#dulce periculum

And, a favorite that was always whispered from the lips of lower-ranking officials, however, as truthful as it can be.

Power always had a habit of shifting.

In this world of secrets buried deep alongside bodies, unfairly traded favors and unforeseen consequences - no other way would cut it.

It had been the way the cogs turned in the hypothetical machinery that made up the underworld, the wires running rampant to feed the participants - willing and coerced alike. Some rules had been unwritten, yet engraved into the beating heart of the system - that given one very mighty fine day, just how the balances holding the whole world could rattle, to never be the same again.

Not many lived long enough to witness such an event, yet alone have it unfold before their mere eyes.

With each click of your black heels across concrete, you would find yourself wondering if you had been blessed or cursed for the opportunity.

Every step you took felt like dragging tons of rock, moments passing around you feeling like an eternity in a frame. Stewards, bellboys dressed in mourning blacks to match the overall theme lined neatly for welcoming, yet the silhouettes were blurrier than ever in plain daylight.

The silent, yet determined expression on your face never faltered. It could not - your training did not lend you the luxury to.

Your feet slowly yet surely carried you towards the entrance of the Continental, gaze dragging upwards to the towering structure ahead. Steps you had walked too many times to count, for business or pleasure.

A place you had once taken safe refuge, about to become no less than a war zone, a memorial rising from a funeral - a place of ruthless wrath and silent mourning. Men that came to pay their respects to a fallen patriarch, yet instead would never leave the confinements of the building.

A place that would soon become the grave of more than the one congregated for, in a mere matter of hours to follow. A malicious plan that you had taken part in orchestrating, the consequences of which you would have to live with for the rest of your life.

The rest of your life spent with him.

A quick peripheral look would reveal the quiet sorrow concealed through the mourning blacks Santino adorned, as he followed right behind your trail. Always the gentleman, whether the situation called for it or not. Even if his name was being whispered in the back rooms of High Table gatherings, associated to the vacant seat that had remained. Even when he willingly stepped into the fire that would engulf him whole had he been too reckless.

The doors that parted revealed the utterly familiar landscape of the lobby, yet this time there was weight in the air. A waiting silence, the classical music turned into a solemn hymn echoing off of the marble. Unusually empty, with grand vases of white flowers scattered around.

A commemoration, gesture of respect - before the leaves would be stained by the inevitable crimson.

There had been no room for the usual pleasantries that day, save for the reverent nod tossed at Charon’s way, who had gently directed them to the elevators leading to unknowns of the Continental.

“The manager is waiting for you upstairs.”

As you would later discover - he truly did not have that much of a choice, after all.

And there he stood waiting right outside the elevator doors that opened with a barely-there click, the smallest detail at the hotel accounted for.

Winston’s eyes met yours in an unspoken greeting, years of encounters glinting through his worn out orbs that mighty day, before he turned his attention towards your lover - whose hand found yours in pure habit, engulfing your smaller fingers as if he had intended to anchor you to the very ground you stepped on.

The security floor, one you had never gotten the pleasure of frequenting despite your familiarity with the guest wing of the hotel, was everything you could have expected out of an establishment that served assassins for clientele.

The silent whispers of shadows across the hallway gave way to the dark leather soles entering the room. John Wick, with his hair slicked back and black three-piece suit pressed impeccably against the nature of the acts that he was about to commit, stepped in as darkness made flesh. Expression stone-cold, yet your knowing gaze could tell those shoulders carried the weight of a thousand possible futures that could arise from a small change of fate.

One slip-up. One missed bullet, one tiny little mishap - one too many that he could not afford.

His obsidian eyes found yours behind your black veil for a fleeting moment, a silent glint of gratitude winking at you. The heavy gaze, loaded with the broken promises of the past and hopes of the near future then shifted to Santino.

His nod to him was clear - no hesitation, just a man with an impossible plan that he had to flawlessly execute within the confinements of time.

A man willingly walking into death in a thousand ways, into a warzone that had been curated only for him to conquer.

Details of the operation you had taken a major role in curating, a planned mass execution lay bare in front of you, scattered methodically across the large oak table. Notes and instructions that everyone in the room could now recite without thinking.

