Archive of Our Own ^beta

The manor felt different in the hours after the breach. The walls, once warm with laughter and quiet domesticity, now seemed heavier, as if they too understood the gravity of what was coming. The air carried a tension so thick it was almost hard to breathe, every breath a reminder that war wasn’t at their doorstep anymore — it had crossed the threshold. The household moved like a hive, silent but determined, as guards reinforced the perimeter, as cameras were recalibrated, as the entire estate transformed into a fortress. No one said it, but they all felt it: this was no longer a home. It was a battleground waiting for the first shot.

The meeting was called as night cloaked the world outside. The great hall, usually reserved for celebrations, had been converted into their war room. Maps were unrolled across the massive oak table, the weight of the family’s legacy pressed into every scarred groove of the wood. Screens glowed softly, casting cold light on hard faces. The glow of Max’s ever-present cigarillo cut through the dark, the smoke coiling around him like the ghost of his fury.

Max stood at the head of the table, the force of his presence enough to command silence without needing to raise his voice. His blue eyes — so often icy in their calculation — burned with a rage that simmered just beneath the surface. He didn’t pace, didn’t fidget. He didn’t need to. The room bent to his will the moment he spoke. “We don’t wait anymore. Marco Antonelli has shown his hand. And now — we’ll cut it off at the wrist.”

Ollie stood to Max’s right, trying to mirror that stillness, that calm authority, but inside his heart raced like a caged thing. He felt Kimi beside him, could sense the boy’s tension, the way he kept his hands folded too tightly in front of him, the way his eyes flicked to Ollie for reassurance and then quickly away, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to seek it. Ollie hated that. Hated that Kimi still didn’t know — didn’t believe — that this was his family now. That this was home.

And then Max’s voice came sharp, cutting through Ollie’s spiral. “Oliver. Your old role. I need you back in it. No one else can do it. We need eyes on everything — Marco’s movements, his trades, his shipments. His fucking piss schedule. I want you to know him like you know your own shadow. Better. This is your final test, Oliver. Marco Antonelli is your final test. Be careful. Be ruthless.”

There it was. The weight of it dropped on Ollie’s shoulders like a stone. The final test. The mission he couldn’t fail — not just because the family depended on it, but because of the boy at his side. His husband in name, in bond, in blood. The boy he’d sworn to protect. His throat felt tight, but his voice came out steady, practiced. “It’s my only mission now, sir. I’ll honour it with everything I have in me.”

The room was still. But inside, Ollie’s heart thundered. He felt like he was drowning in promises — promises to Max, to his family, to Kimi. And he didn’t know how to breathe under the weight of them all.

Max’s gaze softened — not much, but enough that only those who knew him best would see it. “And train him,” Max added, as if the thought had just struck him, but Ollie could tell it hadn’t. Max planned everything. “You’ve only just come through your own training. It’s fresh. Teach him what you know.”

But before Ollie could answer, a voice spoke up — soft, shaky, but clear. “Si— Dad.” The correction hung in the air, awkward and heavy, but brave. Kimi swallowed, then pressed on. “Oliver doesn’t have to train me. I’ve already received the Antonelli training regimen. When I was thirteen. I know how to attack and defend myself. Don’t waste valuable time on me.” Ollie stiffened next to him, gaze hard, hands flexing at his sides until his nails bit crescent moons into his palms. He knew. God, he knew. His uncle had told him about the Antonelli training regimen when they started his own lessons in defense, in honor, in restraint. And Ollie had listened wide-eyed back then, thinking it some ancient cruelty, a relic of a darker era, a thing whispered about in syndicate circles but no longer practiced.

But now—he swallowed hard, throat tight, eyes burning as he stared at the boy beside him, too pale, too thin, too still—now it wasn’t a tale. It was flesh and blood. His husband.

They…

They had locked him in darkness. Carlos’s voice came back to him, low and serious, a tone Ollie had rarely heard, the kind that made him stop fidgeting and listen.

“They start with the isolation box. No bigger than a coffin. A boy goes in and doesn’t know if it’s day or night. No food except scraps, no water except what drips down the walls. And while he’s inside, they play his father’s voice on a loop. Telling him the world is the enemy. Telling him only his blood can protect him. After a few days… most kids beg to kneel at their father’s feet just to be let out.”

Ollie remembered shivering at the image then. Now, it made him sick. Kimi. In that box. Thirteen. A child.

And they hadn’t stopped there. No.

“The knife drills,” Carlos had said, tone like a blade itself. “They tie the boy to a post and they throw knives. Close. Too close. If he flinches, he’s beaten. If he doesn’t, they call him worthy. And then—then they hand him the blade and tell him to throw. At younger boys. To see if he’s learned loyalty. Or if his hands still shake.”

Ollie’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. His vision blurred at the edges, breath caught between fury and sorrow. He could see it—too well now. Kimi, skinny and small, standing still as steel while grown men hurled death at him. Forced to aim at terrified faces. Forced to choose between mercy and survival.

And the worst—the part Carlos had hesitated to share, the part that made Ollie’s stomach roil now—

“They starve them. For days. And when they’re weak, they throw them into pits. Say ‘fight, or don’t eat.’ And it’s not play-fighting, Ollie. It’s survival. You win, you get a bone to gnaw on. You lose, you go hungrier. Sometimes they make them fight boys they called brothers the day before. That’s how they break them. That’s how they teach them to live like wolves.”

Ollie’s heart thundered, his pulse loud in his ears. He could hardly look at Kimi now—not for shame, not for disgust, but for the unbearable weight of knowing. The stiffness in Kimi’s shoulders. The way he flinched at kindness. The cold calculation behind those caramel eyes that softened only in rare, unguarded moments.

It all made sense.

And it broke Ollie apart inside.

He swallowed the burn in his throat, fighting for air, fighting to stay steady for Kimi’s sake. But his hands itched to tear down the Antonelli name stone by stone, to burn the legacy that had done this to a boy—a boy who still somehow stood, still somehow spoke, still somehow tried.

Carlos’s words echoed like a dirge in his head.

“That’s not training, Ollie. That’s murder done slow. That’s what they do to make a boy forget what it means to be a boy.”

And now that boy was his husband. His responsibility.

And Ollie didn’t know how he’d ever be enough to piece him back together.

Max called Kimi forward, his face hard but his hands gentle as they landed on the boy’s shoulders. “You don’t know how sorry I am that you had to endure that, kid. No one should be trained like that. That’s torture, not teaching. When I suggested Ollie train you — that’s not what I meant. I meant teaching you how to think your way through a fight. How to win with your head, not just with blood. That’s what I want for you.”

Kimi held his gaze, steady despite the tremor in his voice. “I’m grateful, Dad. Thank you.” The word felt strange, unfamiliar. Dad. He hadn’t said it in so long. But it felt right. Almost.

“And next time don’t say you’re a waste of time. That’s an order, son.” Max’s voice was firm, but his eyes were kind in a way that broke Ollie’s heart.

Kimi flushed, nodded, and stepped back to Ollie’s side. And Ollie felt him there, close enough to touch, close enough to shield — and he vowed in that moment that no one would ever hurt him again. Not while he drew breath.

Charles spoke next, his voice calm but resolute. “I want the wedding by the end of the month. The blood oath is enough for us, but not everyone respects it. We’ll make it official. Before God. Before the family. No one will question it.”

Fuck. The word echoed through Ollie’s mind like a gunshot, sharp and ringing, louder than the low hum of conversation, louder than the rustle of maps and plans and war. By the end of the month. Vowing to Kimi in front of the family priest. Tying himself in front of God, in front of their family, in front of the world, to a boy he’d promised to protect but had never imagined binding himself to in this way. A fraud marriage. A marriage born not of love but of duty. A marriage that should have felt hollow, but instead weighed on him like lead — because somewhere deep inside, it didn’t feel hollow at all. And maybe that was what terrified him most.

He felt the dread curl in his gut, cold and thick and heavy. His stomach sank, and for the first time in a long time, Ollie felt the icy grip of panic squeeze at his heart. He didn’t know if it showed on his face — he hoped to God it didn’t — but then he saw it. Saw the way Kimi’s head ducked, those wide caramel eyes dropping instantly to the floor, the line of his shoulders tightening like he’d been struck. And Ollie’s heart fractured right down the middle. No. No, no, no. He couldn’t let Kimi believe that dread was for him. That he wasn’t wanted. That this vow would be a burden. Not after everything. Not after the boy had already been made to feel unwanted, unclaimed, disposable by the man who dared to call himself his father.

The words came, fast and fluid, born of instinct and desperation and love he didn’t know how to name. “Yes, Papa. You’re right.” His voice was calm, steady, sure — a mask he wore so well now that even he almost believed it. “Solidifying this marriage is the only correct answer. No one can question it, no one can call it anything but real if we stand before God and all of you and make our vows. I promised something, and I’ll deliver it to my husband on a gold platter. We’re in this together. So if by the end of the month you think it’s beneficial, then you should arrange with Kimi all the details you two think will fit. I’m at the mercy of the two of you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was electric. The kind of silence that crackles with unspoken things, with pride, with relief, with the quiet, fierce love of a family that recognized one of its own stepping up, stepping in, stepping forward. Charles smiled first, shocked but proud, and Ollie felt that smile like a balm to his frayed nerves. Then Max’s low murmur came, approving, warm in its own gruff way: “Good save.”

But it wasn’t the fathers’ reactions that undid him. It was Kimi. The way the boy raised his head, slowly, hesitantly, like he didn’t dare hope but couldn’t help himself. And those eyes — wide, caramel, innocent in a way that made Ollie’s throat close tight — locked on his, filled with something Ollie hadn’t seen in them before. Awe. Wonder. As if Ollie had handed him the world on that gold platter he’d promised.

And then the tension broke in the way it always did in this family — with the low murmur of brotherly teasing from the shadows. Ollie didn’t have to turn to know it was Oscar and Lando, voices pitched just for each other and him to hear. “He’s definitely a Verstappen. Did you see how he saved that? And put the decision making into Papa and Kimi’s hands like it was nothing?” Lando’s voice carried that mix of mischief and pride that only he could pull off.

“And what am I, then? Spoiled milk?” Oscar shot back, the pout audible in his voice.

“More of a Leclerc brat, if you ask me,” Lando returned, sharp and sweet, earning himself a stomp to the foot. “That freaking hurt, you muppet!” Lando hissed, grabbing Oscar’s arm and pulling him close, though the grin on his face belied the complaint.

“Good. It was meant to,” Oscar whispered, dropping a kiss to Lando’s jaw, and for a moment — just a moment — the war outside their walls felt far away.

But the gravity of the room snapped back when Max’s voice rumbled low, pulling them all in again. “Oscar, Lando — recon. Start tonight. Lewis — external alliances. Call in every favour, every debt. Carlos — logistics. I want supply lines, escape routes, backup plans. I want to know how much ammo we have down to the last fucking bullet. And Ollie…” His gaze landed on his son, the force of it like a weight, like a blessing. “You’re our mind in this. Don’t sleep. Don’t stop. I want Antonelli stripped bare by dawn.”

And just when Ollie thought the night had thrown all it could at him, the door opened — and Seb entered. The room froze. He was thinner now, paler, leaning heavy on his cane, but his presence? His presence filled the room like thunder. And when Charles gasped, rushing to his side, voice sharp with worry — “Papa! You should be resting, not planning for a war!” — Seb only smiled. That soft, knowing smile that had comforted them as children and could command armies as men.

“Mon bébé,” he said, voice soft as silk and hard as steel. His fingers brushed Charles’s cheek, gentle and grounding. “Who says I can’t do both?” And then his gaze swept the room, the warmth giving way to ice. “Marco Antonelli had the audacity to threaten us. We’re going to fucking destroy him.”

The room exhaled as one. And the meeting rolled on — dark, intense, a symphony of strategy and fury and devotion. Plans were made. Roles assigned. Lines drawn in blood and steel. Oscar and Lando slipped out, already speaking in low, eager tones about the recon that awaited them. And then it was just Ollie and Kimi, standing side by side, listening as Max gave one last order — the one that mattered most to Ollie’s heart. “Tomorrow morning. Sharp. Training begins. And I expect a report on Antonelli’s movements by tonight. Understood?”

