His long finger slowly slid into his mouth prying his mouth open , andrien wasn't like any other men he had fucked before . His body was so damn perfect , so damn pale and white like those proclaim dolls . So smooth and soft he wondered what those lips would taste like and those tempting blue eyes that seemed dead and cold . It's was fucking perfect
" Your really something else . Hehe.. I really want to ram my cock into your mouth doc , for a whole week you'll taste nothing but my dick and my cum wouldn't that be amazing?" The gun still pressed down to his throat , the gun fully loaded .
Andrien grit , one wrong move his head would be off this perverted bastard he cursed in his mind .
****
The scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, thick and acrid, mingling with the iron tang of blood. Bodies lay strewn across the concrete floor, some groaning, others already cold. The neon flicker of a broken streetlight cast jagged shadows over the carnage, painting the scene in eerie flashes of red and black.
Dante Valerio stood in the center of it all, unfazed. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between his fingers, the cherry tip glowing in the darkness. Blood seeped from the bullet wound in his side, warm against his skin, soaking into the fine fabric of his tailored shirt. He barely felt it. Pain had long since become an afterthought.
His men stood at a distance, heads bowed, waiting for his command. They had seen him take hits before, watched him walk through fire without flinching, but tonight—tonight was different.
"Boss, you need a doctor," one of them urged, shifting uneasily.
Dante exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the night. He glanced down at the growing pool of crimson at his feet, then chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver through the men surrounding him.
"The night's still young," he murmured, pressing a hand to the wound. His fingers came away slick with blood. "Let's not ruin it with concern."
But his body had other plans. A wave of dizziness hit him, sharp and sudden. The cigarette slipped from his lips, hitting the ground with a soft hiss.
"Boss—"
Before he could wave them off, strong hands were already on him, guiding him toward the waiting car.
He let them.
The world tilted as he sank into the backseat, head resting against the cool leather. The city blurred past in a haze of neon and darkness, but he didn't focus on it. He was thinking about the men he had just put in the ground, the ones who had dared to challenge him.
They had died screaming.
A slow smile curved his lips.
He barely noticed when the car pulled up to the private hospital—one of his hospitals. The doors swung open, and the moment his men stepped out, the staff was already moving. They knew better than to ask questions.
But as Dante was led inside, one thing became clear.
The doctor waiting for him wasn't someone he knew.
And the cold blue eyes staring back at him held not even a flicker of fear.
The air inside the private hospital was thick with sterility—too clean, too quiet. The scent of antiseptic barely masked the underlying metallic tang of blood clinging to Dante's skin. His men hovered behind him, tense, waiting for orders, but he barely acknowledged them. The pain in his side was an afterthought.
His attention was elsewhere.
Adrien Cross.
The doctor was seated at a steel desk near the counter, fingers lazily flipping through patient files as if the world outside these walls didn't exist. A cigarette burned between his lips, its ember casting a faint glow against his sharp features. He looked utterly unaffected, his blue hair tousled from long hours, his white coat draped loosely over broad shoulders.
Dante had met many men in his life—killers, businessmen, cowards who bowed at his feet—but none had ever looked at him like this.
Uninterested. Detached.
Adrien barely glanced up before exhaling a slow stream of smoke. His gaze, distant and lifeless, locked onto Dante's with no urgency. No curiosity. Just… nothing.
"You're bleeding on my floor." His tone was as emotionless as his expression.
One of Dante's men stepped forward, ready to remind the doctor who he was speaking to, but a subtle flick of Dante's fingers stopped him. He wasn't offended. If anything… he was entertained.
Adrien took another slow drag, not even bothering to put out his cigarette. "There are a thousand doctors in this city," he continued. "Find another."
Dante chuckled under his breath. The audacity.
His gaze swept over the doctor's frame, taking in the sharp cut of his jaw, the piercing blue eyes that could have been beautiful if they weren't so lifeless. A shame, really.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his own cigarette with practiced ease, lighting it with slow, deliberate movements.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"I think I'll stay."
Adrien exhaled, watching him with a blank stare. Then, without a word, he stubbed out his cigarette, peeled off his gloves, and reached for a fresh pair.
"Get on the table."
Dante let out a low, amused hum. So cold. So unbothered.
How interesting.
Instead of moving, he took another drag of his cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them. His lips curled into a lazy smirk, tilting his head slightly.
"You always this friendly, doctor?"
Adrien's gaze remained flat. "No."
Dante chuckled again, finally stepping forward. He sat on the table with the ease of a man who owned the room, his cigarette still burning between his fingers.
"Good," he murmured. "I hate friendly people."
For the first time, something flickered in Adrien's eyes. A passing thought. A ghost of a reaction.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Dante decided, then and there, that he wanted to see that reaction again.
Adrien reached for his tools with the same detached efficiency he applied to everything in his life. No wasted movements. No hesitation. Just methodical precision.
As he approached, his hand moved without pause, plucking the cigarette from Dante's fingers and flicking it toward the waste bin at the far end of the room. It landed with a soft hiss against the metal, the ember dying instantly.
Dante arched a brow, amusement flickering in his dark eyes, but he said nothing.
Adrien didn't look at him as he pulled on a pair of gloves and set to work. He removed the bullet with practiced ease, the sterile lights reflecting off his instruments as he stitched the wound closed. The needle passed through flesh with silent efficiency, yet Dante barely flinched.
He wasn't paying attention to the pain.
He was watching him.
Pale skin, smooth under the harsh lighting. The faint scent of something clean, untainted by blood or smoke. A stark contrast to everything Dante knew.
He leaned in, just slightly, close enough to catch more of that unfamiliar scent.
Adrien didn't look up. He simply continued working, his voice as flat as ever.
"What are you doing?"
Dante smirked. "You're beautiful."
Adrien finally glanced at him, unbothered, as if he'd heard those words a thousand times before and found them equally meaningless each time. Then his gaze flicked down, slow, taking in Dante's broad frame, the tattoos lining his arms, the barely buttoned shirt revealing the muscle underneath.
And then, with that same cold indifference, he spoke.
"I'm not interested."
A beat of silence.
Then his lips curled into something almost cruel.
"And even if I were…" his gaze drifted lazily over him once more before settling back on his wound, "you're not my type."
Dante stared at him.
And then he laughed. Low, dark, entertained.
Oh, he liked this one.
Adrien finished the last stitch, tying it off with precise, practiced ease. Without another word, he pulled off his gloves and discarded them, then rolled up his sleeve.
A sleek, black tattoo of a snake coiled around his forearm—clean, sharp, deliberate. It suited him. Cold and dangerous.
Dante watched as he stepped to the sink, turning on the water. Adrien washed his hands with clinical indifference, scrubbing away the blood as if he were merely wiping away a minor inconvenience.
Then, without looking back, he spoke.
"When you're done making yourself comfortable, use the door." His voice was smooth, emotionless. Then, just like that, he turned and walked out.
Dante let out a low chuckle, slipping a hand into his pocket as he stood. There was something intriguing about that man. He had met assassins, mercenaries, and killers with dead eyes, but none of them had that.
A complete and utter lack of interest.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a soft laugh before strolling toward the door. The moment he stepped out, he was met with the sight of his men standing stiffly, their expressions tense—waiting as if he might collapse at any moment.
One of them stepped forward, pressing a phone into his palm.
"Madam called. She wants you back at the estate immediately."
Dante sighed, rolling his shoulders as he tucked the phone into his pocket. "Of course she did."
With an easy, unbothered stride, he made his
way toward the exit.