict back upon him many times over.
He finished the pop tart and took a swig of water. Choosing to stay seated, he kept the bottle in his hands and waited to see what Damien had in store for him.
“You’re a sick man.”
Angelo yawned. This was beginning to become tedious in the extreme. Damien had somehow managed to make himself look even more juvenile than he did the day before. He was wearing jeans and a graphic t-shirt which depicted a tank running over a unicorn. It would have been amusing, if Damien were half his age.
The man was desperately in need of a tailor. With the right clothing, he would look impeccable and impressive. Right now he looked as though he’d gotten his clothing from a tenth grade catalog. Some people thought jeans and t-shirts were acceptable casual wear for grown men. Those people were wrong.
“Tired?”
“Bored,” Angelo said. “You come and whine at me periodically, but you don’t seem to have it in you to actually do anything.”
In response, Damien pulled out his gun and cocked it. “Are you bored now?”
Yes. Angelo was more bored than ever. The only torment that had taken place so far, he’d had to call in on himself. This boy wasn’t capable of inflicting any real pain. He was too simple, too basic. He thought bullets were scary.
“I bet you have one of those Live, Laugh, Love plaques in your home,” Angelo drawled. “You have the same tastes in terror as a suburban housewife. And you dress like her teenage son.”
Damien snorted. “Well I’m sorry I’m not a walking cliche like you, Angelo. Mr Wannabe Not Quite Mafioso.”
Angelo stood up. Damien took a swift step back, the gun still pointed dead at Angelo’s forehead.
“Sit the fuck down or I’ll shoot you,” Damien growled.
Angelo took another step forward.
Damien’s finger slid to the trigger. Maybe he really was going to pull it.
“I’m giving you three seconds to sit the fuck down, Angelo.”
Angelo looked past the gun and fixed his dark gaze on Damien’s azure eyes. “I don’t care if you kill me, Damien. In fact, I’d prefer if you did. You see, I know what happens after this. I’m already heading toward my fifties. There are no old crime lords. It’s better to die at the peak of one’s abilities than to have age and time take everything one has ever enjoyed away.”
“So you’re a coward.”
“Age is the one thing it is wise to be cowardly about. It inflicts horrors you and I could not begin to concoct on our most deserving victims.”
“There is no we, Angelo.”
“I said you and I,” Angelo purred. “But you’re wrong. There is an us, and a we. You and I are cut from the same cloth. You just hide behind a veneer of righteousness. I used to as well, before I realized that lying to myself did not serve anyone - least of all me. One day you will see that you are no better than me. You may even be worse.”
“How am I worse, Angelo?”
“I am building something. A family. You do nothing but kill men for money.”
“Sit the fuck down,” Damien repeated crudely. “Right fucking now, or you’re gonna be shot.”
Angelo smiled coldly. “Either shoot me, or give me the gun, boy. I’m tired of these games.”
BLAM!
Angelo stumbled as his left leg went out from under him. At first it felt as though he’d been punched hard in the thigh, but that was no punch. He looked down and saw that his suit had been utterly ruined by the boy’s bullet.
Staggering backwards, he sat down in the chair, putting pressure on the wound. He knew immediately that it had missed the artery. If it hadn’t there would be blood arcing all over the place. Through and through too, the close range had punched a hole right through his leg.
“I told you to sit down,” Damien said, holstering his gun. “Next time, how about you listen to me.”
For once, Angelo was silent. He’d been shot many times before, but not by simple way of proving a point. He’d underestimated Damien, who was already taking a knee in front of him. As Angelo looked on, Damien sliced the rest of his pants off his leg, cutting the once expensive fabric into a single legged short. Then he pulled out two yellow and pink packages. Tampons.
The wound was oozing unpleasantly with blood. Angelo gritted his teeth so hard he was afraid he’d crack one of them as Damien pushed a tampon into each side of the wound. It was not a pleasant moment for Angelo. Cotton on fresh wounds did not feel good in the slightest. But the body could have made it worse, if he wanted.
“There you go,” Dam
ien winked up at him. “That’ll keep you intact enough for my purposes.”
The younger man stood up, no longer looking like an overgrown boy. Angelo began to get the feeling he’d been tricked on several levels. Was Damien advertising weaknesses which weren’t actually there?
“I know you prefer whips and chains,” Damien said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m more a hard weaponry kind of man.”
“So I see,” Angelo nodded. He could feel his body slipping into a kind of shock. His leg was still somewhat numb, but he knew from experience that it would soon start to burn with a fire that would get into his blood and soon wrack his entire body with pain.
Up until this point, he’d considered letting Damien go once he’d taught him a lesson. Now, much darker fantasies infested his mind. Oh this man was going to pay for what he’d just done.
“Not so cocky now, huh?” Damien smirked. “I should have put a bullet in you at the start.”
“Fortunately, you simply confined yourself to giving me a head injury,” Angelo replied. “So kind of you.”
“Nobody is going to feel sorry for you, Angelo. Even the most accomplished players of the world’s tiniest violins aren’t going to make time for you.”
“You know, when you feel my leather on your ass, you’re going to scream so perfectly for me,” Angelo murmured.
“That’s never going to happen. You’re going to die here, Angelo. Not from that wound, but from one of the many others I intend to inflict before you go. The only reason you still have your tongue is because I want to hear your apologies before you die.”
“Vicious,” Angelo said, raising his brows. “Bobby would love you.”
“Bobby,” Damien snorted. “One of your lesser known victims. You’re more famous for what you did to Agent Mark Locke.”
“And what am I supposed to have done to him?”
“You keep him captive.”
Angelo gave a broken chuckle. “He’s no more captive than you are, Damien. My lovers stay with me because I give them what the world cannot. Just like you’re keeping me alive even though you should have killed me before I woke up.”