Ollie nodded, heart hammering, gaze flicking to Kimi — who, for the first time since the meeting began, looked not afraid, but steady. Ready. And Ollie felt it then, deep in his bones. The storm had broken over them. And now — now they would fight. Together.

~~~~

The manor was quiet—too quiet, the kind of quiet that felt unnatural, like the house itself was holding its breath. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but Oscar could feel it in the air, a weight pressing down on his chest, coiling tight in his gut. His quarters were dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn, the scent of gun oil and steel thick in the air. The broad oak table before him was a shrine to his past, to who he’d been, to who he feared he’d need to become again. Every weapon he owned was laid out with obsessive precision, like soldiers ready for inspection. Twin black-handled daggers, their edges gleaming wicked and sharp in the low light. His sleek, modified handgun, matte black, the serial number long since filed away, a ghost’s weapon. The garrote, folded tight in its velvet case, unassuming, deadly. The slim throwing knife, worn, its balance perfect in his palm, like an old friend. Small vials of poison, dark glass glinting, the kind of tool only a man who planned for every possibility would carry. Oscar moved among them with reverence, cleaning the gun barrel, honing the blades, his hands steady but his mind racing. The Ghost. Could he be him again? Could he wear that mask, wield those tools, slip back into that cold, untouchable skin? His reflection stared back at him in the polished steel of a dagger’s blade—a boy, a man, a killer, a brother, a son. And beneath it all, the same question pulsed like a wound: do I still have it?

The door creaked open, but Oscar didn’t hear it. Not until it was too late. Lando moved like smoke, like shadow, silent as death itself. And then—arms, strong and sure, wrapped around him from behind, pinning his wrists to the table, the sudden press of a body at his back. Oscar froze, breath caught, heart thundering. A low purr, warm breath at his ear, a voice that made his skin prickle with goosebumps. “Sloppy,” Lando murmured, and the word wasn’t a scold—it was a promise.

Oscar’s lips twitched into a smirk, sharp as a blade’s edge. His voice, when it came, was steady, low, dangerous. “Testing me, darling?”

“Always,” Lando breathed, and Oscar could hear the smile in it, wicked and sure.

Oscar reacted on instinct—pure, honed muscle memory. He twisted, fluid and fast, knocking the chair back with a scrape of wood on stone, breaking Lando’s grip as his fingers found the daggers, drawn in a blink, the Ghost rising in him like smoke from an old fire. Lando was ready, stance already set, calm, calculating, the glint in his eye half challenge, half hunger. The air between them vibrated with tension, with want, with history.

“I’ll make you beg, Ghost,” Lando said, low and lewd, and Oscar felt the words like a spark down his spine.

“You’ll have to catch me first.” His grin was dark, wild, his blood singing with it—the fight, the game, the dance they knew so well.

And then they clashed.

Knives flashed, fists flew. The room rang with the thud of bodies against walls, the scrape of boots on stone, the sharp pant of breath. They were brutal, beautiful, two predators circling, striking, testing. Lando’s speed was a thing of wonder, silent and lethal, his reflexes honed razor-sharp from years of survival, from battles fought in shadows. Oscar matched him, steel and fire, quick and clever, the Ghost in him waking with every strike. And through it all, the words—taunts and promises, the language of them, older than either of them could remember.

“On your knees,” Lando hissed, catching Oscar’s wrist, twisting it just enough to make him drop a blade. “That’s where you look best, love.”

Oscar barked a laugh, dark and breathless, twisting free, catching a dagger on the rebound. “Try harder,” he panted, eyes alight, “maybe I’ll consider it.”

They moved like one mind split in two, the fight as much foreplay as combat. And then—Lando struck, fast as lightning. He disarmed Oscar with a twist, sent the blade clattering, caught him mid-motion and slammed him down, hard enough to steal his breath but not his fire. Lando straddled him, thighs tight around his hips, one hand pinning Oscar’s wrists above his head with terrifying ease. Oscar’s breath hitched—he always forgot. Always forgot how strong Lando was, how fast, how sure. A silent killer, his lover, his ruin.

Lando smirked down at him, dark eyes flashing, heat and hunger and triumph mingling in his gaze. “Got you, love. You’ve gotten sloppy. Slow. We can’t have that now.”

Oscar’s grin was all teeth, wild and sharp. And then—he ground his hips up, slow, deliberate, feeling the heat of Lando’s body against his, the hard press of cock against cock. Lando gasped, a moan spilling out, his jaw slack for just that heartbeat of distraction Oscar had been waiting for.

And in that breath—Oscar reversed them. Fluid as water, fast as thought. His hands found Lando’s hips, his weight shifted, his knee braced, and suddenly it was Lando on the ground, Oscar straddling him, knees bracketing his ribs. The pocket knife appeared from nowhere, small, deadly, pressed to the soft skin of Lando’s throat, just enough pressure to feel the pulse race beneath. Oscar’s voice was low, dark, dangerous. “The Ghost never gets sloppy. Only more creative.”

Lando’s pupils were blown wide, gaze gone dark, voice rough with want and warning. “Hope that’s not your signature move on the battlefield, because help me God I’ll kill every man that touches you.”

Oscar’s smirk softened into something darker, something filthier. He leaned down, lips brushing Lando’s jaw, breath hot against his skin. “All bark,” he whispered, “no action.”

Lando growled, the sound feral, his hands finding Oscar’s hips, dragging him down into a kiss that was no kiss at all—filthy, bruising, desperate. They rutted against each other on the cold stone floor, lost in the taste of violence, the taste of each other, the heat and hunger that only came when danger bled into desire.

The storm outside cracked open the sky, lightning casting jagged shadows across the walls of the room. The scent of gun oil, steel, and sweat hung heavy in the air, mixing with the musk rising from their tangled bodies. Oscar was still straddling Lando, breath ragged, chest heaving, skin slick and hot. The adrenaline of their spar bled seamlessly into something darker, filthier — want, need, the kind that burned behind their eyes and made their hands shake with the effort not to tear each other apart.

Lando’s hands found Oscar’s hips, slow now, fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing small circles into the soft skin just above his waistband. His voice, when it came, was low, wrecked, dark with reverence. “Look at you, love. All flushed and wild, like you were made for this.” His gaze roamed over Oscar’s body as if seeing him for the first time — the long lines of his neck, the elegant dip of his collarbone, the faint trail of hair leading down, disappearing beneath the loose waistband of his sweatpants. Every inch of him was mapped, memorized, but still Lando looked like he could spend a lifetime worshipping and never have enough.

Oscar shivered under the weight of that gaze, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded, lost in the way Lando touched him — like he was precious and already ruined in equal measure. His head fell back as Lando’s mouth found his throat, slow kisses pressed to racing pulse, to the curve where neck met shoulder, to the hollow of his throat. Each kiss was a promise, each lick of tongue a brand.

“You’re beautiful,” Lando murmured against his skin, voice thick, as if the words tasted like sin. “And every sound you make, every breath, every moan — I want them. I want them all.”

Oscar whimpered, hands threading through Lando’s curls, trying to pull him closer, trying to ground himself as the floor seemed to vanish beneath him. But Lando was methodical now, no longer the wild predator of their fight, but something more dangerous — a man set on worship, on destruction through devotion.

He shifted, slow and sure, guiding Oscar down onto his back among the daggers, the guns, the tools of the Ghost. Cold steel kissed Oscar’s spine, the edge of a knife hilt brushing his ribs as Lando settled between his legs. He took his time stripping Oscar of what little he wore, each inch of revealed skin met with lips, tongue, teeth.

Oscar moaned, low and helpless, when Lando’s mouth found his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple, sucking slow, deliberate, until Oscar’s back arched and his hips lifted off the floor in search of friction. Lando grinned against his skin, dark and satisfied, and moved lower, kisses burning a path down his stomach, teeth grazing hip bone, tongue tracing the line of muscle, the dip of pelvis.

He spread Oscar’s thighs, slow, firm, as if he had all the time in the world, as if the storm could rage and the war could come and none of it would matter — only this, only him.

And then — oh, God — his mouth.

Hot and wet, Lando’s tongue licked a broad stripe over Oscar’s hole, slow and filthy, savoring every twitch, every gasp. Oscar sobbed, high and broken, hips trying to jerk away and toward at once, hands fisting at the floor, nails scraping stone. The cold press of a dagger’s hilt dug into his palm, grounding him in the surreal blend of violence and tenderness, the sacredness of being ruined like this by Lando’s mouth.

“Lando—please—” Oscar’s voice was wrecked, pleading, mind hazing with each slow drag of tongue, each teasing circle, each slick push that had him seeing stars. Lando groaned, the sound obscene, hungry, as he feasted, as he devoured like a man starving for this, for him.

Fingers joined, slow and careful, spreading him, opening him, working in tandem with the steady rhythm of his tongue. Oscar’s thighs trembled, his knees scraped raw on the stone from how he writhed and squirmed, lost to the onslaught. Every push against his prostate had him crying out, drooling, mind white with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

“Fuck — fuck — Lando, please, I can’t—”

“You can,” Lando whispered, voice wrecked, fingers crooking just so, making Oscar sob. “You will. You’re perfect like this, love. Let me see you come apart for me.”

When Lando finally slicked himself, lined up, pushed in — it was slow, deliberate, the stretch and burn drawing a gasp from Oscar that echoed off the walls. Lando filled him, deep and steady, until their bodies were flush, until there was no space between them, until Oscar could feel the tremble in Lando’s thighs, the shudder of restraint in every muscle.

And then — he moved.

His pace was unrelenting, each thrust timed to the slap of skin, the scrape of boots, the storm’s howl outside. Oscar was nothing but sensation, lost, wrecked, thrown around like a doll as Lando fucked him into the stone floor, into the weapons laid around them, into madness. His vision blurred with tears he didn’t remember shedding, mouth open in a silent scream as Lando’s cock found his prostate over and over, grinding into it, abusing it until he didn’t know where he ended and Lando began.

Lando’s hands roamed, possessive, worshipping — over ribs, thighs, chest, throat, mapping him anew, claiming him with every touch. His voice, low and desperate, spilled praise and filth alike, breath hot against Oscar’s ear. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine. No one gets to see you like this, to have you like this. Say it, love — tell me.”

Oscar sobbed, body shaking, pleasure ripping him apart at the seams. “Yours—God, Lando, I’m yours—always yours—”

And when he came — it was with Lando’s name on his lips, raw and broken, body spasming, vision going white. Lando followed, burying deep, groaning Oscar’s name like a prayer, a curse, a vow.

They lay there after, tangled in sweat and come and the scent of steel and gunpowder, the storm’s fury a quiet hum beyond the walls.

The room was a ruin of breath and heat. Their bodies tangled in the heart of it — bare, spent, flushed and marked by pleasure and battle alike. The storm beyond the walls had softened, rain drumming steady against the glass as if to remind them the world still turned, that the storm outside would never match the one they’d just weathered between these walls.

Lando’s chest rose and fell, pressed against Oscar’s back, arms locked around him like chains. His nose nuzzled at the curve of Oscar’s neck, mouth dragging lazy kisses over sweat-slick skin, tasting the salt of him, breathing him in like oxygen. The aftershocks ran through both of them — soft tremors, little gasps, the lingering twitch of muscles pushed too far.

Oscar was boneless beneath him, mind swimming somewhere between bliss and ache, his throat raw from cries he barely remembered making. His body hummed with every place Lando’s hands had been, every place Lando’s mouth had claimed, every inch that had been worshipped with slow, brutal devotion.

For a long time, they said nothing. There was only the sound of their breathing, the slide of Lando’s palm over Oscar’s stomach in soothing circles, the occasional press of lips to temple, to jaw, to shoulder. The world beyond this moment could have burned to ash, and neither would have noticed.

But eventually — reality seeped back in. The weapons glinting cold around them, reminders of what waited beyond this room. The storm that was not just weather, but war. The reason they were here at all.

Lando was the first to shift, though it nearly broke him to loosen his grip. His voice was rough, wrecked, but warm as he whispered against Oscar’s ear. “Come on, love. We can’t stay on the floor all night. You’ll stiffen up, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Oscar let out a breathless laugh, soft and hoarse, but he nodded, forcing his limbs to obey as Lando helped him sit up. The cold hit them first — the sweat cooling on their skin, the bite of stone beneath them. Lando grabbed one of Oscar’s shirts from a nearby chair, draped it over him before pulling on his own sweatpants, ever the caretaker even in the aftermath of their ruin.

They cleaned each other in quiet efficiency — a damp cloth taken from the en suite, warm water dabbed over bruises, over red knees, over the marks of teeth and grip and desperate need. There was tenderness in it, the kind that made Oscar’s chest ache more than any fight could. Lando, ever so gentle with hands that could kill, wiping away the evidence of their undoing.

When they were dressed again, Oscar reached for his weapons first. His hands found the black-handled daggers, the garrote, the gun still stripped on the table. His fingers steadied as they touched steel, the Ghost sliding back into him like an old, well-worn coat. But it wasn’t the same anymore — not quite. There was Lando’s warmth at his back, the memory of his mouth on his skin, the promise of something worth surviving for.

Lando watched him, arms folded, eyes dark but soft. He could see it — the shift. The moment Oscar stopped being just his and became the Ghost again. But this time, Lando was ready to walk beside him, not behind.

“You alright, Ghost?” Lando asked, voice quiet, testing.

Oscar smirked faintly, loading the final clip into his gun, sliding the blade back into its sheath. His voice was calm, sure. “I’m better. I’ve got you at my side.”

That earned him a crooked grin, a flash of teeth. Lando stepped in close, brushing their noses together in the softest of touches. “Damn right you do. And don’t you forget it.”

The air between them thickened again for a beat, the pull of mouths, of bodies, always there beneath the surface — but there wasn’t time. There never was. The world wouldn’t wait for them to taste each other again. The world was burning, and they had to move.

Oscar holstered the gun at his thigh, adjusted the blades hidden beneath his jacket. Lando did the same, checking the knives strapped at his ankles, the compact pistol at his back. The dance of readiness — one they both knew too well.

The quiet of the room felt sacred now, like the last breath before the plunge.

Then — the knock. Three sharp raps at the door. Carlos’s voice, muffled but firm. “Time to assemble. Your Dad wants us in the war room for the reckon mission. Only reckon this time, no one marrying anyone.”

Oscar and Lando exchanged a look — fierce, unflinching. No more time for softness. Only steel and strategy now.

They left the room together, moving as one, weapons hidden, faces set. The house was already alive with tension, the hum of voices, the weight of what came next settling heavy over the manor. Rain streaked the windows, and the storm inside them had stilled — for now. But the storm outside? That was only just beginning.

And this time — the Ghost didn’t walk alone.

