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Tom jumps when the car door opens.
He shouldn't. It's a tell that could potentially give him away and cost his life, but no matter how long he does this job and how well he thinks he's got himself and his nerves under control, some instincts you just can't suppress.
He watches in the rear-view mirror as Raphael slides into the seat behind him, looking harassed as he throws his coat onto the seat next to it, revealing his holster with the Glock at his side. He has his phone at his ear, talking in rapid-fire Italian to one of his business partners about a delivery that's gone missing. Tom tries to look like he doesn't make mental notes of the where and how and who as Raphael catches his eye in the mirror, motioning for Tom to drive off without interrupting the conversation.
The engine howls as Tom starts the car, and he steers them through the busy evening traffic while eavesdropping, the kind of multitasking that's become second nature since he started this assignment. They're halfway to Raphael's townhouse when he finally ends the call, and Tom has heard just enough that he'll be able to send his fellow agents to the harbor later tonight or tomorrow, where he's reasonably sure they'll find the body of whatever poor soul who thought crossing Raphael Venneri was a good idea, and with absolutely no physical evidence connecting the crime to Raphael or his people. This isn't the first time, or even the fifth.
Maybe Tom has been doing this job for too long because the futility of it all has stopped frustrating him.
His eyes keep going to Raphael, whose head is turned towards the window, city lights flickering over his face as they pass by, illuminating his profile. The touch of silver at his temples, the tense lines of his face. He looks older tonight, and tired.
"Bad day?" Tom asks, before he can stop himself.
Too much interest in his voice, too much sympathy. Bad form for a driver, and a hell of a lot worse for an undercover cop.
Raphael huffs out a humorless laugh. "You could say that," he says wryly. "Bad month, more like."
Tom knows all about it. The Armenians trying to infringe on Venneri territory, the botched deal with the Irish, the deliveries that mysteriously vanished, Raphael's nephew's attempts to undermine his uncle and stage a take-over... It's been a shitty few weeks for Raphael Venneri, and Tom shouldn't be feeling sympathetic, but as ruthless as Raphael is, the alternatives are worse.
So when he says, "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," the deferential tone is fake, but the regret is genuine.
In the mirror, Raphael looks at him again, and something about it is different. Raphael has looked at him before, countless times since Tom worked his way into the man's inner circle five months ago, but he's never looked at Tom, not with that piercing, chilling intensity that makes Tom feel like Raphael is seeing right through him, like he could figure him out easily, read every damning thought in his brain.
Even if Tom wanted to look away, he doesn't think he could, and the moment draws out like a rubber band stretching further and further until it's about to snap.
Before it can, Raphael's smooth voice cuts through the tension. "Traffic light."
Tom's attention jerks back on the road ahead and he hit the brakes just in time to stop the car at the red light. Shit. So much for fucking multitasking.
"For someone who claims he's sorry about my shitty month, trying to get me killed in a car crash is a strange way of showing it," Raphael comments. His tone is mild – but then, his tone is always mild, whether he's ordering lunch or ordering a hit.
Tom flushes, embarrassed and worried that he fucked up, annoyed with himself for letting Raphael get under his skin. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean— I was just—"
"Relax, I was joking." Raphael's mouth curls into a sharp, amused smile that instantly transforms his face, taking years off him and making him look more relaxed than Tom's seen him in weeks. It's almost worth it, even if it's at Tom's expense.
"Funny," he says, deadpan, and lets the pause grow before he adds, "sir."
It's probably too much lip to give the head of the Italian mob, but if it were anyone else, Tom would have shown him the finger, and there's only so far he can dial back the attitude even if it kills him (and it just might). If Raphael had an inkling how much grief Tom's authority issues had given his superiors over the years, he'd appreciate the 'yes sir, no sir' bullshit routine Tom manages to pull off for him a hell of a lot more. But somehow, Tom doubts that 'they almost kicked me out of Organized Crime because I called my boss a dick to his face once' is an anecdote Raphael would appreciate. It's a pity, because it's just the kind of humor Tom is sure Raphael would enjoy, if things were different.
In another life, maybe.
#
He parks the car outside the townhouse under the watchful eye of two of Raphael's men standing by the door wearing matching black suits and grim expressions.
In his mind, Tom is already composing tonight's report, ready to offer a polite "goodnight, sir" and drive away, back to the shitty, lonely hole-in-the-wall apartment 'Thomas Malone' has been renting for the past half year. The apartment's biggest accomplishment is that, awful as it is, it's still 40% less shitty than his actual place on the other side of the river, which says things about his life that he doesn't really want to think about. It's part of the reason he was so eager to take the undercover gig, and maybe it's part of the reason why he likes being Thomas Malone a little too much.
One of Raphael's gorillas opens the car door, but instead of sliding out and slipping away into the night, Raphael lingers. His eyes are back on Tom, dark and heavy, making him struggle not to squirm in his seat under the unconcealed appraisal.
