by Loki Renard
“Your name, boy.”
Usually when someone had a gun to your balls it meant that they were furious. But there was no rage in Angelo. He was perfectly in control. This was a means to an end for him, not something he was emotionally invested in. Mark was absolutely certain that Angelo would shoot him if he didn’t answer.
“Mark Locke! My name is Mark Locke.”
“Mark Locke?” Bobby snorted. “Like Matlock? He’s lying again.”
Mark had hardly noticed that Bobby was still there. The whole world had become Angelo.
“I’m not!” Mark’s voice rose several octaves as Angelo caressed his balls through his pants with the gun. “I swear I’m not!”
“He’s getting hard,” Bobby snorted.
Shit. Mark couldn’t control his erection. Danger had a weird effect on him, especially when the pills started to wear off. He could be scared shitless and yet rock hard. It was confusing, and right now, embarrassing.
Angelo massaged his balls with the tip of the pistol a little longer. “Do you like this, Mark?”
Mark clenched his teeth and shook his head.
“Such a little liar,” Angelo smirked. “Whatever your name is, my boy, you’re utterly perfect.”
He slid the shaft of the gun along Mark’s cock a few times, urging Mark into a stronger erection. Fuck. What was happening? He was wounded and yet Angelo had managed to distract both his mind and his body from that so completely he was responding as if this was foreplay. He could feel his cock straining against the leather of his pants, his balls swelling tighter as he started to pant with arousal and pain and shock and fear all rolled up into one beautiful sensation.
“Mr Vitali,” the doctor droned. “That is making the wound bleed. Do you want me to suture him, or would you prefer to continue your play?”
Censured by the old man, Angelo tutted and put the gun away
“Very well, doctor,” he said. “You may finish. And you can give him some pain relief.”
The doctor took a syringe, found a vein, and Mark was shortly suffused in the warmth of a direct opiate hit.
“Good boy,” Angelo said somewhere in the haze. “Such a good boy.”
6
When Mark woke up he was naked aside from his underwear and in a much bigger, more comfortable bed. Unmistakable morning light was flowing through windows which looked out over a forest which seemed endless. Green flowing into green flowing into green forever. He snuggled into soft, comfortable bedding, sheets with a far higher thread count than he could ever have afforded. It was all so beautiful, and for a second Mark’s brain point blank refused to remember where he was or why.
Then it came back, the memory of gun shots making him jolt beneath the covers. Angelo Vitali. The medical bed. The doctor. The gun. He must have passed out. His pills and whatever the doctor had given him probably weren’t the safest combination of substances, but nothing was safe anymore, and an accidental overdose was the least of what he’d managed to survive.
His arm had been bandaged, but it ached. Adrenaline, benzos, and painkillers had all abandoned him to his real world suffering. He winced as he sat up.
“You’ll have to wear that in a sling to keep it still.”
The deep voice came from next to the bed. Mark turned over far too quickly, wrenching his arm painfully. Angelo was sitting in an opulent arm chair next to the bed. He was dressed casually, but impeccably in dark slacks and a white shirt. All business all the time, that was Angelo.
“Did you watch me sleep?” The question was on Mark’s lips before he could work out whether it was safe to ask or not.
“No,” Angelo smiled. “I woke you up. I just did it nicely. I can be nice, sometimes, Mark. It’s important you know that.”
Such casual words, delivered with such perfect menace.
“Uhm. Okay.”
“Is there somebody you’d like us to call for you? A wife, perhaps, or a girlfriend?”
“No,” Mark said. The only people he wanted to get in touch with were not people he could tell Angelo Vitali to call. “I’m single right now. I don’t answer to anyone.”
Angelo’s smile broadened again. His dark eyes twinkled. “Well, that’s not true,” he purred softly and somewhat cryptically.
Mark couldn’t show too much fear - even though Angelo had already threatened to shoot him in the dick once. These men respected strength, so he had to be strong.
Angelo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of pills. “Want to tell me about these?”
Fuck.
“They’re my pills,” Mark said plainly. “What’s to explain?”
“An escort who lies about having been in the military and has to take anti-anxiety medication. You know these are nasty, don’t you boy? Heavily addictive.”
“So they say.” Mark tried to play it cool. His arm was aching and his stomach was starting to churn with the nerves he tried so hard to escape. One of those pills would be perfect right now. “May I have them, please?”
Before Angelo could answer, Robert Vitali entered the room. He was carrying a tray with coffee and toast. There was a venomous look on his elegant, sharp face, as if it was all a bit beneath him.
“Have some breakfast,” Angelo suggested, ignoring Mark’s question.
Now he’d seen his pills, Mark really needed one. More than that, he needed to have them in his hands, to know that if he wanted one he could take one. Seeing that little dark orange vial trapped in Angelo’s hand was like seeing his heart pumping outside his body.
“Uhm, please, may I?” Mark extended his hand hopefully.
Angelo shook his head, and to Mark’s consternation, put the pills back in his pocket. Mark let out a small involuntary sound halfway between a whine and whimper.
“I really need them, Mr Vitali.”
“Ah, so you know my name,” Angelo said, smiling broadly.