~~~~

In the heart of that waiting, in the warm pulse of a room lit only by monitors and the soft glow of data streams, Oliver Verstappen-Leclerc sat cross-legged, hunched in his throne of code and war. His room was transformed — no longer a sanctuary of a young heir, but a command center, a lair of the Weaver. Multiple monitors encircled him like sentinels, their cold light painting his bare torso in flickers of blue and white. His hair was mussed from hours of dragging his fingers through it, his glasses sliding low on his nose, his face illuminated by the endless scroll of filth he dissected with surgical precision. On the screens — Marco’s empire laid bare: smuggling routes hidden behind charity fronts, ledgers stained with blood money, grainy surveillance shots of men who would burn the world if it meant one more day of power. And Oliver — his hands flew over the keyboard, his mind a weapon sharper than any blade, weaving threads of data into a noose that would one day hang their enemy.

He wore only soft cotton shorts, bare feet tucked under him, the glow from the screens tracing every line of muscle along his long back, the play of lean strength shifting with each keystroke. His shoulders were broad but elegant, a strength born not of vanity or hours wasted at a gym, but of survival, of necessity. The trail of small, dark moles scattered down his spine like constellations — tiny maps Kimi found himself memorizing, helpless to look away. The way they disappeared beneath the waistband of those shorts made his breath hitch, shame curling low in his belly. God, what was he doing? What was he thinking?

From the bed — a bed too big, too soft, too warm for someone who had known nothing but cold stone floors and stiff formalities — Kimi watched, wide-eyed, motionless. The room felt safe for the first time in his life. No locks. No guards at the door waiting for him to make a misstep. Just Oliver, working in the dark, his focus absolute, his body relaxed, comfortable. Kimi catalogued it all without meaning to — the subtle dip of Ollie’s waist, the soft line of hair that trailed from navel to below the waistband, the curve of his neck where sweat darkened the curls at the nape. He felt his face flush, horror blooming in his chest — horror and something darker, something warmer. He was checking out his husband. His protector. His Oliver. And God help him, he liked what he saw. It was the first time he looked at someone with want, with need.

It made no sense. Ollie hadn’t once looked at him with anything but kindness. Not once had he leered, or touched, or spoken in the crude tones Kimi had come to expect from men who claimed to love him, who claimed to want him. Ollie’s hands had guided him gently, steadying him in crowds, pulling him close when danger threatened. His arms had shielded, his chest had offered a place to rest, but never, never had he crossed that line. And Kimi couldn’t understand it. Why? Why didn’t Ollie want anything from him? Why wasn’t he like the others — greedy, demanding, taking? What did Ollie get from this? From him?

Kimi’s mind spiraled as he lay there, caught between awe and dread. All his life he had been taught to repay kindness with obedience. With his body, his silence, his sacrifice. But Ollie gave and gave and asked for nothing. And it terrified Kimi more than any threat Marco could make. What could he give back? What did he owe?

The silence stretched — only the soft tap of keys filling the space, the hum of machines, the steady rhythm of Ollie’s breathing. Kimi couldn’t bear it anymore. He rose quietly, his heart pounding against his ribs, and crossed to where Ollie worked, drawn like a moth to flame. His fingers trembled as he lifted them, hesitated over the strong, warm curve of Ollie’s back. Then — he touched. Feather-light, just the brush of fingertips, as if afraid even that was too much.

“Can I help you?” he whispered, voice small, raw. He didn’t know how to offer. He didn’t know what help even meant.

Ollie startled, blinking as if dragged from deep underwater, pulling off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. When he looked up at Kimi, his face softened — all the tension, the razor-sharp focus, melted into warmth. “Hmmm? Oh, you’re still here?” His smile was tired but gentle, and he motioned Kimi closer with a crook of his finger, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Kimi thought he would combust from that single gesture. His legs felt shaky as he obeyed, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from Ollie’s skin. Close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the faint freckle just beneath his jaw, the softness in a face that could turn to steel in an instant.

“I know him best,” Kimi said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I can help. I know the passwords. The safehouses. The men he trusts. Let me help.”

Ollie stared at him for a moment, the weight of that offer settling between them. He reached out, touched Kimi’s wrist lightly, his thumb brushing over the fragile bone. “Yes. You’re right. I should have asked you first. But that can wait.” He stood, stretching, and Kimi’s breath caught as his shorts dipped lower on his hips, the dark trail of hair leading down, disappearing — and Kimi dragged his eyes up, guilty and hot in the face. What was wrong with him?

“I wanted to talk with you, actually,” Ollie said, his voice low, steady. He motioned to the couch, and they settled together, too close, not close enough.

“I wanted to ask if you’re okay. If you need anything. Have you settled in? I’ll get someone to bring you clothes — I know mine can’t be comfortable. But beyond that, is there anything? Anything at all?”

The question was so simple. So kind. And Kimi couldn’t process it. No one had asked before. No one had cared. He’d learned to stop asking, because the answer had always been no.

“I-It’s okay,” he stammered. “Your clothes are fine. You’ve done too much already. I don’t want to bother you.”

Ollie’s hand was warm where it covered his. His voice fierce but gentle. “Be a bother. Please. Bother me, bother my family. That’s what we’re here for. You’re home now, Kimi. I want you to ask. I need you to.”

Kimi’s throat tightened. His eyes burned. “Yes,” he whispered. “I’ll try. I promise.”

And it cracked him open, that kindness. That unbearable, confusing kindness. The words tumbled out, broken and raw. “I don’t understand why you’re so kind. My father — he sold me, Oliver. Over and over. He paraded me in front of men, offered me. Promised me. I don’t understand this. I don’t know what to do with kindness.”

Ollie’s face darkened, fury like a storm behind his eyes. His fists clenched, his whole body coiled. But his voice — soft as silk, sharp as steel. “Marco Antonelli will pay for every scar on your soul. I swear it.”

After the storm of confessions, after Ollie’s promise that Marco Antonelli would pay in blood and ruin for every scar left on Kimi’s soul, the quiet settled between them like mist. But it wasn’t peace. No — it was the heavy, choking quiet of two people who had ripped themselves open and didn’t know how to stitch the wounds closed again. Kimi sat on the edge of the couch, fingers knotted together, head bowed. He felt small in the vast space of Ollie’s room, small in the enormity of the kindness he’d been shown. His heart thudded against his ribs, his mind spun in a thousand directions. And in all of that — one thought burned bright and desperate: I need to do something. Anything. He couldn’t sit here, folded into this soft couch, drowning in gentleness and guilt. He needed to offer something, no matter how small, no matter how foolish.

So he straightened, the motion sharp and awkward, like a puppet cut free of its strings. His voice, when it came, was too quick, too thin. “Oliver… can I… could I make something? For us? Just… to feel useful?”

Ollie’s face softened, his heart aching for the boy in front of him who didn’t know he already was more than enough. He nodded, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Kimi’s ear. “Of course, amorino. Whatever you like.”

And with that, Kimi fled the room — not out of fear, but because he was afraid if he stayed another moment, he might crumble under the weight of all he felt.

⸻

The kitchen was too big. Too bright. Too clean. Kimi stood in the doorway, bare feet on cool tile, eyes wide. He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know what half the tools were for. But he remembered — once, long ago, in the Antonelli villa, the cook had let him shape dough scraps into little stars. The memory was faint, but it was something. And so he went to work, clumsy and determined.

He found flour and sugar, butter that softened too fast in his trembling hands. He found a rolling pin and tried to wield it the way he’d seen, but it felt unwieldy, wrong. The dough stuck to the counter. He added too much flour. Then too little. His heart raced, his breath quick and uneven, but he kept going. He shaped crooked circles, burnt his fingers when he reached too soon into the oven, dropped a tray with a crash that echoed through the empty hall. He winced, cheeks burning, but he didn’t stop. By the time he finished, the kitchen looked like a storm had hit it — flour dusted every surface, butter smeared on his cheek, his hair falling loose from its tie. The cookies were uneven, some blackened at the edges, others pale and soft. But they were his. And he gathered them up, hands shaking, and carried them back.

⸻

The family had gathered in the study, the great oak table strewn with blueprints, schematics, maps — the war room come to life. Max stood at the head, sleeves rolled, a cigar clenched between his teeth but unlit, his mind sharp and furious as he sketched out the first threads of their retaliation. Charles leaned over the plans, lips pressed thin in concentration, fingers tapping out patterns on the wood as he thought. Carlos was quiet, deadly focused, making notes of supply lines, escape routes, fallback points. Oscar and Lando hovered near the screens Ollie had set up, murmuring low, their bodies close, their minds one. And Ollie — Ollie was everywhere at once, slipping between his monitors and the table, his voice low but steady as he relayed what he’d found.

The room hummed with tension, with purpose. And into that storm, Kimi entered — small, tentative, the tray in his hands like a peace offering, like a prayer.

They didn’t notice him at first. And he stood there, frozen, watching them work, the way they moved like a single organism, a family forged in fire. He didn’t want to interrupt. But he wanted — needed — to give them this.

So he cleared his throat, small and soft. And somehow, it was enough. Max looked up first, his gaze sharp but softening the moment it landed on Kimi. The others followed, the room stilling, the tension easing just for a breath.

“I made these,” Kimi said, his voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks red. “I just… I wanted to do something. For you. All of you.”

There was a beat — a heartbeat suspended in time — where no one spoke. And then Max stepped forward, took a blackened cookie from the tray, and bit into it without a word. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled — not his usual sharp, dangerous grin, but something warm, something that reached his eyes.

“Perfect,” he said, and took another.

Charles came next, kissing the top of Kimi’s head as he took one, his eyes bright. “Merci, mon ange. We needed this.”

Oscar and Lando descended like wolves, fighting over the last of the batch, laughing, their hands brushing Kimi’s as they grabbed them, their teasing filling the room with light.

And Ollie — Ollie watched it all, his heart full, his throat tight. He crossed to Kimi, took the tray from his shaking hands, set it aside, and pulled him close, arms wrapping around his slim frame.

“You did good, amorino,” he murmured against his hair. “So good, thank you for this.”

And for that moment, in that room filled with the plans for war, there was no enemy. No Marco. No Toto. No death waiting in the shadows. There was only family. There was only love.

