Work Text:
Dinner Friday? Yr plce?
Are you intending to compromise every property I own?
Soulmates, remember?
The relevance of that statement is …?
Yr plce. U chse bt mke it somehwere nce
Meet me at Trajan’s Column. 5pm Friday.
New bar somehwere or big tall thingy in Rome??!!
Your spelling, little Alex, leaves a lot to be desired, and despite what you might – or might not – have learned at Brookland, vowels are not an optional extra in written communication.
Blame blunt
I do, frequently.
Sddng bed in Rome way to narrow smhwre nce plz yassie”
You’re being deliberately annoying, aren’t you? 5pm Friday. Have a nice evening.
Ten minutes later, Alex had booked a flight to Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport to arrive at 11am on Friday. He liked Rome. Clearly so did Yassen. He just hoped that the small flat with its even smaller bed had been purely a temporary arrangement. He’d definitely prefer something larger than a bed built for a stick insect.
The next two days passed all too slowly. For once, there was nothing pressing other than a mound of long-neglected paperwork. Alex wrote several reports, earning him comments on his creative writing skills from Jones, several eyerolls from Crawley together with a detailed commentary on spelling and grammar (omitting vowels, capital letters and punctuation could be surprisingly entertaining when he was bored spitless), and a complaint about his apparently excessive expenses from Mrs Finchley in Accounts. Situation normal on all fronts. Alex was bored. Very, very bored. He needed an assassin-shaped distraction in his life or he might be forced to resort to blowing something up just for the fun of it.
When Friday finally sloped into his life like a dilatory spouse coming back late from the pub stinking of booze and fags, Alex jumped out of bed at 6am, threw a few changes of clothes into his rucksack and took the tube to Heathrow.
To his surprise, there were no delays with his flight and at 10.30 am precisely, he emerged from the plane into a perfect spring morning graced by a warm sun set in a clear pale blue sky that reminded him of eyes that had stared down the barrels of more lethal weapons that he could even begin to imagine. The temperature was warm but not stifling and a light breeze cooled the tarmac as he walked to the airport shuttle.
With only hand luggage, Alex was quickly through the main concourse and boarding the Leonardo Express within 25 minutes of the plane rolling to a halt. The 30-minute journey into the centre of Rome passed quickly. The centra station was no more than half an hour’s walk from Trajan’s Column, and he had plenty of time before he was due to meet Yassen, although he was certain that – like any good sniper – Yassen would arrive well in advance of the agreed time.
He was right about that. And also correct that Yassen meant the big stone thingy and not a new bar in Manhattan. Fortunate, as Alex had only discovered that even existed when he was idly surfing the net in the departure lounge.
After a thoroughly pleasant afternoon mooching about the centre of Rome, he’d made his way to the appointed place to find Yassen leaning against the railings near the carved column, staring with rapt attention at the scenes depicted on the 30-metre-tall structure, the white Carrara marble glowing in the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Yassen was dressed casually in faded black jeans and a pale grey open necked shirt. In the month since Alex had last seen him, he’d grown a short beard and acquired a light tan. They both suited him.
Alex knew better than to approach an assassin from behind. He circled around to walk towards Yassen in plain sight. The slight smile on the man’s face told him that Yassen has been aware of his presence even before Alex had started to walk towards him.
Alex smiled. “Been somewhere warm?”
Yassen nodded but didn’t volunteer any further information.
“Am I allowed a hug?”
“Do you want one?”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, Yassen, I would like a hug. You told me I could ask for one if I wanted one.”
“I did, although I believe I actually used the word cuddle, but that might be splitting hairs. Yes, Alex, you’re allowed a hug.”
Alex stepped up close and wound his arms around Yassen, smelling lemon shampoo in his hair and the sharp tang of citrus deodorant as he pulled him close for a hug. Yassen’s arms snaked around his back and the assassin made no move to pull away. Alex pressed a kiss to the hollow under Yassen’s left ear and was rewarded by a faint tremor through the man’s deceptively slight frame.