Entrance times, diligently calculated and assigned to each invitee. Drink and seating preferences, for ensuring utmost hospitality. Accommodation instructions for a High Table envoy added last minute to the guest list due to the precarious nature of the empty seat - and to pay respects to the elder.

There was no room for error. There never was when a man’s freedom was at stake.

“The chapel doors will lock the moment the organ switches to the requiem,” Winston’s voice stated, low and certain in affirmation. The usual smooth, velvety tone laced with steel.

A conductor awaiting his first note.

The manager’s presence commanded the room with many a dangerous men surrounding him, as he restated the measures, the task at hand too precarious to leave any stone unturned.

“Cameras are set to loop with the signal.”

“All exits and entrances manned by our best lethal response - in case of any stragglers. Not that we expect that would be the case, Mr. Wick.”

His eyes, sharp despite the faint trace of a smile on his lips, found the dark-haired assassin perched over a table with his vast choice of arsenal splayed.

The respect he had for the man evident in his gaze, John would look up from his trance and give a quick, firm nod. His jaw clenching ever so slightly through his iron resolve.

“Bene,” Santino acknowledged, his hand briefly closing over yours - a quiet anchor in the rising tide of tension. You felt the subtle movement of his limbs, positioning towards the exit - yet he did not move immediately.

Around you, the air seemed to pulse and contract in those fleeting moments. Santino would exhale, as if delaying himself from the inevitable, and glanced at his watch for the time - his eyes meeting yours as a signal to slowly head down to duty.

Another echo of his voice seemed to slice through the knowing silence.

“Buona fortuna.”

It was clear the wish was meant for the man loading his gun in a ceremonial fashion a few paces away.

However, he did not notice your eyes desperately trying to get one last glance at the taller assassin in the dark suit, as he had expertly disappeared into the shadows as if he had belonged amongst them, with the silent inevitability that had defined him.

Behind you, the doors closed, leaving the chamber heavy with expectation. The Continental awaiting the first hymn, the first bullet to shatter the fragile quiet that had been protected for too long.

---

No thought had been spared with the organization of the farewell to yet another seat, the chapel as elegant as a High Table funeral could have been.

Gaudiness had not been a word present in the vocabulary - each seat placement deliberate, to the crease of the drapery that covered the tall walls. Camorra seals adorning the tapestries flown in from Napoli the night before, now illuminated under the flickering candlelight.

It was an orchestrated spectacle, had it not come with the pretense of a passing. A silent feat of forced smiles, subtle touches and carefully selected words - all dressed in the darkest black for the occasion as the chosen ones walked in one by one, their usual entourage of guards absent.

After all, no business could be conducted within the ground of the Continental.

It would not take too long.

A brief gathering that would change the course of history, for not just them - but the underworld, for those who could fathom. For those who roamed the circles of hell alongside the assassins, mafia leaders and weapon dealers. For those who understood exactly what this power play meant.

It was not a simple funeral - no, you all had paid your respects to the man who protected everyone around him privately, in the comfort of the secluded estate.

It was all business, a transaction taking place. It was a rift in the board that held the stakes. An execution, in the most meticulously crafted way possible. The rumors of a so-called, feared impossible task rendered a reality.

And for that precise reason, Marquis Vincent de Gramont stood at the very corner of the chapel illuminated by candles, a crystal glass of amber liquid swirled in his gloved hand - his watchful gaze observing every crevice and corner with detail.

A ghost in plain sight, a symbol of authority in silence, the living echo of the High Table. Donning a long black jacket with satin lapels, his pin attached proud. An elegantly knotted black silk tie fit for the gravity of the occasion, gray wool covering his long legs. His hair parted as impeccably as his description had mentioned.

And for the moment, he solely watched - like a storm waiting to unravel everything it touched in its path.

---

Seconds passed like an eternity, and then the organs changed the melody into a slow requiem.

It had been mere minutes since you had taken your designated spot next to Winston on the upper balcony of the chapel, one hand against the balustrade, your frame nestled beneath the black marble columns that trailed upwards in elegant braids.

A calloused, large hand found your back in a small, grounding gesture, the anticipation beneath the palm discernible in the slightest of tremors against your suit - even from the man who had ran the show behind the scenes.

