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Satan's Angel (3)

A slam on the desk. "Fuck Goddamnit!"

Noah sighed, watching the president slide back on his chair; this would be the hundredth time he slammed hard on the desk with his fist, his face buried into his hands, jaw clenched, and eyes restless.

And him feeling like this wasn't advised; Nico was a demon when he had all these emotions whirling around like bonfires. But he couldn't do anything when the president refused to say what bothered him.

Usually, Noah had a clue on what, but since Nico dashed out of his room almost shirtless and redoing the hook of his pants, with his suit bag thrown over his shoulder, it was like all of the president's composure was slowly going down the drain.

Meeting with a newly appointed Italian ambassador wouldn't get him this worked up anyway.

Something was up, something he didn't want to tell.

"Shit!"

Noah grimaced. How bad was it? "Boss, are you ok?"

His kindness was rewarded with a pointed finger tightly clenching into a fist, "Do not ask me that again,"

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