And Kimi — for the first time — believed he belonged.

~~~~

The training hall felt like stepping into another world. High ceilings arched above them, beams of pale morning light filtering through slatted windows, carving shadows across the polished wooden floors. The air was thick with the scent of oiled leather, of wood worn smooth by years of strikes, of the faintest trace of smoke clinging to old torches along the walls. And beneath it all, silence. Not peace. No. The kind of silence that filled the lungs too heavy, that made the heart beat too loud in the ribcage. The kind of silence that held every breath hostage.

Kimi stood barefoot on the cold floor, shoulders squared, trying to remember how to breathe. He felt small here. Small in a way he hadn’t felt since childhood, since the first time he’d been dragged into one of his father’s “training” rooms and told to fight for his dinner. But this wasn’t Marco’s house. This wasn’t the cold stone of the Antonelli estate. And the man standing opposite him wasn’t Marco, no matter how sharp Ollie’s gaze was, no matter how still he stood, barefoot like Kimi, dressed in black shorts and a t-shirt that clung to his lean frame, hair tied back, face all sharp angles and unreadable intent.

Ollie moved with a quiet grace that unsettled Kimi — not because it was threatening, but because it wasn’t. Because it was too careful, too precise, as if every step, every breath, every word was chosen not to harm. And Kimi didn’t know what to do with that. His father’s lessons had taught him how to fight, how to survive, but not how to be taught. Not how to be guided.

And God — Ollie’s voice when it came, soft but steady, made Kimi feel flayed raw inside.

“We start with the theory,” Ollie said, and there was no mockery in it, no condescension, just calm certainty, as if this was the only way that made sense. His dark eyes held Kimi’s, and Kimi couldn’t look away. “Strength doesn’t win. That’s a myth. Men like Marco need to believe that to feel powerful. Your mind wins. Your anticipation wins. Your restraint wins. You’re small, Kimi. That’s your gift. No one sees the storm when it looks like you.”

Kimi swallowed hard, throat tight, a thousand responses catching behind his teeth. No one had ever called him small like it was a strength before. Small had always meant weak. Meant prey. Meant expendable. But Ollie’s gaze didn’t see weakness. It saw potential. And that was terrifying in its own way.

His hands felt clammy as Ollie handed him the gun — sleek, matte black, cold and familiar in his grip. Kimi loaded it by rote, fingers moving before his brain could catch up. But there, Ollie saw it — the faint tremor in his hands, the hesitation he tried to hide.

Ollie stepped close, too close, heat rolling off him, a wall of quiet protection at Kimi’s back. His hands came over Kimi’s — large, steady, warm — guiding, not seizing. His breath brushed the curve of Kimi’s ear as he spoke, low and soft. “Not so tight. You’re choking it. Let it breathe with you. It’s not your enemy. It’s part of you.”

Kimi went rigid at the first touch, every nerve screaming for him to brace for the grab, for the shove, for the pain that always followed closeness. But it didn’t come. Just Ollie’s steady hands, adjusting the angle of the gun, tilting his wrists, smoothing the tension out of his fingers. Just Ollie’s voice, patient, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world.

And slowly — so slowly — Kimi let himself lean back a fraction, let himself feel the solid heat of Ollie behind him, let himself believe for one moment that maybe this was what it could be. That closeness didn’t have to mean fear.

Ollie stepped away only when he felt Kimi’s hands steady, and the loss of that warmth made Kimi’s breath catch, made him feel cold in its absence.

“Now the blade,” Ollie said, and passed him the knife.

Kimi’s fingers curled around it with a familiar surety. Here, at least, he knew what to do. He moved fast, too fast, the knife flashing through the air, all brutal efficiency, all rage hidden in the clean lines of motion. It was Antonelli training, pure and raw — meant to kill, not to disable, not to defend.

Ollie watched, dark brows drawing together, then stepped in, catching Kimi’s wrist, not rough, not punishing, just firm enough to halt the movement. His other hand found Kimi’s elbow, adjusted the angle, gentled the strike. His voice was quiet but edged with steel.

“Too much rage. That’s not control. That’s suicide. This — this is control.” And he moved Kimi’s arm through the motion again, slow, precise, cleaner, with no wasted movement.

Kimi could feel the heat of him again, the strength in his hands, the calm authority in his touch. Could feel his own pulse racing in his throat, not from fear, not this time, but from something deeper, darker — want. Need. Confusion.

No one had ever touched him like this. No one had ever taught him like this.

And then Kimi remembered. Remembered the old tricks. The ones he hated, the ones he was taught to use. How to make his body a weapon of a different kind. He let his posture soften, lashes lowering, lips parting just so. He moved fast, playing at helplessness, playing at seduction. And Ollie didn’t see it coming — not at first.

He toppled Ollie to the floor, straddling him, breathless, knife poised at his side. And for a heartbeat, he felt powerful. Felt like maybe this was victory.

But Ollie’s surprise didn’t last. His grin — dark and wild — spread slow across his face. And before Kimi could draw another breath, Ollie’s hands found his waist, strong and sure, and rolled them in one fluid motion.

Kimi found himself pinned beneath him, Ollie’s forearm across his chest, heavy enough to hold him, not enough to hurt. The weight of him, the heat, the sheer presence — it stole Kimi’s breath. And Ollie’s eyes, dark and amused and something else, something hungrier, met his and didn’t look away.

“Fluttering your pretty eyelashes won’t work with me, amorino. You have to think faster. Anticipate better.”

And Kimi stared up at him, wide-eyed, trembling, not with fear, but with the thrill of it. With the way Ollie’s body caged him in, with the way he felt small beneath him, but not like prey. Like something protected. Like something claimed.

Ollie felt it too—the heat rising between them, the shape of Kimi under him, small and trembling, and God help him, he wanted—wanted things he shouldn’t, couldn’t. Shame tangled with hunger in his chest. He pushed back fast, rolled away, dragging a hand over his face like he could wipe the want from it.

“Shit,” he said, voice rough with guilt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—didn’t mean to hold you down like that.”

And Kimi lay there, heart hammering, lips parted, staring up at the ceiling and thinking, But you could. And I’d let you.

The sound of boots on the wood broke the moment—Oscar and Lando strolling in, voices easy, laughter threading through the tension.

“Well, well,” Lando drawled, leaning against a post, arms crossed. “Are we interrupting a lovers’ quarrel or a training session?”

Oscar smirked, dark gaze flicking between them, seeing far too much. “Careful, Lan. You’ll give the boy ideas.”

Kimi flushed scarlet, scrambling to sit up, to regain something of himself.

But Ollie was already rising, offering a hand, pulling him up with ease, brushing dust from Kimi’s shoulder with a touch that lingered too long.

“We were training,” Ollie said, but his voice was hoarse, his throat tight.

Lando grinned, wicked. “Looked like it. Go on, then—show us what you’ve learned.”

And so they did. Kimi, breathless, flushed, thrown off balance but determined, showed them his precision, his aim, the elegance of his knife throw. Oscar’s brows rose in quiet approval. Lando let out a low whistle.

“Deadly little thing, isn’t he?” Lando murmured, eyes dancing with mischief.

By the time they were stick fighting the Japanese Bo tight in his hand, Kimi was sweating? Ollie again pulled of his shirt making Kimi distracted for a little bit enough for Ollie to strike him and for him to tumble into his chest Ollie caught him effortlessly by his waist his big hand encompassing all of Kimi’s back, Kimi let himself thing for a bit how it would feel for Ollie to push on his back with that hand while they’re in bed. But he quickly blushed and detangled himself from Ollie who looked startled and ashamed ending the fight with “ I think we tried enough for one day, I’m going to shower.” And left him there confused and a little turned on.

Kimi stood there, shaking, wanting, confused, watching him go, and thought, What the hell is happening to me?

The door to the training hall swung shut behind him with a soft thud that echoed louder in Ollie’s head than it had any right to. His feet carried him fast, too fast, down the corridor, the air cool against his overheated skin, but it wasn’t enough. His pulse roared in his ears. His palms tingled where they’d touched Kimi—his waist, his back, his throat, God, his throat—and he couldn’t outrun the feel of him. The tremor beneath his hands. The way Kimi’s wide, dark eyes had stared up at him with something between wonder and surrender.

By the time Ollie reached the bathroom, he was shaking with it. He tore his shirt over his head—pointless now, already discarded in the hall—but the action felt necessary, like maybe if he stripped enough layers away he could find the self-control he’d lost back there. The cold water gushed from the showerhead, steam rising where it hit the stone floor. Ollie didn’t wait. He stepped under it, let it hit him full force, hands braced on the wall, head bowed.

The shock of it made him gasp. Made him blink hard against the memory of Kimi’s body beneath his, small and warm and willing. He hadn’t meant to pin him like that, hadn’t meant to let it go so far. Hadn’t meant to want him like that.

But he did.

God, he did.

The cold did nothing. His skin was burning from the inside out. His mind replayed it on a loop—the soft flutter of Kimi’s lashes, the weight of him when he straddled Ollie’s hips in that moment of wild, reckless bravado. The sound of his breath, hitched and shaky, when Ollie reversed them.

He’d felt him tremble. Not in fear. Not in the way that made Ollie’s heart clench and his protective instincts roar. But in want. In trust. And that was so much worse.

You’re supposed to protect him, Ollie thought, fists tightening against the tile. Not want him like that. Not want to see how far he’ll let you go.

The water ran colder, so cold it made his teeth chatter, but he stayed there, shoulders hunched, trying to drown the heat with ice.

Meanwhile, back in the training hall, Kimi stood exactly where Ollie had left him, the world slowly coming back into focus. The sound of his brothers’ voices—teasing, light—cut through the ringing in his ears, but it felt far away, like he was underwater. His heart hadn’t slowed. His skin still tingled where Ollie had touched him.

And all he could think was: I wanted him to.

The realization rattled him more than any blow. He’d spent his whole life flinching from hands, from closeness. And here he was, wishing Ollie hadn’t let go. Wishing he’d stayed, pressed down, claimed him, made him feel that safety and that heat all at once.

“Earth to Kimi.”

Lando’s voice drew him out, warm and amused but not unkind. He blinked, looked up to find both Lando and Oscar watching him, smirks softened by something gentler.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Oscar asked, tilting his head. “You look like you saw God.”

Lando snorted. “Or the devil.”

Kimi flushed, tried to find words, but nothing came. His tongue felt too big, his throat too tight.

“Don’t mind him,” Oscar said, nudging Lando with his elbow, though his eyes stayed on Kimi, sharp but not unkind. “He’s just jealous you were getting all the attention.”

“Jealous? Please.” Lando grinned, but there was affection in it. “You were good out there, though. I’ll give you that. Quick with a blade, good instincts. You’re gonna make Antonelli wish he never drew breath.”

That made Kimi’s heart ache, because it sounded like belief. Like these people really thought he could be more than what Marco made him.

He ducked his head, but the weight in his chest felt lighter, just a little.

Oscar clapped him gently on the shoulder, steadying him. “Come on. Let’s get you something to drink. Let Ollie cool down, yeah?”

And Kimi let them guide him from the hall, let their easy banter fill the spaces where his thoughts ran too loud. But as they walked, he glanced back once, toward the door where Ollie had disappeared, and felt the echo of his touch linger like a brand on his skin.

In that moment, he didn’t feel like prey.

He felt like he’d been seen.

~~~~

The storm had been threatening all day—clouds swollen and black, pressing down on the manor as though the heavens themselves weighed in on the family’s fate. The air was heavy, thick with tension that no window thrown open could chase out. Inside the study, shadows coiled between the flickering lamplight, thrown by maps, blueprints, and the glint of steel at Max’s hip. The scent of smoke and leather hung over everything — as if even the walls were bracing for what was to come.

It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peace, but anticipation. A breath held too long.

And then — the knock.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Just two short raps, precise, deliberate. Enough to make every head lift, every spine go taut, every unspoken fear solidify in the space between heartbeats.

The door creaked open, and one of the guards — an old one, trusted, the kind who bore the scars of loyalty across knuckles and brow — stepped inside, face pale, eyes wary. In his hands: a box. Black. Polished to a mirror sheen. The crest of the German syndicate burned into the lid like a brand.

“Delivered just now. No messenger. Left at the gates.”

Max didn’t speak. He crossed the room like a storm given flesh, took the box without hesitation, though his knuckles whitened around it. He set it on the table with the care of a man handling an explosive — and in some ways, that’s exactly what it was.

The family gathered close. Charles at Max’s side, his sharp, watchful gaze already dissecting the meaning behind the delivery. Carlos leaning forward, arms crossed, his whole body tensed like a blade. Oscar, silent and still, his dark eyes flicking once to Lando, then to Kimi — who stood slightly apart, breath already shallow, as if his body recognized the threat before his mind caught up.

Ollie was the last to approach. His heart thundered, but his face was the mask he’d learned from his father: unreadable, cold as winter. His gaze met Kimi’s — just for a moment — and in that moment he saw it. The flicker of recognition. The fear. The unspoken I knew this would come.

Max flipped the lid back.

Inside: a bottle of German liquor, crystal and gold, mocking in its elegance. An invitation — black parchment, silver ink, the kind used for state ceremonies and royal decrees. The words were formal, chilling:

“You are cordially invited to celebrate the union of Andrea Antonelli and Toto Wolff, to take place upon the groom’s reclamation of his rightful betrothed. A date shall be set upon his return. We trust the esteemed house of Verstappen-Leclerc will do what is honorable.”

And beneath that, folded with surgical precision, the contract. Marco Antonelli’s signature bold at the bottom. The terms: ceding Kimi’s body, his legacy, his bloodline to the German syndicate.

The final insult: a note, handwritten in a tidy, ruthless hand.

“This is not war, dear Verstappen-Leclercs. This is reclamation. Return what was promised, and your dynasty may yet stand unscathed.”

The room went dead silent.

Charles was the first to move, fingers brushing the paper as if to confirm it was real. His face drained of color, then set like stone. His voice, when it came, was low and shaking with fury barely leashed.

“How dare they.”

Max didn’t speak — not yet. His eyes were fixed on the contract as if by will alone he could burn through it. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, the only sign of the storm coiling tighter inside him.

Charles stood beside him, one hand resting lightly on Max’s back, grounding him, the other clenched so tight at his side that the knuckles had gone white. His heart thundered, rage and fear mingling until he wasn’t sure which would win out. The gall of it. The sheer audacity. To reduce Kimi — their Kimi — to a pawn, a piece of property to be traded and claimed. To think they could threaten their family and expect surrender. His voice, when it came, was low and deadly quiet.

“They think we’ll bow to this,” he said, his French accent sharper than usual, the words cutting through the room. “They think fear will make us give him up.”

Carlos stepped forward, the shadows catching on the lines of his face, making him look older, harder. He picked up the bottle of liquor again, turning it in his hand, studying the label with a soldier’s eye for detail even as his mind raced with violence. “They’re baiting us. They want us reckless. They want us angry enough to make mistakes.”

Oscar stood a little apart, dark eyes narrowed, posture tense — a predator just barely held in check. His mind was a machine, cataloguing every angle, every consequence. But beneath the calculation was something rawer, uglier: fury, hot and coiled in his gut. He’d seen Kimi flinch at the sight of the invitation. He’d seen the way his brother looked at the boy — the desperate protectiveness, the silent promise of blood and fire. And he felt it too. Kimi wasn’t just some political piece on a board. He was theirs now. And no one took from the Verstappen-Leclercs and lived to boast of it.

And Kimi — Kimi stood frozen, pale beneath the warm tones of his skin, breath caught in his throat. His heart raced, wild and panicked, like a bird against a cage. The words on the paper blurred, but he didn’t need to read them again. They were seared into him already, the way Marco’s orders had been, the way Toto’s promises had been — sweet poison, wrapped in the velvet of diplomacy. His body remembered before his mind caught up: the soft-spoken threats, the subtle traps, the quiet dinners where the world shrank to the shape of the cage Toto built around him.

He could hear it still. The low murmur of promises made in his father’s study, Toto’s hand heavy on his shoulder, the words like honey masking the rot beneath.