A silence fell between the observers in the upper balcony, Camorra lieutenants standing tall beneath their stoic façades, storms of unknown origin in their eyes under the black veils. Below, the private Continental chapel usually reserved for more wholehearted funerals, unfathomably buzzed with just the right combination of killers and kings alike.

Santino stood at the casket, a sculpted portrait of the grieving son. His black suit, pressed and immaculate, only the finest even in mourning for the blood of Camorra. Hands clasped, he accepted murmured condolences, each one another bead on the rosary of his performance.

The tapered flames flickered ever so slightly, the drapery rustling, a couple leaves of the floral arrangements trembling almost in anticipation.

Unbeknownst to them that their fate would be sealed in shut the moment John Wick entered the room through one of the doors hidden behind the Camorra family tapestry.

The shadows moved with the man - deliberate and menacing. Before one gunshot’s full echo could reverberate off of the marble walls, another one would leave the nozzle with immense speed, leaving nothing to chance. Crystal would scatter across the stone as aged liquor mingled with deep red blood, both seeping into the floor as if the chapel itself bore witness. Screams did not have enough time to leave throats before life had been taken from the body - relentless, unforgiving.

Death moved faster than his breath, as he took away others’ so effortlessly. As if he had been born for the sole purpose of taking life, his movements blending into an inevitable tide of cold-blooded killing.

It had ended as quickly as it had begun.

A near lifetime of inflicted sorrow, constant pain and suffering, of bruises and broken bones - taken apart out of want, out of sheer need in the hands of one determined man.

Not out of rage, or the need to prove himself - no, he had already done that when his name was whispered across the world with horror often attached to the tone.

This was an act of cold, relentless necessity, of helplessness finding form in bullets and souls lazily trailing into the ether.

Complete stillness engulfed the room - the kind that came only after death had done its work. Blood dripping lazily off of benches, the candlelight flickering with the cold air, casting long and trembling shadows into the altar.

The guise of a full coffin - unharmed, commanding the chapel’s center of attention through the carnage. Santino stood still, one hand on the coffin, seemingly unfazed - though his chest rising and falling rapidly gave away the adrenaline rush beneath his composure.

John, on the other end, stood still with his head bowed slightly, slick hair coating his forehead. Body still tense, as if it had carried a weight far too immense, for far too long that it did not know when to let go.

Finally looking up before the smoke on his gun dissipated - he caught your eyes through the remaining vast emptiness, across the dim lights of the chapel, his empty gun hanging loose in his hand - threatening to fall for one last time. Bodies scattered all around him, all souls already gone as he did not leave any work to luck.

His chest heaving in the aftermath of his exertion. A different stance in his shoulders, all pushed back, as if he had known that this time - it would all be worth it.

You saw it all through him, in the glint of his onyx orbs, the slow rise and fall of his chest underneath the three-piece that had seen better days. The wave of emotions recoiling and then striking back in a riptide in a split second. There was no fight in his eyes this time. No, the raging spark had left its place to a simpler, brighter emotion.

Relief.

Collections of torn-apart memories, snippets of his presence in yours. A couple of years from your precious life, countless moments worth of emotions flickered through the obsidian gaze, glazed with the slowly seeping in realization that in fact, from that moment on - John Wick had been a free man.

And, with all debts paid to the ones who laid control, absolutely no force in the world could stop him from walking into the peaceful life he ached for, leaving behind the trail of smoke, blood and ash as he always had.

There had not been many closures in life, not many that you could have the pleasure of witnessing - yet, this seemed to be as close to one as it could get.  

This is it, John, you would find yourself mumbling under your breath.

The cleanup crew, paid handsomely for their discretion, worked in surgically precise methods to erase the aftermath of the chaos, collecting names and evidence as proof for a certain Russian to hold his promise.

As if eternal carnage had not just taken place. As if history had not been rewritten in blood.

As if an impossible freedom had not been gained by crimson blood coating the Camorra crest draped over the coffin.

The painful silence would be cut with the sharp echoes of clapping, resonating into the room that had taken too many lives to count in a stark contrast.

Marquis Vincent de Gramont stood in the aisle, his mouth curved in the faintest of gestures. Not a smile, yet a ghost of one. His expression was calculated with hints of respect, always laced with the hidden meaning of something more. One hand resting on his hip, steel blues scanning the room for any signs of life. Signs of failure.

