3. Alejandro

I did not accept meetings I did not initiate. Power did not bend. It summoned. And yet here I was, seated, and waiting. The irony was not lost on me.

The private lounge overlooked the Amalfi coastline, where the sea stretched endlessly beneath a sky bleeding into dusk. The horizon burned in shades of amber and fading gold, waves crashing against jagged stone with rhythmic violence. Beautiful and relentless. Unlike men. Unlike Nikolai Vassiliou.

A neutral territory had been chosen with clinical precision. There are no visible weapons. No guards standing stiffly in corners. No overt reminders of the blood-soaked worlds we both ruled. A performance of civility. A lie wrapped in luxury. Because men like us did not require visible violence to understand its presence. It lived in silence. In the unbearable weight of stillness.

I remained seated, fingers resting lightly against the armrest of the leather chair, gaze fixed on the horizon. Calm. But beneath that calm, something coiled. Just a little bit of awareness. The door opened behind me. There was no announcement, nor hesitation. Interesting. Then, footsteps followed, measured, unhurried, disturbingly confident. Each step landed with quiet certainty, as though the air itself parted willingly.

Most men entered my presence like trespassers. He walked in like an equal.

“I expected resistance.” The voice was smooth and low. Composed in a way that suggested restraint rather than caution. I did not turn.

“I expected irrelevance,” I replied in return, almost mocking.

Silence expanded behind me, thickening the air. Then, a soft chuckle followed, sounding too amused. That alone made him dangerous. Slowly and deliberately, I turned.

Nikolai Vassiliou stood several feet away, posture relaxed, gaze sharp enough to dissect bone. Entirely unbothered by the tension saturating the room. Men usually carried tension when standing before me. But he carried curiosity. And something disturbingly close to enjoyment.

What do you expect from someone who has a dangerous reputation like mine?

“You received my proposal,” he said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“And yet…” His eyes narrowed slightly, as though studying a puzzle rather than confronting a rival. “You did not reject it.”

I studied him in return. Every micro-expression. Every flicker of calculation behind those cold, predatory eyes.

“You proposed marriage.” I retort.

“I proposed inevitability.” Ha! Bold. Infuriatingly bold.

Most men disguised provocation beneath diplomacy. But he sharpened his into a blade.

“You presume too much.”

“And you hesitate too little.”

Ah. There it was. The invisible shift. Something subtle tightened between us. It was not hostility, but recognition. Like two predators acknowledging the presence of another apex creature.

“I don’t hesitate,” I said coldly. His gaze dragged over me slowly and deliberately. Not in admiration, but assessment. “No,” Nikolai murmured. “You calculate.” The accuracy of the observation landed with uncomfortable precision. Which meant he had been paying attention.

“You want my ports.” 

“I want access.”

“To my empire?”

“To you.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Neither of us moved, yet the space between us felt charged with something volatile, something far more dangerous than aggression. A measured and unspoken interest. But undeniably present.

“You mistake audacity for leverage.”

“And you mistake restraint for disinterest.” His voice did not waver. If anything, it softened, not with warmth, but with something far more unsettling and exciting, confidence. Men either feared me or challenged me. Nikolai Vassiliou did something infinitely worse. He observed me. As though I fascinated him. “You’re a fascinating man, Alejandro.”

“I’m a lethal one,” I answered flatly.

His smile was slow, almost predatory. “Those traits are not mutually exclusive.” Something cold curled beneath my ribs. Because for the first time since he entered the room. I did not feel entirely in control of the atmosphere. And men like me always noticed disturbances.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I warned. Nikolai moved.

One slow step forward.

Then another.

Until he stood within reach.

Close enough for presence to become pressure and for boundaries to become theoretical.

“I don’t play games,” he said softly. His voice dropped lower, sliding into something darker, more intimate, more deliberate. “I dismantle empires.”

My gaze hardened. “You’ll choke on mine.”

His eyes darkened in excitement. “I hope so.”

The response struck like flint against dry fuel.

And suddenly the tension shifted to something far more volatile. Because power recognized power. And monsters recognized reflections of their own darkness.

“You didn’t reject the proposal,” Nikolai murmured.

“And you didn’t withdraw it.”

His gaze did not break from mine. Which meant this conversation was not negotiation. It was a strategy layered over something far more personal. “Which means,” he continued, voice smooth as silk pulled over a blade, “You’re considering it.”

I held his gaze. “Which means,” I replied quietly, “You’re not as untouchable as you believe.”

His smile widened, slow and satisfied. “Oh, Alejandro…” My name slid from his lips with unsettling familiarity. “I was never trying to be untouchable.”

As our eyes locked, the air burned around us. “I was trying to be unavoidable.”

The words did not feel like a threat. They felt like a promise. And that was the moment something shifted inside me. Not visibly, but internally, something cold and unfamiliar stirred. Because inevitability was a language I understood. Obsession was not.

“You’re arrogant.” I started.

“I’m patient.”

“You’re provoking war.”

“I’m inviting evolution.”

My eyes narrowed. “You think binding me through marriage gives you control? Are you f*cking insane? I have a wife, for fucks sake.”

“I think proximity gives me an opportunity and your wife, she’s a collateral to all this. Including your daughter.”

There it was. The truth beneath the performance. Marriage was not symbolism. Not for men like us. Marriage was access and ownership. An incision point beneath armor forged from decades of violence. “You believe you can breach my empire from the inside. And do not even think about laying a hand on my wife and daughter Vassiliou. Or you will really meet the devil.”

“I believe,” Nikolai said softly, “that most fortified structures collapse from internal pressure. And I want to meet the devil, Alejandro.”

Silence engulfed us again. And beneath that silence…

Something far more dangerous lingered. Because this was no longer territory versus territory.

This was, will versus will. Mind versus mind. Predator versus predator.

“You’re a dangerous man, Vassiliou.”

His smile was faint and satisfied.

“So are you.” A beat passed and then another. Neither of us stepped back. Neither of us retreated. Because retreat implied imbalance. And imbalance implied weakness.

“You didn’t say no,” he said quietly.

“And you didn’t say yes.” I retort.

His gaze sharpened. “That’s not rejection.”

“But also, that’s not acceptance.” His voice lowered again. Dangerously calm. “That’s curiosity.”

Something cold flickered behind my ribs. Something disturbingly close to truth. Because Nikolai Vassiliou was not merely provoking conflict. He was provoking me. And I despised men who succeeded at that. “You’re playing with fire.” I hissed at him. His gaze did not waver.

"Well, I was hoping you’d burn." He taunted while smirking as he licked his lower lip and bit it. Blood trickled from his lower lip and for reasons I did not examine and did not dissect…

I did not look away. It was oddly fascinating how his lips could look so tempting, coated in his blood.

I wonder if he would look good bathed in his own blood. F*ck, I’m in trouble.

War had already begun. And something far more dangerous than hatred had entered the battlefield.

Interest.