“Would you like me to do that again?” Alex asked, his breath gusting lightly over Yassen’s warm skin.
After an almost imperceptible hesitation, Yassen said, “Yes, that would be nice.”
This time, Alex licked gently over Yassen’s earlobe and the shiver this provoked was more than faint.
“Alex, I feel bound to point out that you are flirting shamelessly with an older man in a very public place.”
“Yas, so far as any onlookers are concerned – and as you’ve probably noticed, the lady with the two poodles is looking at us very approvingly – I am saying hello to my only slightly older-looking boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Sorry, I meant soulmate.” Alex kissed Yassen lightly on the lips. “How about an ice-cream?”
“Are you four or 24?”
Alex slipped his arm around Yassen’s waist. “I’m on holiday. That means I get to eat ice-cream whenever I want.”
“Rome has many fine ice-cream sellers. You won’t be disappointed. How long are you on holiday for?”
“I have absolutely no idea. I sent Jones an email reminding her I hadn’t taken any leave in 18 months and telling her I’d be away for at least a fortnight, maybe longer. My work phone is at home and, as far as I know, the crazed billionaire threat level is currently low. Unless you know something I don’t?”
“I can confirm the crazed billionaire threat level is currently low.”
“Is that why you’ve got a tan and a rather sexy beard?”
Yassen smiled. “You like beards, do you?”
“Yes, Yas, I like beards.” He lowered his voice. “Did you take the Gutiérrez contract?”
Yassen slipped his arm around Alex’s waist and gave him a slight squeeze that Alex took as confirmation. The potentially crazed billionaire in question has been high on the watch list for MI6 and numerous other European intelligence agencies, however nothing concrete had emerged, at least nothing concrete of a type that would trigger action. Alex had seen the files, though. The man should have been locked away years ago on multiple charges of rape, murder, paedophilia and – allegedly – running one of the biggest people trafficking rings in Europe. Alex had been at least ten years too old for anyone to have considered sending him into the man’s heavily guarded fortress in Argentina, a fact that Jones’ predecessor would almost certainly have found extremely irritating, if he’d known of an intelligence agency he wanted to curry favour with.
According to the last analysis Alex had seen, Gutiérrez’s complex had been regarded as impregnable by anything short of a full-scale military assault with artillery.
The shot that had killed him was rumoured to have been taken from 3,200 metres.
“Best shot of your career?” Alex asked, his lips mouthing at Yassen’s ear again.
“Second best,” Yassen murmured, his fingers sliding up under the hem of Alex’s teeshirt and caressing the skin just above the waistband of his jeans.
“I think that’s a story I need to hear.”
“A sniper never shoots and tells.”
“We’ll see about that. Bastard deserved it, anyway.” Alex wouldn’t forget the reports he’d read. Or the words ‘not sufficient national interest to warrant further action’ scrawled by Jones at the bottom of the most recent one.
“Not too murdery for you?”
“Just murdery enough. Dragunov?”
“Barrett.”
“Good rifles, crap houses.”
Yassen raised a curious eyebrow.
“Guy in my section bought on one of their estates. Bloody house was practically falling down two years later. He’s still suing them.”
“Remind me never to buy one. I’ll have to find something more suitable.”
“Do you need any more safe houses?”
“At the rate you’re turning them into unsafe houses, yes, I imagine I do.”
They strolled over to the nearest ice cream seller. Alex opted for ginger, honeycomb and cream. Yassen chose a raspberry ripple. They sprawled out on the steps opposite the column under the shade of the umbrella trees and ate their ice creams with quiet relish. It felt surprisingly normal, except that nothing about Alex’s life had ever been normal, so trading licks of ice cream with the world’s foremost assassin was just one more not-normal thing in a lifetime of not-normal things.
Alex tossed the last couple of centimetres of ice cream cone to a feral cat and stretched out, resting his head on his rucksack. “We’re not going back to that tiny flat, are we?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“I can live without that dubious pleasure.”
“I feel the same about your spelling, grammar and punctuation.”