“You’ll be safe with me, Andrea. No more uncertainty. No more war. You’ll have a place, a purpose. All you have to do is be good for me. Just be mine.”

The room felt too small. The walls felt too close. He took a step back, trembling, his voice breaking as it escaped him.

“He’ll come for me. And you can’t stop him. No one can stop him. I’m going to be his.”

It was Ollie’s voice that shattered the spiral.

“You’re mine.”

The words were soft, but they carried like a shot fired in the dark. Ollie’s hand slammed down on the table again, rattling the glass, the silver, the mockery. His eyes found Kimi’s, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Not theirs. Not ever. I’ll burn Berlin to the fucking ground before he lays a finger on you.”

Kimi stared at him, wide-eyed, breath hitching in his chest. The room went still around them, the weight of that vow settling like a storm cloud ready to break. There was something terrifying and beautiful in Ollie’s face — the boy they all knew, and something darker beneath, something shaped by the legacy of Max’s steel and Charles’ fire.

Charles drew in a slow breath, stepping forward to stand beside his son. He set his hand on Ollie’s shoulder, grounding him, but the quiet pride in his gaze was unmistakable. “We don’t bow to threats,” he said softly. “And we don’t let our own be taken.”

Max finally moved, straightening to his full height, the weight of command settling on him like a mantle. His voice was low, steady, lethal.

“They want to play at diplomacy? Fine. Let them. We’ll answer in kind. And when they believe we’ve danced to their tune — that’s when we strike.”

He turned to Oscar and Lando. “ I want to know every move they make before they make it. Every ally, every supplier, every route they think is secure.”

Oscar nodded once, sharp and silent. Lando’s grin was all teeth, feral and ready.

“Carlos,” Max continued, “lock down our logistics. No one moves in or out without our say-so. No gaps, no weak points.”

Carlos was already moving toward the door, phone in hand, barking orders to trusted lieutenants.

“And Ollie,” Max said, his gaze settling on his youngest, the quiet storm in his eyes matched only by the resolve in his son’s. “You know what I need. Every secret. Every weakness. Every man who’s ever whispered Marco’s name in loyalty. I want them mapped, I want them watched, and when the time comes — I want them gone.”

Ollie’s throat was tight, but his voice was steady. “Yes, sir.”

“And Kimi,” Max said at last, his tone softening, but no less firm. He crossed the space between them, placed his hands gently on the boy’s shoulders. Kimi flinched at the contact — not from fear of Max, but from the weight of kindness he didn’t know how to carry. Max’s voice dropped to something meant only for him. “You are not theirs. You are ours. And we protect our own. I don’t care what paper they wave, or what promises they made to each other. You’re family now. And no one — no one — takes from this family without paying in blood.”

Kimi wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. But the fear was deep, a scar carved into his bones. And all he could do was nod, too choked to speak, too raw to do anything but cling to that promise like a lifeline.

Oscar stepped closer, quiet but fierce. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, and there was no teasing in his voice now. Just truth. “We’re not letting him have you. Not ever.”

Lando, for once, didn’t crack a joke. He just rested a hand on Kimi’s arm, solid and warm. “They picked the wrong family to fuck with.”

The storm outside finally broke, rain lashing against the windows like the world itself was raging in sympathy. And inside the study, the family stood as one — the weight of the coming war settling over them like a second skin. The invitation, the contract, the bottle of liquor — they meant nothing now. All that mattered was the oath spoken without ceremony, without fanfare, but with more power than any signature on parchment could hold.

Kimi wasn’t theirs. He was theirs. And woe to the man who tried to take him.

The storm outside raged on, the windows of the manor streaked with rain that came down like knives. Thunder growled low and distant, as if the heavens themselves disapproved of what had been set into motion. But inside Ollie’s quarters, there was a different kind of storm—quieter, but no less destructive. It lived beneath Kimi’s skin, in the frantic drum of his heartbeat, in the tremor that wouldn’t leave his hands no matter how tightly he clenched them at his sides.

The room smelled of gun oil, leather, and the faint trace of smoke from the candle Ollie had lit on the desk, more out of habit than need. The soft glow touched the edges of the monitors still alight with blueprints and dossiers, code running in endless streams—Marco’s empire laid bare, line by damning line. But Ollie wasn’t at the desk anymore. He stood near the window now, arms crossed over his chest, the tension in his posture unmistakable even in the dim light. His bare feet were braced apart on the floor, as if he were grounding himself against what he’d just heard in the study, against what he’d seen in Kimi’s face: that flicker of terror, that buried conviction that no matter how tightly they held him, he would still be taken.

Kimi hovered near the door, small and pale against the darkness, unsure if he was allowed to enter, unsure if he should run. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to be alone with the thoughts clawing at him, and so he stepped forward, slow, hesitant, until the door clicked shut behind him and the room seemed to hold its breath.

“Ollie,” he said, voice soft as the rain on the glass, but unsteady. He hated how it sounded. Weak. Afraid.

Ollie turned then, and the look in his eyes made Kimi’s breath catch. It wasn’t pity—not the kind that made him want to crawl out of his skin—but something fiercer, something that burned low and steady, like the embers of a fire that would never go out. He didn’t say anything at first. He just opened his arms in silent invitation.

Kimi went without thinking. His feet carried him forward, across the space that felt like miles, until he was pressed against Ollie’s chest, the solid heat of him a shield against the cold of everything else. Ollie’s arms closed around him, gentle but unyielding, as if daring the world to try and pry him loose.

For a while, they just stood like that, the storm their only witness. Kimi felt the beat of Ollie’s heart, steady beneath his ear, and wished he could anchor himself to it, wished he could drown out the echoes of other voices, other hands.

When he spoke, it was in a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it real all over again. “I have to tell you something.”

Ollie’s hand moved, slow, soothing, up and down his back. “You don’t have to tell me anything, amorino. Not if it hurts you.”

“But I want to,” Kimi said, and it was the truth. He wanted Ollie to know. He wanted someone to understand the full horror of it, to see him for what he was and still stay. His voice trembled, but he forced the words out. “It wasn’t just politics. The betrothal. With Toto.”

Ollie’s body went rigid, the hand on his back stilling for a heartbeat before resuming its slow path, though there was a tension in it now, as if he was restraining himself from breaking something. “Tell me,” he said, quiet but dangerous.

Kimi drew in a shaky breath. He stared at the hollow of Ollie’s throat rather than his eyes, unable to bear the weight of them just yet. “He—he courted me. That’s what he called it. Said he wanted to protect me. Said he could keep me safe from my father. From the world. Promised me peace. A place. A purpose. All I had to do was be his. Be good. Be… willing.”

Ollie’s jaw clenched so hard Kimi could feel the tension under his cheek. The storm outside cracked the sky in two, lightning casting the room in harsh relief for a moment, and in that flash, Kimi saw the fury on Ollie’s face—clean, cold, righteous.

“He touched you?” Ollie asked, voice low, dangerous, but shaking at the edges with restraint.

“No,” Kimi said quickly, and felt Ollie’s relief like a pulse beneath his skin. “No. He didn’t have to. The promise was enough. The threats hidden in the kindness. He made me feel like I didn’t have a choice. Like one day I’d just… stop fighting and go to him because it would be easier.”

Ollie exhaled slowly, as if trying to release some of the rage clawing at him. His hands moved, framing Kimi’s face, tilting it up so he had no choice but to meet those dark, burning eyes. “You’re not his. You never were. And you never will be.”

“I’m afraid,” Kimi admitted, and it was the most naked he’d ever felt. “I’m afraid one day you won’t be able to stop him. That he’ll take me. That I’ll have to go. That no matter what I do, I’ll belong to him in the end.”

Ollie’s thumb brushed a tear from his cheek, gentle, reverent. His voice shook now, not from rage, but from the sheer force of the promise he made. “No. I swear to you, Andrea. On my blood, on my soul—I will kill him before I let him take you. I’ll tear down his empire, stone by stone. I’ll ruin every man who ever stood beside him. He’ll choke on the ashes of everything he tried to build. You are mine. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Not his. Never his.”

Kimi’s breath hitched, the weight of it overwhelming. But for the first time, the fear ebbed enough for him to breathe. He closed the last inch between them, resting his forehead against Ollie’s, and they stayed like that as the storm raged outside—two boys caught in a war not of their making, but determined to survive it together.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Kimi whispered.

Ollie’s answering smile was small, sad, but sure. “You survived. That’s all you ever had to do.”

And in that room, with the storm as their witness, Ollie’s mind raced ahead. Marco, Toto, the German syndicate—it didn’t matter how many men they had, how much money, how much power. He would burn it all. He would hack their networks, expose their secrets, drain their accounts, turn their allies against them. He would kill and burn and crash—not for glory, not for duty, but for Kimi. For the boy who deserved to be safe. To be free.

No one would take him. No one would ever take him.

~~~~

Inside the main study, the world narrowed to the glow of monitors, the scratch of pens, the soft rustle of maps and blueprints unfurling like battle flags. The heavy oak table bore the weight of their war: shipping yard schematics, satellite images, floor plans of Marco’s safehouses, Ollie’s laptop casting a cold, flickering light that painted his face in hues of steel.

The air was thick with smoke from Max’s cigarillo, with coffee gone bitter in untouched mugs, with something more — the sharp tang of tension, of inevitability. The family was gathered like kings at council: Max at the head of the table, eyes sharp, posture coiled and ready; Charles beside him, fingers steepled, the picture of calm strategy; Oscar, silent but watchful, mind turning as fast as Ollie’s code; Lando at his side, hands restless in his lap, eyes darting to every map and file as if memorizing it all.

And Kimi. Kimi sat close to Ollie — so close their elbows almost brushed when Ollie reached for the mouse. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d drifted there, drawn like gravity itself pulled him in. Ollie’s presence was an anchor in the storm, solid and steady in a way Kimi hadn’t known he needed until he had it. He sat small, still, almost swallowed by the high-backed chair, but his eyes missed nothing.

Ollie was in his element now, the tech genius they all remembered — and needed. His voice was low, precise, the edge of command in it as he clicked through files. Screens shifted, windows opened: offshore accounts exposed, charity fronts unmasked, laundering chains traced back to their dirtiest roots. “Here. This is his cash flow,” Ollie said, fingers flying over keys. “Fake charities funnelling donations into his offshore accounts. Here — shell companies tied to smuggling routes. Real estate that doesn’t exist — just fronts for moving product. Drugs, weapons, bodies.”

The room was silent except for the rain and Ollie’s voice, blade-sharp and relentless. Max leaned forward, absorbing every detail, nodding at intervals. Charles watched Ollie with something like pride, his quiet son who sliced through chaos with nothing but his mind. Oscar sat still as stone, cataloguing every piece for action.

Kimi’s heart pounded in his throat. He listened, but more than that — he understood. And he knew things. Little things Ollie couldn’t find in the files. Who owned what front. Where the guards were drunk at night. Which doors were never locked because Marco’s men were arrogant. Where the safehouses had tunnels, escape routes, hidden rooms no blueprint would ever show.

At first, he stayed quiet. Who was he to interrupt? But Ollie glanced at him, a look that said — go on. And so Kimi swallowed hard and spoke. His voice was small, but the truth in it rang loud. “The docks at San Lorenzo — they change the guard rotation at three a.m. instead of two. The south entrance is left unmanned for ten minutes. The wine cellar at the Villa Bianca — the tunnel leads straight to the cliffs. It’s never been sealed.”

Charles watched him. He saw it: how Kimi instinctively looked at Ollie before speaking, as if seeking permission, as if Ollie’s nearness gave him the right to have a voice at all. And what a voice it was. Razor-true. Kimi had lived inside Marco’s empire — he knew its rot from within. Charles’s heart ached with it. How could anyone discard this boy? How could they not see the treasure they had?

Max said nothing at first, but his eyes gleamed with approval as Kimi continued. His words grew steadier with each one, encouraged by Ollie’s subtle nods, by Max’s attention, by Oscar’s silent agreement.

Finally, Max leaned forward, tapping a spot on the shipping yard map. “This. This is the first blow. We freeze his assets. Disrupt the laundering. Cut off his cash. And from there, we gut him from the inside.” His gaze flicked to Kimi, and for once, it was not as a father looking at a boy, but as a general regarding a trusted scout. “You know his circle. You point the knife, ragazzo, and we’ll strike.”

Kimi blinked, overwhelmed. All their eyes were on him now — Max, Charles, Oscar, Lando. The weight of it, the sheer care of it, was almost too much. He stumbled over his next words, unsure if he dared speak further.

Max’s voice gentled, low but kind. “Speak freely. We listen.”

And Ollie — Ollie reached under the table and gave his wrist the barest squeeze, grounding him.

Kimi breathed in, out. And he spoke. He pointed out weaknesses no map could show, traps only someone who’d lived them could reveal. And as he did, he felt it — the first flicker of belonging. The first time his words mattered, not as currency, not as leverage, but as contribution.

When the plan was laid, when the markers on the map set their course for destruction, the family broke apart at last. But not before Charles rested a hand on Kimi’s shoulder. His voice was soft, the words in French like a benediction. “You did well, mon ange. We’re proud.”

Kimi nearly crumpled at that. But he held himself together, clinging to Ollie’s nearness like a lifeline.

The study had long since emptied, leaving behind only the ghosts of war plans and the scent of smoke clinging to the air like regret. The room felt hollow now, drained of voices, of movement — but not of tension. That lingered, thick and alive in the quiet.

Ollie sat back in his chair, shoulders tight, hands restless. The glow from his laptop cast sharp planes across his face, the flicker of screens reflected in his glasses like the cold gleam of a blade. His fingers twitched — from the strain of hours spent slicing through digital walls, from the weight of responsibility, from the storm inside him that no code could quiet.

Kimi watched him. Still, silent, small in the vastness of the room but steady, anchored there like he belonged. His gaze tracked every shift of Ollie’s body — the flex of fingers, the ripple of tension in his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell too fast, like he was caged in his own skin.

And then Kimi’s eyes slid to the table, to the cigarillo Max had abandoned, smouldering soft and low in its ashtray. The end glowed like an ember of defiance in the dark. Max’s voice echoed in Kimi’s head — “We listen.” And for the first time, Kimi felt daring. Felt seen. Felt… bold.

Without a sound, he reached out — took the cigarillo between two fingers. The ember flared as if in salute. Then, slower, more deliberate, he lifted another — unburnt, still pristine, stolen like a secret. A thief in the night.

Later, the manor was quieter still, the storm outside gentler but the storm inside them just as wild. Ollie’s quarters glowed dim with the pale blue light of his screens, papers scattered, maps abandoned in favor of silence. Kimi stepped inside, barefoot, soft as shadow.

“Ollie,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

Ollie turned, dark brows drawn, pulled from the tangle of thoughts he couldn’t quiet. And then he froze.

Because there was Kimi, slim and pale and dangerous in a way that wasn’t about knives or plans — dangerous because he looked at Ollie like Ollie was his gravity, his ruin, his sanctuary all at once. And between his fingers — the stolen cigarillo, ember glowing, defiant still.

“Do you want to share?” Kimi asked, voice soft but threaded with something dark, something that felt like sin and invitation all at once. “Like when we first met?”

Ollie’s lips parted, but no words came at first. The sight of him — bare feet, hair mussed from the tension of the night, eyes shadowed but bright with mischief and something heavier — stole the air from Ollie’s lungs.

Then he laughed, but low, quiet, the sound roughened by exhaustion and want and something he couldn’t name. “Did you just steal from Max Verstappen-Leclerc? Christ, Kimi, are you trying to get us both killed?”

Kimi stepped closer, undeterred, holding it out to him like an offering, like a dare. Ollie took it, fingers brushing, and the spark of touch shot through him like fire. He lit it with trembling hands, drew deep, the smoke burning hot down his throat — bitter, grounding.

He passed it back, and Kimi accepted it like a ritual, like communion. Their eyes met over the smoke, dark and unreadable and full of everything unsaid.

And then Kimi crossed the line. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped into Ollie’s space, so close the smoke between them curled and tangled, so close Ollie could count the faint freckles across his nose, see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

Kimi’s voice was a whisper now, a blade sliding between ribs. “You’re nineteen and still afraid to let your fathers catch you?”

Ollie opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Kimi leaned in — closer, closer — and stole the breath of smoke right from his lips, his mouth barely a hair’s breadth from Ollie’s. The heat of it — the heat of him — made Ollie’s head swim.

Kimi straightened, slowly, as if savoring the moment. His smirk was small, but his eyes — his eyes burned. With defiance. With want. With something darker that neither of them dared name.

Ollie sat frozen, blood pounding, cigarillo forgotten, heart caught somewhere between fury and desire.

“Good night, Oliver,” Kimi murmured, and turned, slipping from the room like a ghost, door clicking shut behind him.

And Ollie just sat there, the ember dying slow between his fingers, his mind racing, his body aching, a grin pulling at his mouth despite himself.

God help me, he thought again, breathless, undone. He’s going to be the death of me.