The High Table had yet to voice any misconduct identified. For now.

Now was all John needed.

“Félicitations Monsieur Wick,” the Marquis would utter, a seemingly approving tone accompanying his nod, taking you out of your trance.

Santino’s reassuring nod would meet your eyes for a heartbeat, his gaze then joining the other pairs as they trailed the steps of Marquis, the hinges of the double doors whispering open to let him through the exit - almost absorbing and taking away the leftover tension within the confinements.

And in that moment, when fragments history unfolding beneath your eyes filling the cracks of reality, you knew - the chains holding him captive had not vanished.

They broke, and they melted, seeping into the bloody marble - yet only to transform into another form of captivity.

For in this dark, twisted world of eternal pain - freedom for one had been merely the tightening of another’s noose. Another bullet loaded into the revolver.

A man granted his freedom did not die - he walked victorious.

The lazy hazes of the rising sun rays emanated through the sheer curtains - it had been early, too early to gather your thoughts properly in the aftermath of the night that dragged onto the early morning.

Sleep had not been on the forefront of your mind - nothing had mattered at the time besides the man underneath you. Strong hands grabbing onto your hips with fervor, his chest heaving with him grasping for air, his eyes filled with lust.

Breaths mixed in with alcohol, lips wrapped in his. Him taking control with his thrusts, unable to resist his urges, collapsing into bed after the cries of pleasure had echoed through the penthouse.

“Hai bisogno solo di me, amore.”

Maybe, just maybe he had been right, through his words uttered in ultimate need and throes of confession.

He just might have been all you needed, all along. He had certainly shown you, proven to you in more ways than one.

And, the best part of it all - the man you had shared the passionate memories with the night prior, had just happened to be laying right there next to you, the breathing source of warmth in the vast bed.

Something that he could not have given you, no matter how many times you had begged.

It was not often that you had woken up before him - but when you did, it was an opportunity not to be missed - just to admire, to cherish, to touch.

John had always left before the sunrise.

With a slow hand making its way over to his body across the crisp white sheets, you would revel in the luxury of letting your gaze travel all over him - dark hair tousled from your fingers, those green eyes usually filled with passion then closed, the barely-there crease between his brows still present even in his slumber. A remnant of the everlasting, yet quiet tension that seemed to just dwindle down with your touch.

John had never opened up to you this way.

The sheets pooling low on his hips, hanging loose on the sculpted plane of his chest that slowly rose and fell with his breathing - faint traces of you still remaining over his taut skin. A small mark on his collarbone, couple of faint nail marks over his shoulders where you had gripped too tight, not wanting to ever let go.

John had wanted to let go eventually.

A low mumble emanating from his throat, as the sunlight continued its relentless attack through the room, illuminating the intricately scattered furniture, making a lazy trail to your bed.

The sound of his voice still fresh in your mind - rough, urgent, irreverent. Craving only and only you, your name leaving his lips in a repeated mantra, the sinful tone laced in his breaths.

From beneath the sheets that smelled just like him, you would reach out gently to brush a strand of curly hair from his forehead, a feather-light touch not to wake him.

In the cruel and unforgiving world of choices that you had both shared, Santino d’Antonio had always been known to choose the fiery road. Even you could not deny that the power he wielded, the ambition he so cherished in himself pulled you into his orbit even closer, over the years.

Yet, you might have been the sole constant that led him to choose peace, quite more often than he otherwise would.

A gentle stirring of his body, the ghost of a smile etched on his lips as his eyes slowly opened to reveal the loving gaze.

“Buongiorno, mia cara.”

His morning voice rough like gravel, velvety thick with sleep - yet, his hands were awake.

His nimble fingers would reach, making their way from your jaw, neck and down on your shoulders, leaving a trail of goosebumps across your bare skin. Finally reaching their target as his hand wrapped around yours, lifting gently to land a kiss on your knuckles.

Those emerald green eyes always locked into yours, always piercingly gazing into your soul, reading through the remnants of your heart.

It had always been those eyes, that had lured you into the unknown. The enticing yet untamed darkness of the abyss. Into fire and ice, without a question or doubt instilled within you.

And, in that intimate moment of skin against skin, your palm resting on his sternum as he turned into you, his fingers trailing through your hair - you had decided quietly within yourself.