“Harsh.”
“But true. However, it’s fortunate that I have alternative accommodation available, assuming that it meets your exacting standards.”
Yassen stood up, all lithe, controlled power. Even in his early 40s, he had the appearace of a man at least ten years younger, and he still possessed an easy economy of movement and a grace that few could match. He held his hand down and Alex took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
He shamelessly took advantage and leaned in for a kiss, pressing his lips to Yassen’s and tasting raspberry ripple ice cream as he swiped the tip of his tongue into the crease of his mouth. Again, he felt Yassen’s hesitancy where public displays of affection were concerned and drew back, smiling, resting his forehead against Yassen’s.
“Am I being too pushy?”
Yassen smiled. “You simply are being Alex Rider. It is hard to object to that.”
Alex stared into the long-lashed blue eyes and returned the smile. “That’s not what you usually say when I crash into one of your contracts. But you so have a bit of a thing for Riders, haven’t you?”
“All this because I refused to kill an annoying 14-year-old ... I knew I’d come to regret that one last moral.”
“Think of all the fun you’d have missed if you’d let Cray kill me.”
“Think of all the uncompromised safe houses I would still have.”
“Minor details. So, come on, I’m dying to have a nose around another of your pads.”
Alex slung his rucksack over his shoulder. and they strolled around the edge of the Forum, looking down at the jumble of broken white stone pillars reflecting the warmth of the fading sun.
“Bloody builders clearly as bad then as they are now,” Alex commented, looking down at the tourists thronging the remains of Rome’s ancient marketplace. “You’d think they’d’ve finished it by now.”
“Probably off moonlighting somewhere. Maybe working for Barratts,” Yassen agreed, deftly leading him through the crowds without giving any clue to their destination.
“You’re remarkably relaxed for a working assassin in the middle of a busy capital,” Alex remarked.
“Italian law enforcement and I have reached an accommodation,” Yassen said calmly. “I no longer accept contracts on Italian soil, unless it is in the interests of the state.”
“How very … restrained of you.”
Yassen smiled and his deceptively guileless eyes held small sparks of sunshine. “I think so. And so do they. I have also been known to solve some minor problems for them.”
He steered Alex to a discreet set of doors in a tall, brick building overlooking the Forum, set up against the ancient walls, even incorporating them in places. A uniformed concierge behind a desk smiled as they entered. Despite the man’s smart suit, he had the look of someone who could handle himself in a fight.
“Former Italian special forces,” Yassen murmured, before switching to flawless Italian, “Good afternoon, Vittorio. This is my friend Alex. He is to be allowed full access to my apartment.”
The man smiled. “Nice to meet you, Alex. If there is anything you need during your stay, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Alex returned the smile then followed Yassen to a staircase on the far side of the entrance hall and up to the sixth floor, murmuring, “He’s rather tasty.”
“Restrain yourself, brat.”
“Still no lover of lifts?” Alex commented as he matched his host step for step on the stairs, pleased that his breathing remained constant.
“They have their place, but I happen to like the exercise.”
At the top of the building, Yassen used both a key card and a conventional key to unlock the high-security door that gave access to a wide lobby with lift doors to their left, opposite a tall, intricately carved oak door set in a white painted wall in a lobby containing enough potted plants to put the average botanic garden to shame.
Alex ran his hand over a long, glossy leaf. “Classy. Thought it was plastic for a minute.”
Yassen rolled his eyes. “Plants improve air quality.”
“Who waters them when you’re away?”
“Automatic irrigation system.”
“Posh.”
“Necessary.”
Opening the inner door, Yassen waved him through, and Alex stepped into a large, airy room with huge floor to ceiling windows that opened onto a wide terrace with the most stunning views over the Forum and the Wedding Cake, as the gleaming white Victor Emmanuel monument as the monstrosity was more popularly known.