~~~~

The manor’s great study seemed to pulse with the weight of history. Maps and blueprints lay spread across the heavy oak table like the bones of the coming battle, shadows of flickering screens playing over them. The faint scent of oil and steel, of Max’s smoldering cigarillo, of old wood steeped in memory—it filled the air like a ghost. Outside, the grounds were alive with quiet motion: men securing gates, vehicles idling low, the hum of radios and the sharper bark of orders.

And in that room, in that dimness carved out by lamps and monitors, Ollie worked. His hands, so precise, so steady, moved over his weapons: checking, rechecking. The slide of the pistol was smooth as breath; the daggers glinted as he laid them down in perfect symmetry. The tools of the Ghost, sharpened and waiting. But his mind wasn’t entirely on the steel and gunmetal. His mind—his heart—kept flicking to the slender figure seated by the window, face pale in the moonlight, eyes dark pools reflecting the storm coming for them. Kimi. His husband. His promise to the world.

And then there was the soft knock—barely a sound at all—but it cut through the stillness like a blade. Ollie didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The knock was polite, measured, a courtesy rather than a request. It was Lewis. It had always been Lewis, standing just outside, waiting for Ollie to let him in or not.

Lewis stepped inside, his boots quiet on the ancient rug, his coat draped over one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled back to reveal the ink on his forearms: marks of loyalty, of legacy. His face was drawn, pale in the low light, shadows carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. There was something raw in him tonight—something that went beyond the tension of looming violence.

“Oscar and Lando have the convoy prepped,” Lewis said softly. “Your father’s in the garage double-checking gear. Charles is… Charles. I had to take his cigarette pack away before he set the curtains on fire.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Ollie’s face, but it didn’t last. He kept his gaze on the pistol he was cleaning, his hands sure even as his stomach twisted. “And you, Uncle?”

Lewis hesitated. That was rare. Lewis rarely hesitated. But tonight he did.

“I came to say what I should’ve said a long time ago.”

Ollie finally looked up. The air between them felt thick, full of unshed words and old wounds.

“I didn’t want this for you,” Lewis said, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “This life. This war. This world we were born into. I wanted more for you. A life where you didn’t have to wake up every day wondering who wanted your blood. A life where you weren’t cleaning weapons before you’ve even lived half of it.”

Ollie’s throat went tight. His heart ached because he knew. God, he knew.

“I wanted you safe, Ollie,” Lewis went on, and the rawness in his voice almost undid him. “That was always the fight between us, wasn’t it? I couldn’t bear seeing you step into this darkness. I wanted to drag you out of it, lock you away somewhere the world couldn’t touch you. I thought I was protecting you.”

Ollie looked down at his hands—hands that had killed, hands that had saved. The hands his uncle had once tried to keep clean.

“I know,” Ollie said quietly. “I know you wanted the best for me. I never doubted that. But I—I’m sorry too. Sorry I hurt you when I chose this. Sorry I didn’t listen when you tried to pull me away from it.”

Lewis let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for years.

“You didn’t hurt me, Ollie,” he said, voice breaking just a little. “You amazed me. I didn’t see it then. I was too blinded by wanting you to stay my boy. But you became this—this man who fights for what he loves. Who protects with everything in him. And I was too stubborn to tell you how proud that makes me.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. It was full—heavy with grief, with love, with everything they’d never said.

“I hated watching you step into the shadows,” Lewis said, taking a step closer, his eyes fierce now. “But now I see the light you carry into them. And that boy by the window? If he’s yours, he’s mine too. I’ll protect him. I’ll protect you both. With everything I am.”

Ollie’s vision blurred, but he didn’t look away. He let Lewis see it—let him see how much it meant, this vow given freely, this peace finally found between them.

And then Lewis reached out, pulled him into a fierce embrace. No words could have spoken louder.

When they parted, Lewis’s hands lingered on Ollie’s shoulders, grounding him. “We go together,” Lewis said. “No matter what comes. No one gets left behind.”

Ollie nodded, voice thick. “Thank you, Uncle. For everything.”

Lewis smirked, wiping at his face like he could erase the emotion there. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to be insufferable about it.”

A breath of laughter broke from Ollie, quiet but real. And for a moment, the storm outside felt just a little further away.

Kimi had watched it all from the window, quiet as the moonlight, his heart full and aching. When Lewis left them to the dark again, Kimi rose and crossed the space, sliding timidly his fingers into Ollie’s, grounding them both. “ Your uncle loves you so much, I knew he would come around.” whispered Kimi while giving him a soft smile and Ollie’s heart warmed.

And together, they stood at the edge of war, stronger for what had passed between them.

The minutes bled away in a flurry of movement, each man slipping into his purpose like a second skin.

Max coordinated the strike teams, his voice low but firm, eyes sharp on the blueprints as he assigned positions, fallback points, lines of fire. His hands moved with surety, each placement precise, each command weighed and given without hesitation.

Charles worked alongside him, mind like a blade, cutting through possibilities, seeing the field three moves ahead. He adjusted, refined, predicted where the enemy would break, where they would double back, where they might trap themselves in their own defenses.

Carlos set the traps—silent, deadly, clever. He moved like a shadow, unseen, unheard, his hands quick and sure as he laid the bones of their victory.

Oscar and Lando checked weapons, secured armor, tested comms. Oscar in silence, Lando with a dark glee that masked his focus. Their bond was a quiet constant—Oscar’s stillness grounding Lando’s fire, Lando’s fire keeping Oscar from turning to ice entirely.

And Ollie.

Ollie checked and rechecked his gear, his weapons, his data feeds. His laptop sat open on the corner of the table, streams of code flickering across the screen as he fed the family real-time intel. His hands moved with the speed of certainty, but his heart—his heart beat wild in his chest, his mind torn between the mission and the boy at his side.

Kimi stood quiet beside him, absorbing it all—the plans, the maps, the tension. He knew this world. Had lived in it all his life. But now, for the first time, he was not a pawn. Not a prize. Not a sacrifice.

Now he was part of the machine.

And Ollie’s fear warred with his pride.

The silence between them dragged out, thick and clumsy. Ollie didn’t know how to break it. Not with all the things he wanted to say caught in his throat. Not with that boy standing there, eyes too wide, too bright, like he hadn’t yet learned how to hide his fear. Or maybe he had, and Ollie was just cursed to see through it.

Finally, Ollie cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the stillness.

“Kimi.” His voice came out low, rough, like he’d swallowed glass.

Kimi’s gaze snapped up, startled, as if he hadn’t expected Ollie to speak first.

“Don’t…” Ollie started, then stopped, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked over Kimi—slim, small, but coiled like a spring. A boy pretending at being ready. A boy who’d been made into a weapon, but never taught how to be safe. “Don’t take unnecessary risks. You know the map. You know the plan. Stick to it. Stay close. I want you at my side when this is done. Not—” His voice broke, and he hated himself for it. He sucked in a breath, tried again. “Not a memory I have to carry.”

Kimi blinked, stunned. For a second, he just stared, like the words didn’t compute. Like no one had ever said them to him before. Maybe no one had.

And then—awkward, hesitant—he shifted closer. His hand lifted, hovered near Ollie’s arm like he meant to touch him, then thought better of it and let it fall.

“You too,” Kimi said, and his voice was thin but fierce. “Don’t play hero. You think I don’t know what you’re planning? You’ll throw yourself in front of a bullet if you think it’ll save me. Don’t.”

Ollie’s laugh came sharp, humorless. “Guess we’re both a fucking mess.”

Kimi’s mouth twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or cry.

And then—so quick, so awkward it almost didn’t register—Kimi leaned in and brushed a kiss against Ollie’s cheek. His lips barely touched skin, like he was afraid of his own boldness. But his breath stayed close, warm and shaky between them.

Ollie froze. His heart kicked hard, painful against his ribs. The heat of that tiny contact burned through him.

Kimi pulled back fast, face flushed red, eyes down, embarrassed. “I—sorry. I just…” He swallowed, fists clenching at his sides. “I want to see you after this. I want to know we did it. Together.”

The world tilted a little.

Ollie hesitated, then reached out—awkward as hell, but needing it—and rested a hand on Kimi’s head, fingers threading into those curls he pretended not to notice most days. He bent, pressed a quick, clumsy kiss to Kimi’s forehead, then stepped back like the touch had scorched him.

“Stubborn, curly-haired menace,” Ollie muttered, voice low, dark with affection he didn’t know how to voice. His lips quirked in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re gonna have me gray by twenty, I swear.”

Kimi let out a breathless sound, part laugh, part sob, but he nodded.

“Good,” he whispered, not looking up. “Then you’ll match me.”