Into fire and ice, you would follow.

There was no hesitation as you pulled him in for a soft kiss, to which he greatly obliged, his hands staying on your skin where they had belonged even as he pulled back.

The slight flickering of his gaze to focus elsewhere, the faint trace of his brow furrowing - telltale signs of thoughts beginning to flood into his mind as his consciousness threw him responsibilities.

“You are thinking too much, Santino.”

“Forse,” he would reply, his eyes finding yours once more. “I only have a funeral to host.”

Pulling yourself closer into his embrace, your hand reveled in tracing through his curls.

“Most people mourn. You are strategizing.”

And in the moment of silence that followed, Santino did not deny it.

He instead propped himself up on one elbow, his hand cradling your cheek, then moving to run his fingers through your hair sprawled over the crisp white. Head on his pillow, you would look up with a curious gaze and your soft voice, to ask a question that had been swimming around in your mind for a while.

“How did Winston allow this?”

You could swear that his motions stopped for a brief moment, his eyes growing cold for a momentary second of vulnerability - one that he had hoped you would not dwell on for long.

If only he could tell you just how the cogs turned, just how the truth was concealed for decades. Just how beneath Winston’s bright eyes laid a broken father with no other choice given at a moment in time. How the one that you had looked for all those years - had been closer than you could have ever imagined.

Yet, it was not his truth to tell.

“The High Table looks into the palm of my hand,” he would answer, always confident in himself but perhaps a bit prematurely this time, his thumb lingering on your cheekbones - a motion too tender for the insinuations, the hidden meanings in his words. The blurred lines hiding in his tone, abstracting his mind and his voice.

“The vote has not happened yet, Santino - Winston abides by his rules like there is no tomorrow.”

A faint, knowing smile curved at the corner of his lips, dipping his head in reluctant agreement.

“He did not like it. But he knows better than to refuse me now.”

Growing increasingly curious, your brows furrowed in response, eyes narrowing just slightly. Fragments of words and whispers of memories trying to piece it together in your mind.

“No. He let you because he didn’t have a choice.”

That drew a breath from him - almost akin to a slight defeat yet quiet, controlled. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not remorse.

A short lived pause.

“No,” he said softly. “He didn’t.”

in his eyes, glints of recalling. Realization. Remembrance.

“Because, mia cara - choices were already made a long time ago.”

You want to ask. Words are stuck at the tip of your tongue, mind spiraling on his cryptic words, eyes locked into his. Trusting Santino had been a well-known reflex, one your body never denied - moments of quiet doubt passing away ever so smoothly as they always did with him, when his hand found the small of your back and pulled you in further into his embrace.

Dark curls draping over his forehead as his downward gaze met yours once more, looking for the glimmer of belief in your expression. All he had needed, was a fleeting sense of trust, just for this once - until the dams holding the sea of truths collapsed inevitably.

Just for this once.

Until the task had been complete.

“I will give him the room, amore. È tutto. He does the rest.”

“Bene,” you would let out with a smile forming on your lips, after getting lost in yet another kiss - the distraction fully welcome.

Many questions you wanted to ask, to get out of your chest, fluttered within you like stray birds - yet, you instead let yourself get engulfed in his warm embrace once again - for you were not sure that you wanted the answers.

It was in your blood, in your very soul that was molded with certain principles - not getting what you had been entitled to, especially at the receiving end of a deal, never sat right with you.

It had been just another day in the office.

The bone-chilling New York cold could not have stood in your way that time, the rampant overthinking manifesting onto your body in heatwaves.

Mind fuming with anger and frustration, guards attempting to stop you to no avail as you trailed onwards into the room, opening the door with force.

A startled look on the older mafia boss as his head whipped to take a look at the intruder.

Viggo Tarasov had risen from his table, his palm outstretched to calm the guards following to stop you, indicating that he would take care of you personally.

“Now, quite a surprise to come in unannounced.”

Other occupants of the room reacted similarly, all turned to look at the point of attention, only slightly startled - it had not been their first rodeo of unhappy members of the underworld.

The one you had gotten no reaction out of, the tall, dark man stood beside the window, hands in his pockets. Him, he had only a tilt of his head, his slicked back dark hair catching light, trying to make sense of this stranger he had never met before.