Rugs in deep, warm colours lay scattered over the terracotta floor tiles. Each one looked to be worth a king’s ransom. Two large cream-coloured sofas faced the windows, along with three elegant reclining chairs in pale tan leather. Alex recognised them as Swedish in origin and bloody expensive. The art on the wall was a tasteful mix of old and new. He recognised three Canalettos, one of which was almost certainly on the register of lost and stolen artworks. There was also work by several modern artists, none of whom Alex recognised, but it was quickly clear from his scan of the room that Yassen’s taste varied from the vivid colours of the more recent artworks to the softer detail of Canaletto’s paintings, with his acute eye for architectural detail and the play of light and shade on the buildings.
Alex abandoned any shred of nonchalance and simply wandered around the apartment, admiring works of art that wouldn’t have been out of place in any of the world’s finest galleries. Time spent in some of best that Europe and America had to offer with Ian and later Jack had instilled in him an appreciation of fine art and two months undercover in Sotheby’s had taught him an awful lot about the shadier side of the art market.
“All legitimately acquired,” Yassen said, correctly divining his train of thought. “Even the fakes.”
“Fakes? Do I win a prize if I spot them?”
“I’ll think about it. May I offer you a drink?”
Alex smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Yassen swatted him lightly on the arse. “You have been here precisely eight minutes. Five of which you’ve spent sniffing around like a bloodhound. House rules: help yourself to whatever food and drink you like, don’t leave your dirty laundry on the floor and don’t hog the quilt.”
“Me, hog the quilt?” Alex injected a note of outrage into his voice.
“I speak from experience. Champagne cocktail?”
“Soulmate,. I love you, have I told you that?”
“Frequently.”
“So why the crummy flat?”
“I was working and it was more convenient to stay close to the client. I prefer not to mix business with pleasure.”
“I thought you said you didn’t accept contracts on Italian soil?”
“I said I didn’t accept contracts on Italian soil unless it was in the interests of the state.”
“So MI6’s intel was crap on two counts? The plan wouldn’t have worked because the Italians were paying you to make sure it didn’t?”
“A fair summary.”
Alex perched on a stool at the breakfast counter and watched as Yassen popped sugar cubes into two glasses, added a dash of Angostura Bitters, then poured on a large measure of brandy and topped the mix off with chilled champagne. They clinked their glasses together in a silent toast and Alex sipped probably the best champaign cocktail that he had ever encountered
Yassen watched indulgently as Alex lost himself again in appreciation of both the paintings and a pair of stunning mixed media sculptures, combining porcelain clay, driftwood and silver into free-flowing shapes that seemed almost to move with him as he viewed them from different angles. Alex had absolutely no idea what they were meant to represent, but he could have happily stared at them for hours.
“Shall I show you to your room?” Yassen asked, when Alex finally tore his gaze away from them.
Alex promptly turned on his best puppy dog eyes. “I get lonely on my own. And anyway, you’ve already told me not to hog the quilt, so there’s no point in playing hard to get.”
Yassen sighed. “Shall I show you to my room?”
Alex smiled. “Does it have a nice view?”
“The best in Rome.”
Yassen wasn’t exaggerating. The view from the bedroom window was breathtaking, especially now that the sky was shot with crimson and orange as the sun sank slowly towards the horizon. All around the city, lights were starting to come on, picking out domes, towers and relics of antiquity. Alex’s battered rucksack promptly made the elegant simplicity of the bedroom look untidy, but Yassen made no comment and simply told him there was space in the wardrobe for his things and everything he was likely to need could be found in the ensuite.
When he returned to the main room, Yassen took a platter of cold ham, olives, and assorted appetisers out of the fridge and gestured to the spiral staircase by the door. “Would you like to investigate the roof garden?”
If the view from the main room was beautiful, and the one from the bedroom was breathtaking, the view from the roof garden was sublime. The whole of Rome lay spread out before them, lights twinkling like myriad stars. Alex couldn’t even begin to imagine how much the apartment had cost even though he was very tempted to ask.
Two large pots containing lemon trees laden with fruit stood on either side of the doorway, and a riot of flowering plants bore witness to another expensive and discreet irrigation system that captured rainwater and channelled it around the garden to the pots.