And before either of them could say anything else, before they could ruin the fragile moment with more clumsy words, the doors opened. The cold rushed in, and the night waited.

~~~~

The night bled around them, thick as oil, the sky above choked of stars as if the heavens themselves turned away from what was about to unfold. The manor, once a fortress of comfort, was now a war machine, humming with the quiet fury of a family that had been pushed too far. And Kimi—Kimi felt it in his bones, in the pulse that thundered behind his ribs, in the sweat slicking his palms where they gripped the small comm device, as if his voice alone could guide these giants he now called family through the labyrinth of rot that was his father’s empire.

They moved through the dark like phantoms. Max and Charles on either side of him, their shoulders brushing his smaller frame as if to shield him from the night itself. Ollie’s voice crackled softly in his ear, a tether, a promise, a prayer. Somewhere ahead, Oscar and Lando cut through the shadows like knives, precise, silent, lethal. Carlos ghosted along the periphery, unseen but felt, setting the traps that would bleed any who dared pursue them. And behind it all, at the manor’s heart, Seb and Lewis watched over them, voices low and steady, guiding them like old gods from their throne of screens and maps.

Kimi’s breath misted in the cold, shallow at first, but he forced it deeper, steadier, tried to match the measured steps of those around him. This was his role now. This was what he could give them. Information. The filth in his veins turned to weapon. His father’s secrets, dragged into the light and turned against him. He kept his voice low, softer than a whisper, the words clinging to the inside of his mouth like bitter wine. “Left, there’s a service entrance behind the crates—unguarded. Leads to the cellar.” His heart stuttered as he spoke, but Max’s hand found the small of his back, firm, grounding.

“Good boy, Andrea,” came Max’s voice, a murmur over comms and beside him, the weight of approval. “Keep talking us through.”

The words bolstered him, more than they should have. He hated how he craved it, that scrap of validation, but he did. He swallowed the shame and pressed on, eyes darting between the alley’s edge and the dim glow of the tablet cradled in his arms, the map of Antonelli’s estate etched into his mind after years of walking those cursed halls.

“There’s a panel behind the wine racks,” Kimi breathed, the memory so sharp it burned. “Father’s ledgers. Cash reserves hidden in the walls. Guard rotation passes it every seven minutes. You can make it before they loop back.” He felt more than heard Ollie’s breath hitch over the comm, felt it like a shiver down his spine, the silent gratitude, the fear knotted tight behind his brother’s voice.

“You’re doing perfect, amorino,” Ollie said, and Kimi’s knees almost buckled at the tenderness buried in the words. Tenderness, when he deserved none of it. When he was the reason they were here at all, drowning in this bloodstained night.

Charles’s voice joined them, warm despite the steel beneath it, protective in a way that made Kimi’s chest ache with the wanting of it. “See how valuable you are to us? Keep going, mon ange. You’re guiding us home.”

And God, he wanted to believe it. That he could be worth something more than a pawn on a marriage contract, more than a prize passed between men like fine china. He moved with them, small and silent, threading through the night, his voice the only blade he dared wield, cutting a path through Antonelli’s domain. Each instruction felt like peeling back a layer of himself, exposing old wounds to the air, but he did it. For them. For Ollie. For the family that had taken him in, wrapped him in warmth when all he’d ever known was cold.

They moved like a machine, but Kimi felt every piece of it, the cogs and gears slick with sweat and blood and love. Max, the engine—steady, relentless, fury contained beneath ice. Charles, the heart—every beat a calculation, a promise of survival. Ollie, the soul—brilliant and bright, but fraying at the edges with terror he thought Kimi couldn’t see. But Kimi saw. He saw it all. And it gutted him. Because he wanted to spare Ollie this, to be the shield his husband deserved, not the crack in the armor that let the darkness seep in.

He kept his voice steady, even when his hands trembled, even when the memories clawed at him. The hidden doors where he’d been dragged through as a boy. The rooms where men had stared at him like meat at market. The vault where his father’s sins festered, behind locks Kimi now broke open with words whispered into the night.

Every time he spoke, he felt their faith in him, wrapping around his ribs like armor. And it terrified him. Because faith meant expectation. And expectation meant he could fail them. And failure meant blood.

But he spoke anyway.

“There’s a corridor—north wing. Storage. But there’s a hidden stair. Leads to the private office. That’s where he keeps the key codes.” His voice cracked, just a little, and Max squeezed his shoulder, wordless but powerful.

“You’re doing good, Andrea,” Charles murmured. “Almost there.”

The world narrowed to the sound of his breath, the hiss of comms, the soft footfalls of men who trusted him to guide them through hell. The weight of it bore down on him, but he didn’t collapse. He bore it. For them.

For Ollie.

He could feel his husband out there, like a second heartbeat, could sense the storm inside him, the war between fear and resolve. Ollie wanted him safe. Ollie would burn the world for him. And Kimi wanted to deserve that fire, to be worth the ashes left behind.

So he kept speaking.

And they kept moving, shadows slicing through the night, a family forged in blood and love, bound together by the boy who had once been nothing, now leading them into the heart of the storm.

The night had teeth now. It gnawed at them as they moved deeper into the heart of Antonelli’s empire, the air thick with the taste of copper and smoke. The plan—so perfect, so precise—had carried them far, had made ghosts of them in the dark, silent and unstoppable. But the night always bites back. And when it did, it went for Ollie’s throat.

It happened so fast, faster than Kimi’s breath could hitch, faster than the beat of his heart could warn him. One moment Ollie was a shadow at the edge of his vision, silent, focused, his figure cutting through the dark like a blade. The next, the dark spat out its monsters. Antonelli’s men, two of them, maybe more hidden by the black of the alley and the smoke curling up from a nearby exhaust. They hit Ollie hard—one from the front, a blur of fists and steel, the other from behind, a shadow that closed like a noose.

Kimi froze. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for terror to root itself in his spine. Ollie staggered, caught off guard, a blow to his face sharp and brutal. The sound of bone giving beneath the strike echoed too loud in the night, his nose breaking, blood spraying bright against the dark. Ollie went down hard to one knee, hands coming up too slow, breath choked by the hit. The second man was on him in an instant, arm wrapping around his throat, the glint of a blade catching what little light the moon offered.

And then Kimi moved.

He didn’t think. There was no space for thought, no room for fear. There was only the white-hot surge of something that had no name, something born of every moment Ollie had shielded him, every breath Ollie had given him without asking for anything in return. It was instinct, it was rage, it was love honed to a killing edge.

His feet barely touched the ground as he lunged. Small, fast, silent. The predator no one ever saw coming. The man with his arm around Ollie’s throat didn’t even have time to turn before Kimi was on him, hands sure, knife flashing in the moonlight like the promise of death. Kimi’s body slammed into the man’s back, slight but all sharp angles and fury, and he buried the blade deep and clean.

“Don’t fucking touch my husband.” The words hissed from between his teeth, low and cold, and they carried in the dark like a curse.

The man stiffened, gasped, and Kimi twisted the knife the way he’d been taught long ago—the way they’d made him practice on pigs and goats, on boys weaker than him in the pit. Twist and pull. Make it bleed, make it end. The man dropped like a stone, dead before his knees hit the ground.

The other attacker turned, too slow, too shocked to process what had happened. Ollie surged up in that instant, blood pouring from his nose, fury burning in his eyes, and drove his elbow into the man’s temple with a crack that was sickening and final. The second body fell. Silence crashed down around them, heavy and absolute.

Ollie was breathing hard, his chest heaving, eyes wild and locked on Kimi as if trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. Kimi stood over the fallen man, knife dripping, hands shaking now that the storm inside him had broken. His curls were wild around his face, sweat and blood mingling on his skin, his breath a harsh rasp in the night. And then Ollie was there, pulling him close, clutching him as if he could hide him from what he’d just done, from what he’d just been willing to do.

“Kimi—amorino—fuck, are you hurt? Did he touch you? Are you okay?” Ollie’s voice cracked, thick with panic, with worry, with too many things all at once. His hands trembled as they ran over Kimi’s arms, his sides, his face, checking him, needing to feel him whole.

“I’m fine,” Kimi whispered, and now the shock began to seep in, his knees threatening to give. But Ollie held him up, kissed his knuckles where the blood had splashed, tasted the salt and the copper, felt the tremor in the small hands that had ended a man’s life for him.

And then Charles was there, silent as the grave, eyes taking in the scene in one glance. His gaze swept over the bodies, the blood, his son and the boy who was no longer just a boy—not in this, not after this. He saw the knife in Kimi’s grip, the way Ollie shielded him with his body, and something shifted in him.

Charles moved closer, slow, as if approaching a wounded animal. But Kimi didn’t flinch. He met Charles’s gaze, wide-eyed, haunted, but steady. And Charles laid a hand on his shoulder, firm, warm, grounding.

“You protected him,” Charles said quietly, pride threaded through the soft ache in his voice. “You protected what’s ours.”

And Kimi, shaking now that it was over, let the knife fall, let it clatter to the ground, and sank against Ollie’s chest, breath hitching, not quite a sob but close. Ollie’s arms wrapped around him tighter, a shield, a promise. Charles watched them, and in that moment, Kimi saw it—the silent acceptance, the acknowledgment that whatever else he was, whatever else he had been made into, he was theirs now. Truly. Irrevocably.

The night closed in again, the silence broken only by the sound of their breathing, and the knowledge that the storm was far from over. But in this, they had won a small victory. Kimi had fought for what he chose to love. And Charles had seen it, and named him family with nothing but a glance, a hand, a word.

And in Ollie’s arms, Kimi let himself believe—for just a moment—that he could be more than what his father had made him. That he could be the blade that defended, not the one that destroyed.

~~~~

The manor was humming with the aftershocks of triumph. The walls themselves seemed to breathe with relief, with the hum of victory that lingers in the bones long after the blood has been spilled and the dust has settled. The champagne had been poured, the glasses lifted in quiet, sharp toasts — no words needed, just the glance between brothers, the silent nods between soldiers, the rare, fleeting peace of a mission that went right. Max had watched them all — his sons, his partner, his family — each pair peeling off into the shadows of the grand old house, slipping away to burn off the charge of the night in private moments. And then it was just him and Charles, standing there in the quiet that came after.

Max hadn’t realized how tightly his body had been wound until the silence settled, until the weight of the night released its claws from his shoulders. Charles stood in the doorway, half in shadow, eyes darker than the night outside, mouth tilted in a smirk that Max knew too well. That look had been the beginning of many a night like this, back when they were young and hungry, before age and empire tempered them. And in that look, Max felt it — the fire still there, untouched by time, waiting to consume them both.

“You look like you could use something stronger than champagne,” Charles murmured, voice low and edged with heat.

Max’s mouth quirked. “You volunteering?”

But Charles didn’t answer with words. He crossed the space between them in three long strides, his hands already on Max’s shirt, pushing it up, dragging his nails down the hard line of his chest as if to remind himself — yes, this is mine. Max caught him by the hips, lifted him clean off the floor like he weighed nothing, carried him until Charles’s back hit the wall with a dull thud. Their mouths crashed together, teeth clashing, tongues tasting smoke and champagne and the salt of each other’s skin.

It was clumsy at first, the way passion born of adrenaline often is. Hands fumbled at buckles, at buttons, at fabric that seemed determined to stay in place. Max growled against Charles’s mouth, impatient, and Charles laughed, breathless, biting at Max’s lower lip until he tasted blood and satisfaction.

“Still slow after all these years,” Charles teased, gasping when Max’s mouth found the hollow of his throat.

“Keep talking, cher, see where it gets you,” Max rasped, voice rough, hands already sliding down, fingers bruising with their grip.

The room felt too small to contain them — the heat of their bodies, the hunger that coiled tight and desperate. Max didn’t bother with the bed. No, the floor was where they had spilled each other’s secrets in their youth, where they had sworn loyalty and love and war all in the same breath. He let Charles down hard onto the thick rug, followed him down, the weight of his body pinning Charles beneath him, mouth finding every inch of skin it could reach.

Charles arched up, gasping, nails raking down Max’s back hard enough to leave marks, to claim him in ways words never could. His breath hitched when Max’s teeth grazed his shoulder, when his hands pinned Charles’s wrists above his head, when his weight crushed down just enough to remind them both who they were, what they had always been to each other.

“God, you’re still a fucking animal,” Charles hissed, voice shaking with need.

“And you love it,” Max shot back, breath hot against Charles’s skin, body moving with brutal, beautiful precision.

Their hips met, grinding, rutting, no finesse, just raw need. The air filled with the sound of their breath, the slap of skin, the low, broken sounds they tore from each other. Charles’s legs locked around Max’s waist, urging him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between them, until Max’s heart felt like it would break from how much he wanted, how much he needed to lose himself in this, in Charles.

It was reckless, frantic, the way they moved. The way Max drove into him, rough, relentless, like he could fuck the war out of both of them. The way Charles took it, met every thrust with a snap of his hips, gasping, cursing, begging and goading in the same breath. The way they clung to each other like drowning men.

Time blurred, lost in the rhythm of their bodies, the burn of skin on skin, the taste of sweat and victory on each other’s lips. Max felt the edge coming, sharp and inevitable, and he buried his face in Charles’s neck, his voice breaking on a groan that was part triumph, part surrender. Charles came apart beneath him, shaking, breathless, hands gripping Max’s hair, his shoulders, anything to hold him there, to keep him close as he shattered.

And when it was over, when the storm had passed, they lay tangled on the rug, bodies slick with sweat, hearts still racing. Max’s hand found Charles’s face, thumb brushing over the swollen curve of his mouth, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the weight of what they still meant to each other.

“Just like when we were young,” Charles said at last, voice hoarse, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

Max huffed a laugh, low and rough. “Better. Because now I know I get to keep you.”

Charles turned his face into Max’s palm, kissed it softly, and let his eyes close. “Always.”

And there, on the floor of their war room, the empire safe for another night, they found peace the only way they knew how — in each other’s arms, in the quiet that comes after the storm.