Fuck. He was going to give himself away. He was going to blow his cover. He was never going to get out of here. Mark felt his face going red, all the way to his ears. He couldn’t sit still, he kept adjusting his position in bed, trying to relieve the discomfort that flooded him in that thunderbolt moment.
“I know it, yes, you’re famous, Mr Vitali,” he managed to say. “Please. I get sick if I don’t get them.”
“Another junkie,” Robert snorted. “He’s addicted. Just like…”
“Enough, Bobby.” Angelo shook his head and Robert fell silent.
“Please… a pill.” Mark’s heart was pounding a million miles a minute. He took his pulse. It was hammering too damn quickly to count.
“You’re not getting a pill.” Angelo crushed Mark’s hopes.
“I need…” Mark pushed back the covers. Angelo sat there, brow raised as if he thought Mark might be about to come for him. That wasn’t Mark’s target though. There was another door in the room, one he really hoped led to a bathroom and not a closet.
He ran from the bed, threw the door open, and to his relief a sink was just a few feet away. He made it there before throwing up. There was just bile, but it was too much for his body to contain.
“I need my pills,” he panted, turning the tap on to wash away the shame. “Please.”
Job aside, this was fucking embarrassing. He was melting down in front of the last two men on earth it was safe to be vulnerable with.
“Alright,” Angelo purred. I’ll give you a pill if you’ll tell me who and what you really are.”
“This is stupid,” Bobby said impatiently. “He’s obviously a fucking cop or a fed.”
Angelo’s grin was shark-like as those dark eyes which held the sum of all possible terrors locked with Mark’s own. “I want to hear him say it.”
Shit. His cover was already blown.
They were going to kill him for sure.
It was now or never. He had to sell his life dearly. He had to break out of here, take as many of them with him as he could. He…
Fainted.
7
> Some fucking fed,” Bobby snorted.
“Shut up and help me get him back to bed.”
Bobby gave Angelo one of his rebellious stares, but he did as he was told. They settled Mark back into the bed and Angelo pulled the covers over him.
“I don’t get why we’re doing this,” Bobby complained. Why don’t we just torture him for information and leave him in the woods?”
Angelo gave Bobby an impatient, somewhat disappointed look. “Because that is what cartoons do, and we are a little more elegant than that. One of us is, anyway.”
“You were harsher to me than you’re being to him, and I was never a fucking cop.”
“I haven’t started with him,” Angelo said, leaning over Mark’s insensate form to hiss at Bobby. “But I can give you a reminder of what you get when you question me if you need one.”
Bobby backed off, as Angelo had known he would. They had been together for about a year, and it had been about six months since Bobby last tried to have him killed. It practically counted as a gesture of affection at this point, though they both bore the scars of the last attempt.
Mark started to stir beneath him. Angelo stood back. The interrogation was about to begin again.
“I’m not a fed,” Mark insisted as he opened his eyes.
Angelo restrained himself from bursting out laughing. “Oh, no?”
“I’m just a male escort.”
“Ah, so you’re used to servicing men for money.” Angelo reached into his wallet and pulled out five one hundred dollar bills. He tossed them down on the bed between Mark’s blanket covered legs. “What will that get me?”
Calling this boy’s bluff was going to be so much fun. Angelo would have put every bit of that money on Mark having never so much as kissed another man before. That haircut was basically a sign saying ‘closeted and in denial’.
Mark gave him a confused look. Angelo knew he was wondering the same thing Bobby was. Why wasn’t he dead yet?
In the movies, mobsters killed cops as soon as they encountered them, like a game of whack-a-mole. In the real world, smart criminals built alliances, or used men like this as tools. That wasn’t to say Mark didn’t have anything to fear. It just meant that killing him would be a waste, and therefore, a last resort.
“I’m, uh, not taking new clients?”
Cute try. But it wasn’t going to work.
“You were about to have your hole filled by total strangers yesterday. At least I know your name.”
Angelo glanced over at Bobby to see how the scene was striking him. He was hoping that his protege was actually learning something here. He was glad to see that Bobby no longer looked sulky. He had perked up with interest as it finally started to dawn on him that he might not be the lowest on the totem pole anymore.
“Well, I don’t work while shot. Personal policy,” Mark tried a charming smile. It was relatively cute. He had dimples, and his blue eyes would probably have sparkled if they weren’t so full of delicious worry.
“I suppose that’s fair,” Angelo mused. He had no intention of letting Mark off the hook, but part of the game was always letting the prey think it had a chance of winning. He’d gone to extremes in the past to let someone he needed to control think that they had gained the upper hand.
Bobby knew that. Bobby looked as though he could hardly stop from giggling.
“Would you mind dropping me back off in the city?” Mark tried. “I need to feed my cat.”
“Oh? You have a cat? What’s your cat’s name?”
“Fl…Furry.”
He wasn’t getting any better at coming up with names on the fly.
“Flufurry. What a nice name for an imaginary cat,” Angelo said, letting his voice slip into his natural, unyielding tone.
Mark paled again. He had to be terrified. His fingers were trembling, though he did his best to hide that by hiding them beneath the blankets. An anxiety ridden agent was an odd creature. How had he managed to get so far in this condition? Was he entirely dependent on the medication? Did Angelo at that moment effectively have a pocket full of FBI agent in a pill?