"You wanna come up for a nightcap, Tom?" he asks.
Tom's gut tightens into a coil of nerves, because in all these months he's been driving Raphael, he has never shared any interaction with the man outside of this car, and he's certainly never been invited into his private sanctuary.
He briefly wonders if he did fuck up, if he gave himself away and Raphael is going to take him inside and put a bullet through his brain. But no, that's stupid. If Raphael wanted him dead, he'd not get his hands dirty like that or have the job done in his house. He's way too efficient for that, which should be a chilling thought, and not something that puts Tom at ease.
It still leaves the question of what Raphael wants, and every answer Tom can come up with sounds equally unlikely and ludicrous.
Not that it matters, because when Raphael Venneri asks you something, you don't fucking say no.
"I could use a drink, sir," he says, tentative, and he hopes the What the fuck are you doing, man? isn't too obvious in his tone.
"Good. So could I, and I hate to drink alone." Raphael smiles and slides out of the car.
Maybe, Tom thinks, it's as simple as that.
Maybe Raphael is just as lonely and tired as Tom is, maybe for all his power and his popularity, he doesn't have many people in his life he trusts enough to let loose around. The idea makes Tom feel at once sympathetic and guilty, because he's just as much a snake in the grass as Daniel Venneri and all the other schemers in the family who smile at Raphael while plotting to put a knife in him as soon as he turns his back, just a different brand of viper.
He switches off the motor and shuffles out of his seat, following Raphael through the iron gates and trying not to be unnerved by the prickle at his neck when they close behind him.
#
Part of him is surprised when Raphael does, in fact, pour them a drink instead of having him dragged to an empty room, strapping him to a chair and bringing out the knives to interrogate him.
He takes a sip from the tumbler, trying to muster some appreciation for the Scotch that's probably older than him and costs more than the sum of his entire belongings. He manages not to down it in one go, but only barely, and judging from the amused way Raphael is watching him, it's showing.
Without offering Tom a seat, Raphael perches on the armrest of one of the massive leather couches that crowds the room. He loosens his tie with one hand while sipping from his drink. The gesture is at once comfortably domestic and an effortless display of power and confidence, and Tom feels like he's intruding.
"You seem uncomfortable."
And of course Raphael would notice. Of course he'd fucking call him on it.
In an attempt to buy himself some time, Tom takes another swig from the glass, not at all surprised when he realizes he's already finished it. "It's not every day the big boss invites you to his home. Not really sure what the protocol is here, to be honest."
Raphael inclines his head, like he's conceding Tom's point. Well, as much as he ever concedes anything.
"Why are you here, then?"
The Scotch must have gone to his head already, because before he can stop himself, Tom admits, "I didn't think declining the invitation was an option." It's clearly the wrong thing to say, from the way Raphael's brow furrows into a frown, but fuck it, he must know that people are fucking scared of saying no to him.
Tom shrugs and offers another reason, seeing as it appears to be honesty hour. "And I wasn't exactly in a rush to get back to my rat-infested shithole apartment. Not like anyone's waiting for me. Like you said, no fun drinking alone."
Raphael watches him over the rim of his glass. He hums in appreciation. "So, you're afraid of me but prefer my company to the rodents at your place. Such glowing compliments."
His tone is wry, teasing, enough to make Tom flush, even though he wants very much to pretend that it's the alcohol rather than having Raphael's undivided attention that's making him light-headed. He can't tear his eyes away from the other man: the way his finger absently traces the edge of his glass, the glimpse of collarbone where his shirt gapes open, the contrast of olive skin and pristine white fabric.
When his gaze wanders up to Raphael's face, he meets amused eyes and a knowing smile that instantly makes Tom turn away, feeling caught.
"I'm pretty sure you don't need me to tell you that your company is enjoyable."
It's meant to come out snarky – which, by itself, would be ill-advised enough, Jesus, when will he learn not to talk back at people whose favor his livelihood and occasionally his life depend on – but the tone misses the mark. Too honest, too uncomfortable, too unhappy. Because he fucking means it, and he has no goddamn business enjoying the company of someone he should be seeing behind bars.
Fabric rustles as Raphael stands, and by the time Tom has made himself look up from the empty glass in his hand, Raphael has already crossed the room and is right in front of him.
"Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, what am I going to do with you?"
Raphael's voice is smooth like velvet, and that tension in the pit of Tom's stomach clenches further, a strange, antagonizing kind of anticipation he can't quite define. He has no idea how to answer that question, less able to read Raphael than ever.
Raphael isn't waiting for a response. He steps further into Tom's space, pushing him backwards against the wall, and then his lips are on Tom's.
The kiss tastes like Scotch, and it overwhelms Tom in every possible way. Raphael kisses like he owns him, like he's staking a claim and Tom's surrender is a foregone conclusion. His fingers curve around Tom's jaw, tilting up his head and holding him in place, and the bulk of his body presses Tom into the cool marble tiles at his back, the hard metal of the holstered gun digging painfully into Tom's ribcage.