“Surprise?” your quite distressed voice echoed through the mahogany-covered office, then sporting a more traditional, dark theme - very fitting for the conversations and deals that often took place in it. Your tailored skirt suit moved seamlessly with your limbs, block heels not failing you as they approached the focal point of the room - his desk.

“No, Viggo. I was the one surprised my shipment was lost at the docks.”

The expression on Viggo’s face was all that you needed - he had known exactly what you have been talking about, the realization making his face soften ever so slightly, a sigh escaping his lips as he cursed his brother out under his breath.

“What did Abram do this time?”

“I should be asking you. This is under your name.”

It was like a lioness roaring through the forest, making her presence known, the way your words resonated - strong, fierce and yet, calm. An underlying meaning to each syllabi, the potential consequences of disobedience making themselves known in fleeting threat, yet never explicit.

“You gave your word.”

If Camorra wanted to explicitly threaten, a bullet would have already been lodged in someone’s head - not Camorra’s finest barging into the room in plain sight.

No, this was a small warning. A small distraction, a little bit of a show of face.

Even the Russians did not want to get in the way of Camorra’s business, with their centuries old, ever-reaching tentacles across New York.

“My buyers have not received their product - and you know just how much was on that delivery, Mr. Tarasov.”

Tarasov ran a tired hand down his chin, his chunky bronze signet ring catching the afternoon sunlight. His hand then came down onto the desk in a fist, the ring banging against the wood in a sharp thud out of frustration, which then turned into a quick point of the outstretched hand to the tall figure next to the window - ever watching, his black eyes trained on you like a hawk.

“Mr. Wick will talk some sense into my useless brother,” he would offer.

That was the exact moment when your eyes had met for real, almost sizing each other up, not knowing just how fast both of your lives would change in a fleeting moment to come.

This had been the famous John Wick people saw in their nightmares often - a shiver running down your spine upon associating the name with the persona right in front of you.

There was that dark something emanating from him, this gray and black aura almost visible to the eye, moving like a wolf in the night in that black three-piece suit perfectly outlining his slim and tall frame, the broad shoulders, a lightly trimmed beard.

An epitome of ruthless class, personified in each step and movement made, all calculated and perfectly composed. Demeanors caused by constant training and killing. 

A haunting face of charisma and punishment, no doubt, for his enemies. Albeit, to you - a devilishly handsome one.

Mr. Wick tossed a look to his apparent boss, meeting his eyes to nod for a brief moment as Viggo reached for the landline phone to make a few calls.

“Send Santino my regards.”

————

John had not been the one to mix in business with pleasure.

Always fiercely loyal to the task at hand, whatever it might be, disallowing any distractions that could arise on the way to his objective with accustomed ease. Subduing, neutralizing anything that could keep him from success. When given a task, one he could not refuse, there was nothing that could deviate him from his deliberate instructions.

Easing his mind a few drinks deep with you in his close eyesight, however, had not been a part of his usual tasks.

“How have we not met in here before?”

“I do not usually stay at the Continental,” you had responded, mind drifting to the elaborately decorated apartment you called a second home, just blocks away from the hotel, currently without staff due to short notice. “This was an unplanned trip, by all means.”

The man in front of you let out a soft chuckle, sounding more like a scoff - a manifestation of emotion that you had not anticipated from a disciplined killer like him. Beneath the rumors and whispers of terror in the underworld upon the mention of his name, it intrigued you to see him in flesh, in front of you - nothing but a human being. His demeanors, smallest of expressions, the little hints in his voice, everything that made him, him - out on display for you to explore.

The second serving of vermouth slowly dissipating into your veins, letting you know of it’s presence - goosebumps over your skin, a slight carelessness in your mind with the alcohol, your eyes rejoicing in their own poison of choice - that night, the man in front of you.

“Anyone waiting for you at home?”

A brief pondering silence as you thought twice upon the question. It must have been an innocent one, his tone genuinely curious.

“I will be waiting for you, mia cara.”

That, you knew. The rising Camorra boss, your boss, would wait an eternity for you, just to hold you in his arms - without competition, without distraction, without question.

“Ti aspetterò, come sempre.”

