“Oh, who am I kidding?” Alfred shivered. It made too damn much sense. His mind replayed their relationship for him, every interaction that could have had a hidden meaning, or seemed suspicious but had been brushed aside. He even remembered the time he had jokingly asked Ivan the cheesy 'is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?' Ivan had looked slightly panicked. He was not a fan of anything Italian, save for the restaurant Alfred used to work for, which had always seemed like an oddly random prejudice. Alfred remembered the times Ivan showed up with assorted injuries, or limps, and came up with stupid excuses for them like some poor abused wife. The times he conveniently had to be elsewhere when cops were around.
Alfred felt his life crumble around him. It had all been a lie. Ivan was out cheating and swindling and robbing and then going to Alfred's bed afterward and lying about everything.
And yet... Alfred just couldn't hate him. He couldn't believe that Ivan had lied about loving him. Nobody was that good of an actor. Nobody would feign love just to get laid, when one was a powerful mob boss who could fuck anyone they wanted. The Italians seemed to think Ivan had lied so as not to be rejected...
But he still lied and deceived. He still did... god knew what. Horrible illegal stuff. He... hurt people (Alfred's brain shied away from the 'k' word). It was next to impossible to wrap his brain around the idea of Ivan—sweet, adorable, adoring, perfect Ivan—doing anything like that. For the first time in this ordeal, Alfred thought that this couldn't be happening.
But it was. And what did any of that matter when Alfred was going to die soon, anyway?
The door soon banged open again and heavy footsteps rapidly moved down the stairs. Alfred again went through the process of being blinded by the abrupt light, until he was able to make out the newcomer. It was the third kidnapper. He was tall, stern-looking, and his blond hair was slicked back. He did not look Italian.
“They kind of forgot one of the jobs I gave them,” he said, in yet another accent. German? “Is it true you didn't know about Braginsky?”
“Shut up.”
The German just shrugged. He bent, tugging something out of his boot. A knife. Alfred cringed, struggling against the ropes. Were they going to kill him already? Had Ivan already given his answer? Just because the love of his life was a fucking liar and his life was pretty much meaningless and over didn't mean Alfred actually wanted to die.
“Stop fidgeting. I need to send the bastard a note.”
“Don't call him that!” Alfred said, regardless of the fact he had been doing the same. He had the right to, after all. The German stepped closer and Alfred swallowed. He sat up straight, determined to meet any fate with dignity.
The blond reached out and grabbed Alfred's hair—specifically, the cowlick that always stuck up. With one sweep of his blade, he severed the lock of hair.
“Hey!” Alfred yelped.
He eyed the captive. “Are you seriously whining about losing something that will grow back...?” The unspoken threat hung in the air, and Alfred quickly shook his head.
“What do you want from him?” Alfred again asked.
The German smoothed the lock of hair between his fingers. “We don't like the Russian mafia.”
“I gathered.”
“We'd like them to leave.”
“Oh, you're just asking them to leave?”
“Most of them.” He turned to leave, clicking off the light. “Except Braginsky.”
“You'll kill him?” Alfred said weakly.
“Good guess.” And Alfred was once again left alone in the dark room, with nothing for company but his miserable, confused thoughts, and the overwhelming feeling of betrayal.
Bratva 20c/??
Alfred felt his life crumble around him. It had all been a lie. Ivan was out cheating and swindling and robbing and then going to Alfred's bed afterward and lying about everything.
And yet... Alfred just couldn't hate him. He couldn't believe that Ivan had lied about loving him. Nobody was that good of an actor. Nobody would feign love just to get laid, when one was a powerful mob boss who could fuck anyone they wanted. The Italians seemed to think Ivan had lied so as not to be rejected...
But he still lied and deceived. He still did... god knew what. Horrible illegal stuff. He... hurt people (Alfred's brain shied away from the 'k' word). It was next to impossible to wrap his brain around the idea of Ivan—sweet, adorable, adoring, perfect Ivan—doing anything like that. For the first time in this ordeal, Alfred thought that this couldn't be happening.
But it was. And what did any of that matter when Alfred was going to die soon, anyway?
The door soon banged open again and heavy footsteps rapidly moved down the stairs. Alfred again went through the process of being blinded by the abrupt light, until he was able to make out the newcomer. It was the third kidnapper. He was tall, stern-looking, and his blond hair was slicked back. He did not look Italian.
“They kind of forgot one of the jobs I gave them,” he said, in yet another accent. German? “Is it true you didn't know about Braginsky?”
“Shut up.”
The German just shrugged. He bent, tugging something out of his boot. A knife. Alfred cringed, struggling against the ropes. Were they going to kill him already? Had Ivan already given his answer? Just because the love of his life was a fucking liar and his life was pretty much meaningless and over didn't mean Alfred actually wanted to die.
“Stop fidgeting. I need to send the bastard a note.”
“Don't call him that!” Alfred said, regardless of the fact he had been doing the same. He had the right to, after all. The German stepped closer and Alfred swallowed. He sat up straight, determined to meet any fate with dignity.
The blond reached out and grabbed Alfred's hair—specifically, the cowlick that always stuck up. With one sweep of his blade, he severed the lock of hair.
“Hey!” Alfred yelped.
He eyed the captive. “Are you seriously whining about losing something that will grow back...?” The unspoken threat hung in the air, and Alfred quickly shook his head.
“What do you want from him?” Alfred again asked.
The German smoothed the lock of hair between his fingers. “We don't like the Russian mafia.”
“I gathered.”
“We'd like them to leave.”
“Oh, you're just asking them to leave?”
“Most of them.” He turned to leave, clicking off the light. “Except Braginsky.”
“You'll kill him?” Alfred said weakly.
“Good guess.” And Alfred was once again left alone in the dark room, with nothing for company but his miserable, confused thoughts, and the overwhelming feeling of betrayal.