*

The night felt thick with the taste of triumph, the manor alive in a way that only came after blood had been spilled, after danger had been met head-on and conquered. Oscar felt it thrumming through his veins, that heady cocktail of adrenaline, exhaustion, and satisfaction. But now, tucked away in their corner of the sprawling estate, he let the weight of it begin to fall away, piece by piece. The room was dim, the only light the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the shadows deep, wrapping around them like a secret. The smoke curled lazily in the air, sweet and heavy, as Lando took another slow drag from the joint, eyes half-lidded, red-rimmed, glittering with something that looked like worship.

“You looked so fucking hot tonight,” Lando murmured, voice low and reverent as he exhaled, the smoke slipping from his lips like a prayer. His hand reached out, fingers trailing over the curve of Oscar’s hip, tracing the line of his thigh where the dark fabric of his sweats clung to him. “The Ghost, back again… God, baby, I thought I’d forgotten how good you look like that.”

Oscar chuckled softly, the sound warm and loose, the weed already weaving its spell through his body, making his limbs feel too light and too heavy all at once. He took the joint when Lando passed it, inhaled deep, held it until his lungs burned, then let it out slow, watching the tendrils of smoke dance between them. His head felt fuzzy, pleasantly blurred at the edges, and when Lando leaned in to press kisses along his jaw, his neck, the hollow beneath his ear, Oscar let himself melt into it, let himself feel every soft brush of lips, every scrape of stubble like it was the first time.

“Yeah?” Oscar breathed, his voice gone rough, his mouth gone dry from the smoke and the way Lando was looking at him. Like he was something sacred, something Lando would fall to his knees for and worship without hesitation. “You like seeing me like that?”

Lando’s answer was a hum, a growl, his hands sliding under Oscar’s shirt, pushing it up, baring skin inch by inch. “You don’t even know. Every time you moved, every time you struck—fuck, Os. I wanted to drag you off right there, make you mine all over again.”

Oscar’s breath hitched, his body already thrumming with need, made sharper, deeper by the haze of the high. He let the shirt fall away, let Lando’s hands explore him, relearn him, map out every scar, every freckle, every place that made him shiver. He straddled Lando’s lap without thinking, guided by instinct, by the slow burn low in his belly that the weed made feel like molten gold in his veins.

Lando looked up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgot how to breathe. His eyes were dark, bloodshot, heavy-lidded, but full of nothing but adoration, hunger, devotion so deep it almost hurt to be the object of it. “Look at you,” Lando whispered, his hands gripping Oscar’s hips, grounding him, steadying him. “My Ghost. My fucking God.”

Oscar felt himself flush, heat blooming under his skin that had nothing to do with the joint and everything to do with Lando. He leaned down, kissed him slow, deep, tasting the weed on his tongue, the smoke, the sweetness of him. They moved together like they’d done it a thousand times — because they had — but tonight felt different. Tonight felt like coming home. Like peace. Like victory.

The joint passed between them, lazy and slow, as Oscar began to move. His thighs ached in the best way, his breath stuttered with each roll of his hips, each slow slide of their bodies together. The weed made everything softer, sharper, stranger — made the pleasure feel like a wave he could drown in, made Lando’s hands on him feel like fire and silk at once. He was dizzy with it, dizzy with Lando, with love, with the slow, endless rhythm that left him gasping, left him wanting more, always more.

Lando couldn’t take his eyes off him, couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop murmuring his name like a mantra between kisses, between groans, between the soft, broken sounds that escaped as Oscar rode him slow, steady, relentless. His hands slid up Oscar’s sides, down to his ass, squeezing, guiding, pulling him closer, deeper. “So fucking perfect,” he whispered, voice wrecked with awe, with need. “So perfect for me.”

Oscar’s head tipped back, his mouth falling open on a gasp, the joint dangling forgotten between his fingers, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. The room smelled of sex and weed and sweat and victory, and he thought he could live in this moment forever — high on pleasure, on love, on Lando. His thighs burned, his body ached, but he kept moving, lost in it, lost in the way Lando filled him, the way Lando looked at him like he was everything, the way Lando’s hands held him like he was fragile and unbreakable at once.

The haze thickened, the room spinning slow and sweet around him, and Oscar let it take him, let the pleasure build and build until he was nothing but sensation, nothing but the feel of Lando beneath him, inside him, around him. When the end came, it came slow, like drowning in warm water, like sinking into something that would keep him safe forever. He gasped Lando’s name, choked on it, felt Lando follow, felt him shudder and curse and cling.

And when it was over, when the high and the heat ebbed, they stayed tangled together, breathless and boneless, sharing what was left of the joint between soft, lazy kisses. Oscar’s head rested on Lando’s shoulder, his heart still racing, his body still humming with the aftershocks of it all.

“Best fucking night of my life,” Lando muttered, kissing the top of his head, his voice thick with love and weed and satisfaction.

Oscar smiled, slow and sated, and closed his eyes. “Mine too.”

And the night wrapped around them, warm and dark and safe, as they drifted down from their high, together.

*

The roof of the manor was quiet in a way that the world rarely allowed — a hush that wrapped around them like a secret, broken only by the soft clink of glass against stone as Ollie set down the half-empty whiskey bottle between them. The night stretched wide and endless above, a spill of stars scattered across the black, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Ollie let himself breathe. The adrenaline had ebbed, leaving behind bone-deep fatigue and a strange, tender ache that had nothing to do with the bruises darkening his skin or the sharp throb of his broken nose. It was quieter than that, heavier. A weight in his chest that eased only when he felt the warmth of Kimi pressed close beside him, fingers trembling just slightly as he finished tying off the bandage on Ollie’s arm.

Kimi’s hands were careful, his touch light, as if he were afraid of hurting him, and yet the closeness of him — the way his shoulder brushed Ollie’s with every small movement — was its own kind of sweet torment. Ollie swallowed hard against it, watching the boy’s face in the soft silver of moonlight, the way the tension had melted from his features, leaving him open, unguarded in a way Ollie had never seen. The whiskey had worked its magic quickly, blurring the sharp edges of the day, loosening Kimi’s tongue and his smile, making him lean into Ollie more and more as the minutes passed.

“Today felt… like I could finally breathe,” Kimi said softly, voice slurred just enough to give him away. His eyes were bright, glassy with drink and the remnants of adrenaline, but his smile was genuine, unfiltered. He hiccupped, and Ollie felt his lips curve without meaning to, unable to help it, unable to stop himself from drinking in every inch of him. “I never thought I’d see it — Antonelli’s empire burning. His money, gone. All that power he used to hold over me, over everyone… gone.” He laughed, a small, broken sound, and shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “God, I was so scared when I saw that man on you. When he — when you went down, when he had you—I thought…”

Ollie didn’t let him finish. He reached out, fingers brushing Kimi’s cheek, a soft, anchoring touch. “I’m here,” he said, voice rough with everything he couldn’t say. “You saved me, amorino. You saved me.”

Kimi’s breath caught, and for a heartbeat, they just stared at each other, the world falling away, leaving only the thrum of their hearts, the heat of shared breath. Then Kimi laughed again, embarrassed, and reached for the bottle, taking a clumsy swig that made him cough. “I’m drunk,” he announced, as if it were some grand revelation, and Ollie shook his head, amused, fond beyond reason.

“I noticed,” he said, voice warm, and Kimi grinned at him, wide and boyish, the weight of his years falling from him in that smile.

They settled together in the quiet, the bottle passed back and forth, the stars wheeling above them. At some point, Ollie lay back, needing to take the pressure off his aching ribs, and was startled when Kimi followed, curling against him without hesitation, head resting on his chest, arm draped over his waist like it belonged there. Ollie froze at first, every muscle tensed, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard he was sure Kimi could feel it. But Kimi just sighed, content, and snuggled closer, small and warm and so goddamn trusting that Ollie thought he might shatter under the weight of it.

The silence stretched, soft and full, and then Ollie found himself saying, “Do you want me to tell you about the stars?”

Kimi’s head tipped up, curls brushing Ollie’s jaw, eyes wide and eager despite the haze of drink. He nodded, smile crooked. “Please.”

So Ollie talked — low and gentle, his voice weaving through the night as he named the constellations, pointed out shapes with the slow drift of his fingers. He told stories he remembered from childhood, the myths his father had murmured when he was small, the names of the stars that had kept him company on too many sleepless nights. And Kimi listened, rapt, his breath warm against Ollie’s throat, his weight a solid, perfect comfort.

“If I ever have a daughter,” Ollie said eventually, the words slipping free before he could think to stop them, “I’d want to name her Cassiopeia. Call her Cassie. It sounds sweet… like an angel.”

He felt Kimi go still, and then the boy shifted, enough to look up at him, expression open, curious, unguarded. “You want kids?” he asked, voice soft with wonder, as if the idea of wanting something so simple, so normal, was foreign to him.

Ollie hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Always have. Two, maybe — a boy, a girl. Or whatever, really. As long as they’re mine.”

Kimi stared at him, eyes shining, and then he giggled, a soft, tipsy sound that made Ollie’s chest ache with the sweetness of it. “I’d want at least three. All girls. I want to be a girl d-daddy.” He hiccupped, face going red, and buried it against Ollie’s shoulder in embarrassment.

Ollie felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs. He looked at Kimi, really looked, memorizing the way the moonlight painted him in silver, the way his curls glowed, the way his smile — so rare, so precious — lit up his whole face. He felt his heart clench, fierce and protective, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was nothing in this world he wouldn’t give him.

“Then you’ll have all the girls you want,” he said, voice rough, meaning it with every piece of him. “Anything for you.”

Kimi blinked up at him, amazed, and for a moment he looked like he might cry. Instead, he leaned up, clumsy and sweet, and pressed a kiss to Ollie’s cheek — too close to his mouth, lingering longer than either of them expected. His breath was warm, smelled faintly of whiskey and smoke, and Ollie froze, too stunned to move, to speak.

“Deal,” Kimi whispered, and then he giggled again, curling up against Ollie’s chest, eyes drifting closed, trusting him completely.

Ollie lay there, staring up at the stars, his heart hammering, his mind a riot of thoughts, of hopes, of fears. He held Kimi close, felt the soft weight of him, the steady beat of his heart, and knew, in that moment, that he was lost. Completely, utterly lost. And he didn’t want to be found.

They stayed like that until sleep took them, tangled together under the endless sky, safe, for tonight.

~~~~

The night air over the Antonelli estate in Italy hung thick with dread, as if the land itself sensed the ruin that had crept, silent and unseen, through its walls. The manor — once a symbol of untouchable power, of legacy forged in blood and fear — now felt hollow, its grandeur dimmed beneath the weight of a reckoning long overdue.

In the vast, cold study where Marco Antonelli had built empires and broken men, the air was heavy with the scent of old leather, dying fire, and the faint, bitter tang of defeat. The shadows seemed deeper tonight, clinging to the corners like specters, as if they, too, bore witness to the fall of a dynasty.

On his desk, polished wood marred by years of rage-fueled blows, of fists slammed down in fury, of glasses shattered in drunken bitterness, now sat a single object. A black velvet box. Small. Unassuming. But it radiated menace — not through grandiosity, but through what it meant.

The man who placed it there had come and gone like a wraith, slipping past the crumbling defenses that had once made this place a fortress. Guards stationed at doors, along halls, by the study itself — all left untouched, unaware, their failure as absolute as the silence that followed. The message was clear: You are vulnerable. We walk through your world as we please. You are no longer safe.

Marco stared at the box for a long time, as if by sheer will he could unmake it, as if it might vanish if he refused to see it. But the weight of it pressed on him — heavier than gold, sharper than any blade. Finally, with hands that trembled despite his effort to still them, he opened it.

Inside: a silver coin. On one side, the proud, brutal crest of the Antonelli family, etched deep into the metal — a symbol that had once commanded loyalty, fear, and respect in equal measure. But that mark of legacy, of empire, was defaced. A clean slash cut through it, as if the coin itself had been struck by a blade, as if to say: Your line is severed. Your power is broken.

He turned it over with numb fingers. The VL crest stared back at him: the wolf entwined with the fleur-de-lis, fierce and unbroken, untouchable in its defiance.

And beneath the coin, folded with precision, lay the note. Heavy paper. Black ink. Max’s handwriting — a thing of cold clarity, of control honed through decades of survival and war. No flourish. No threat dressed in metaphor. Just truth, delivered like a blade to the gut.

Kimi is no longer yours.
He bears no Antonelli name, no Antonelli debt, no Antonelli chain.
He is our son now — a Verstappen-Leclerc, in blood and in bond.
You will not touch him. You will not seek him. You will not speak his name again.
The price of your defiance is paid in the ashes of your empire’s heart.
Should you seek another debt, know the next payment will be taken in blood.
—M.V.L

Each line struck with finality, as unyielding as stone. There were no second chances offered. No negotiations extended. Just a decree: This ends now, or it ends in your grave.

The paper trembled in Marco’s grip. His chest heaved, breath shallow, heart pounding like a drumbeat of rage and helplessness. The weight of what he had lost — not just wealth, not just power, but the last piece of his son, the last tether to a legacy he had thought unbreakable — bore down on him until it felt as if the walls themselves might close in and crush him.

Outside, the night was quiet. No alarms. No sounds of pursuit. Because there was no pursuit. The message had been delivered. The blow struck. And the Antonelli name, once spoken with reverence or fear, now hung in the air like a curse, hollow and broken.

And the coin glinted in the firelight — a headstone for a fallen empire, left on a desk as a final, damning epitaph.