A man like me isn't taken by surprise.
We plan for chaos. We prepare for betrayal. We build kingdoms not with brick and law, but with blood and fear.
So when the bullet shattered the windshield at 9:47 p.m., I knew one thing:
They wanted me alive.
Because they missed on purpose.
Marco shouted something.
I couldn't hear it. The world had gone sharp and muffled all at once.
My car screeched as it spun off the wet road. Two more shots cracked the glass.
Metal screamed against concrete.
Then silence.
Smoke.
Sirens far in the distance.
And then hands, grabbing, pulling.
A hood over my face.
They dragged me into something, a van. I fought, I swear I did, elbows, knees, teeth.
But one needle in my neck, and it all went dark.
I woke up in a warehouse.
Stripped of weapons. Cuffed.
Dim light.
And someone watching me from the shadows.
He didn't speak.
He just circled.
Boots on metal. Measured steps. Like a predator appraising the exact moment to pounce.
"I assume you're not with the police," I said, voice hoarse.
No answer.
I spat blood and smiled. "Cowards wear masks."
The man laughed softly. Just once.
Then a voice behind me.
Russian-accented, but calm. Elegant.
"You're bleeding, Adriano. I like you better untouched."
I flinched.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
That voice.
It had been on the piano.
In my dreams.
In the silence of my bedroom.
"T," I whispered.
He came closer. I still couldn't see his face. Just a silhouette. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Coat fluttering like a whisper.
"You should've worn the mask," he said.
"Why?"
He leaned close. I felt his breath against my ear.
"Because I don't want to fall in love with your real face."
I jerked away.
"What do you want?" I growled. "Power? Revenge?"
"No," he murmured. "I want to see what happens when the king burns."
He left after that.
No torture. No questions. No threats.
Just presence.
He let me go after two hours.
No ransom. No warning.
Marco found me stumbling alone near the docks at dawn, bruised but intact.
He was shaking.
"We were ambushed," he said. "One of ours, Luca, he turned. Slipped the guards, led them straight to you."
"He's dead?"
"Yes. Shot in the head before we could ask anything."
Of course.
T didn't leave loose ends.
But he did leave questions.
Like why he didn't kill me.
Like why he didn't touch me.
Like why my skin still burned where his breath had landed.
Later that day, I returned to the villa.
Everything looked normal.
But I knew it wasn't.
I walked to my bedroom.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
And saw it:
The mask.
It had returned.
Only now, there was a second one beside it.
Identical.
Twin flames.
And another note, in the same clean Cyrillic hand.
Next time, I won't be gentle.
—T.