He instinctively returns the kiss before he can even think about what the hell he's doing or remember all the excellent reasons why he shouldn't be doing it. His lips open into a breathless little gasp, providing that surrender Raphael was counting on, his body coming alight with want when Raphael's tongue explores every inch of his mouth, slowly and methodically.
It's Raphael who breaks away, leaving Tom feeling breathless and hollowed out, wanting and conflicted and drunk on more than just Scotch. Recklessly, he leans in to steal another kiss, but Raphael tilts his head back, holding up a hand.
"Just to be clear, this isn't part of the job description."
His voice is rougher and deeper than usual, that fucking mildness that's been bugging Tom finally gone, and he can't help the surge of pride. I did that.
There's a certain cockiness that comes with the thought, emboldened by the alcohol, and before he can stop himself, Tom snarks back, "Good, because I'm sure you're not paying me well enough for a sex worker."
Up close, Raphael's smile is even more disarming, even if it's fleeting. "I'm just disabusing you of the idea that you can't say no to me. You want to leave, no hard feelings. We'll forget this ever happened."
If Tom were a smarter man, a better man maybe, he'd take this out. But impulse control was never his strongest suit and he's been intrigued by the man in the back seat of his car for far too long.
"Why?" When Raphael raises an eyebrow askance, Tom shakes his head. "I mean, why me?"
It's a stupid question, but Tom needs to know. He knows he's easy on the eyes, conventionally attractive in a wholesome boy-next-door kind of way, but he's nothing special, not for someone like the head of the Venneri family who's got all the money and the power and the connections.
Raphael shrugs. "I like you," he says brusquely, in a matter-of-fact manner. "I'm dealing with a lot of fake-ass bullshit all day. There's something refreshing about you. Something real."
Well, shit.
It's the last thing Tom wanted to hear, and that twitch of guilt from earlier resurfaces, a hundredfold. He can't contain the little flinch, as if he'd been slapped.
Raphael is standing too close, monitoring Tom's reaction too observantly to miss it. His lip twitches. "Yeah, I know," he says with a chuckle. And then he pulls the rug out from under Tom's feet with his next words. "Funny thing to say, considering who you are, isn't it, Detective Thomas John Brannigan? Trust me, I'm aware of the irony."
His hand is resting at the side of Tom's neck, curved against his jaw. The touch is light and casual, but Tom's acutely aware that it wouldn't take much for his fingers to tighten and his thumb pressing down to cut off Tom's airflow. He knows how to defend himself, he might even be able to get his hands on Raphael's gun, but he's under no illusion that he stands a chance of getting away when Raphael's watch-dogs are probably right outside the door.
He swallows hard. Once. Twice. Thinks about denying it. Rejects the idea right away. Raphael knows his full name. He likely knows his badge number too, and his mother's home address, and his favorite food, and the name of his first dog, and a million little things that Tom probably can't even remember himself. The betrayal is bad enough, he won't show Raphael the disrespect of suggesting he hadn't done his homework properly.
How long has Raphael known? Tom wonders if tonight was just an elaborate trap, a cat toying with the mouse before it sinks its teeth into it. It should make him angry, but he just feels tired and wiped out, and that tightness in his gut has paradoxically eased away, now that the truth is out.
There's nothing he can say that wouldn't be either a lie (I'm sorry) or pointless rhetoric (I was just doing my job), so he stays silent and lets himself go lax against Raphael's hold, resigned.
Raphael's fingers are slowly, almost tenderly moving along the side of his neck. He holds Tom's gaze, his eyes almost black in the soft, low light illuminating the room. "I meant what I said. You're free to leave, if you choose."
It's almost too generous an offer to be believable. But if Tom learned one thing about Raphael Venneri during the months of driving him around the city and listening in to his confidential conversations, it's that he's a man of his word. If Raphael says he can go, than he can.
He should take that offer and get out of there as fast as he can.
Instead, he asks, "I probably shouldn't come in to work tomorrow though, should I?"
Raphael smiles faintly. "Maybe not."
A strange kind of nostalgia hangs in the air, because this will be it. Once Tom walks out of the door, he stops being Thomas Malone and becomes Tom Brannigan again, and if he and Raphael ever come face to face again, it will either be over the barrel of a gun or across a courtroom.
And maybe, just maybe, Tom isn't ready to move on and close this chapter of the book just yet.
He licks his lips and struggles not to look away. "What if... I don't want to leave?"
Tonight, he means - but he knows his words are open to interpretation. He can't think about that now, about tomorrow and whether it'll be Thomas Malone or Tom Brannigan he'll lay to rest for good, because he can't be both of them. It seems like an impossible choice, but it's a choice for another day.
Raphael's hand briefly tightens, just enough for Tom to feel it, and he holds his breath in response, but the pain he almost counts on doesn't come.
"Then you don't," Raphael says, before leaning in and claiming Tom's mouth again.
Maybe it really is that simple.
End.