“Where did you do your tour?” He changed tack quickly.
“Afghanistan.” Mark’s head dropped as the answer fell out of his mouth. It was almost amusing how hard he’d been trying to hide his military background even though he was basically wearing it on his head in the form of that horrendous hair cut.
“Now, why would you try to hide that from us? Bobby and I were just waiting to be able to thank you for your service.”
“Shut the hell up.” Mark lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a sudden burst of bravery. “You know what I am, near enough, so either let me go, or get this over with. I’m not going to play twenty questions with…”
His voice choked to a halt as Angelo grabbed him by the throat, his long fingers curling tight about Mark’s neck, cutting off the flow of air just enough to shut him up.
“No,” Angelo growled. “You’re going to play whatever game I tell you to play. If I decide to put you in a dress and make you have a fucking tea party, you’ll do that, understand? You’re a long way from help, Agent Locke. This is my world. Here, there’s only one law: my word. Get it?”
Mark nodded quickly. Angelo released his throat, admiring the red fingerprints which bloomed where his hand had been. He plucked the pills from his pocket and shook them in front of the agent’s panicked gaze.
“You can forget about these too. You’re not going to have any chemical proxies propping you up. I want you scared, Mark. I want you fucking terrified. These help you hide from your fears, but there’s no hiding from me.”
Those stunning blue eyes widened with awe. Mark was fucking beautiful in that moment, his brawny body bowed with frustrated masculinity. He wasn’t broken, not yet. And actually, he might be harder to break than some others. Men who thought they were strong and had no fear were often brittle. Put enough pressure on them and they’d shatter. But men who could bend? They were the ones who presented the biggest challenge. Looking at Mark, Angelo was certain that this man was a bender.
8
Mark had been trained to resist interrogation.
He knew damn well that his survival depended on keeping his identity a secret. That had been drilled into him over and over - but he’d ended up practically screaming the truth and Vitali had barely touched him.
What Angelo had just managed to get out of him in a well appointed bedroom usually required a specially equipped enhanced interrogation suite to extract from an agent. In that moment, Mark didn’t understand how he’d ever graduated from Quantico. Hadn’t they seen how fucking pathetic he was?
He’d signed his own death warrant and he had no doubt that Angelo Vitali would kill him once he was done playing his sick little games.
Having gotten what he wanted, Angelo left the room without comment. Bobby stayed behind. Mark wasn’t sure why. Just to gloat, maybe. Or perhaps he was supposed to be a guard. Not a great guard though, given he was both shorter and smaller than Mark.
“You have no idea what you’re in for,” Bobby smirked unpleasantly.
“Yeah?” Mark tried not to react as Bobby began to taunt him.
“Angelo’s going to take you apart,” Bobby smiled unpleasantly. “There won’t be anything left when he’s done.”
“You seem to be intact,” Mark replied, stretching. He got out of bed and stood up. He needed to move to dissipate some of the nervous energy. Without pills, exercise was the next best thing. If he hadn’t been wounded he would have dropped and started doing pushups.
Bobby watched him with those dark, malevolent eyes. Unlike Angelo, who was practically impossible to read, Bobby’s emotions were far closer to the surface. He seemed genuinely upset by the revelation that Mark was an agent, and eager to do something about it.
“What are you talking about?” Bobby asked the question after Mark’s comment had hung in the air a little too long.
Mark turned around to face Bobby. They
both had something to prove, it seemed. Mark certainly needed to prove that he wasn’t a total pussy - to himself, if nobody else,
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Do I?” Bobby closed the distance between them, his words coming in a cold hiss. Oh yes. He knew exactly what Mark was talking about.
“Word on the street is Angelo made you his bitch.”
Bobby’s expression became venomous. His fist shot out and slammed into Mark’s jaw, knocking him back onto the bed.
Mark’s head rung, but he had chalked up a piece of information: Bobby was sensitive about his position with regards to Angelo. Angelo definitely didn’t treat Robert like an equal. There was no question as to who was in charge of this sick duo.
Maybe Mark’s cover was blown, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn about these men. If he got out alive, the information could be what put them away later on. He had a sense of the location of Angelo’s secret hideaway, and the fact that they were refusing to let him leave meant that they had kidnapped him. That was a real crime. The charges the FBI had never been able to bring were mounting and were more concrete than ever. Mark could take a crack or two to the jaw for that.
“You shut the fuck up,” Bobby swore, his perfectly coiffed dark hair coming loose from its over-styled position. “I will beat you to death with my bare fucking fists.”
“You have tiny hands, so that would take a really long time,” Mark cracked back.
Bobby took another swing. This time it didn’t connect.
Mark caught his fist with his good hand, twisted Bobby around, lifted his foot to the middle of the younger man’s back and pushed hard. He let go of Bobby’s arm to avoid breaking it - a mercy the little asshole didn’t really deserve, and Bobby went stumbling across the room, right into a fancy table of some kind. A plant that had been innocently sitting atop it went flying as Bobby impacted the wall, ceramic and dirt flying across the room.