The assassin in front of you had no way of knowing that - and, at the moment, it had been better that way.

And, in the subdued parts of your heart and soul - you knew you would have waited for him too, and maybe, you just would one day. It had been mutual, the attraction undeniable ever since your initiation - yet arising doubts ever so often in your mind. Doubts making you question if it had been really right to be with him, in your world of sin and power. If it had been a wise move to say yes to the man who had been dreaming of you ever since he laid his eyes on you - hoping, waiting for the right moment that you would be his.

“I will wait forever - for when you want me the same.”

A quick shake of your head sealed the answer. “Besides,” you had started, one hand twirling with the rim of your crystal glass vessel holding the beautiful mix of vermouth - “what is wrong with two people trying to be friends?”

His dark eyes stared into your soul, almost gazing into the very depths of it, as if he had been able to see every flaw, memory, regret. A slight tilt of his head as he took another sip from his neat bourbon, long fingers still grabbing onto the glass as he placed it back on the marble table tucked in one of the corners of the Continental lounge. Seizing you, his finger lightly tapping on his thigh in a reflex as he took your beauty in, radiating under the dim light. The bitter liquid rolling down his throat, adding to the fire.

An expressive voice as he spoke - determined, calm and collected. As if he had already made up his mind. As if he had uttered the same words too many times to count. As if it had felt so right, at the time, that it had been the only choice out of many. A slight smirk lingering on the corners of his lips, curling up as he had leaned in ever so slightly, to deliver the words only meant for your ears.

It certainly would not hurt him to wait just a while longer, would it?

“We’re not going to be friends.”

————

Stamina.

If there had been one word to describe Mr. Wick, from your very recent close acquaintance to him - it would have been stamina.

He had needed this - it had been a relentless hunger for a long time, finally being satisfied. It showed in his strong thrusts, his fingers digging into your bare hips, grasping onto you for dear life. There had been something there, some sort of necessity to clutch out of darkness, to let go of chains holding him back - as if the woman under him had been the sole source of salvation at that given moment.

“Yell my name.”

He had needed to hear his name, uttered from a soft, kind, needy voice instead of a barked order. He wanted to be the one calling the shots this time, this very fleeting moment, instead of yet another mafia boss assigning him his next target, without any authority on his end.

He wanted to be in control.

His hand had found your sprawled hair, cascading on the crisp white sheets in waves, fingers trailing and holding you steady without much force as his lips attacked yours in yet another fiery kiss, his length slipping in and out inside of you. Lost in the haze of the moment, almost begging for release as he had grunted against your skin, his head finding its’ way to the crook of your neck as your back arched ever so slightly, uncontrollably. Nails digging into the sheets, then his back, adding little marks next to his tattoos adorning the muscle.

One taste of him, just one time, and it felt as if the forbidden fruit had been consumed. The lingering taste, so dangerous, yet so addicting.

One of your legs wrapped around his back, pulling him deeper, wanting, needing more, for him to hit that one spot that you so craved.

One of his strong and capable hands holding yours down against the mattress, fingers interlocked in an unexpected moment of intimacy, as he had taken you just the way he wanted.

The symphony of synced moans and his soft yet guttural groans had been enough to mask the noises of your vibrating cellphone emanating from your purse you had thrown on the armchair in the haste of losing your garments as quickly as possible.

It had been hard to hold it back, with his muscular build on top of you, his thrusts only getting deeper in his passion - you could feel him throb and twitch inside of you, squeezing him even further. Eyes rolling back, your neck arching in your fastened breathing.

He must have felt it too.

“Let it go.”

No further instruction was needed from then on - your heart had skipped a beat as you found your release with him inside, nails clawing as you moaned his name for the whole Continental floor to hear. Earning a loud groan from him as he let himself climax finally into the contraption, gently riding out his high before collapsing onto your side.

The plush comforter of the Continental’s finest king bed wrapped around your naked body, your chest heaving. The shirtless man, a mere feet away from you, resting on his elbows after much exertion, with strands of his dark hair falling onto his face, lingering sweat trails on his taut skin as his dark eyes found yours for a fleeting moment.

An otherwise ruthless hand gently pushed the hair off of your face in a surprising moment of intimacy, as he had softly spoken the words that would be etched into the dark corners of your mind for years to come.