As Yassen set the tray on a glass-topped table, Alex commented, smiling to take any sting out of the words, “Who did you have to kill to be able to afford this place?”
“I prevented the assassination of the Italian prime minister and assisted in the retrieval of a minister’s daughter from kidnappers. They were more generous than I expected.”
“You didn’t negotiate the terms in advance?”
Yassen smiled. “I am capable of altruism, Alex.”
Alex grinned. “I know. I’m still alive.” He popped an olive into his mouth and went back to admiring the view. The floodlit remains of the ancient world spread out below them, quiet now, devoid of tourists, but thronged with the ghosts of the past, probably wondering how night now so closely resembled day.
As the sun finally dropped down below the horizon, lights finished winking on all over the city, suffusing the air with a warm yellow glow. Around them on the terrace, more lights appeared amongst the foliage like tiny, fallen stars.
He sipped his second champagne cocktail, savouring the burst of flavour on his tongue. Yassen’s apartment was beautiful and apparently had not been purchased with blood money. Despite that, he was under no illusions about his host. Yassen Gregorovich was – on his own admission – not a good man. But, in Alex’s experience, he was honest (providing no one was paying him to be dishonest) and he made no attempt to excuse his crimes. There was something else, too, something that had changed, something hard to put into words … Alex thought about it and simply concluded that Yassen seemed a tad less murdery. That would have to do. For now, at least. There was no point in kicking a gift horse in the teeth. Especially when the gift horse was as illicitly attractive as Yassen Gregorovich.
He stood next to Yassen, leaning on the stone balustrade, close enough for their shoulders to touch. “It’s all so beautiful,” he said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You’re welcome. At least here you won’t have to anchor yourself to me to remain in the bed.”
Alex allowed his eyes to widen in mock surprise. “I get nervous about falling out of bed.”
“Perhaps I should invest in hospital sides …?”
“Handy for bondage games.”
A flicker of something that might – just might – have been embarrassment crossed Yassen’s face. “Not one of my vices,” the Russian said lightly.
“You have vices? Don’t destroy my illusions. I always thought you were a paragon of virtue.”
“I drink. I kill people for money. I even smoke, on occasion. And I ran a red light last week.”
“Are you cruel to animals?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you park on double yellow lines?”
“Occasionally.”
“Do you watch daytime soaps?”
Yassen looked faintly shifty.
Alex’s eyes widened. “Not Neighbours?”
“Most certainly not. Will this game of Twenty Questions last all evening?”
“Maybe. Judge Judy or Judge Rinder?”
“I need another drink.”
Alex smiled and held out his glass, a hopeful expression on his face then sprawled out on one of the sun loungers, nibbling olives and the excellent dried ham and while Yassen topped up their glasses.
They drank in companionable silence. Yassen never rushed to fill a conversational hiatus and, unless he was intending to irritate, nor did Alex. That was one of several useful skills he’d learned in malagosto.
Alex couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so comfortable or content as he popped another thin slice of ham into his mouth. “This is bloody sublime.”
“The angry pig,” Yassen commented.
“Well, I don’t suppose it was best pleased to end up as ham…”
“The Angry Pig,” Yassen said, carefully capitalising the words. “I’ll take you there tomorrow. It’s Rome’s smallest bar. The selection of Belgian beers is equally sublime.”
Alex sighed happily. “Beer, ham and a bar called the Angry Pig. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
He
stretched out his hand, palm upwards in mute invitation. Yassen’s hand settled on his and they laced their fingers together. Alex glanced over at his companion. Yassen’s eyes were closed, and his expression was open and unguarded. He looked ten years younger than his actual age and Alex wanted to snog him senseless then drag him off to bed, but he knew that would be taking things too far too fast. He’d probably have to burn through at least three more of Yassen’s safe houses before they even got to second base.
But maybe he could get to the snogging senseless part of the plan …
He slid off his sun lounger to kneel next to Yassen, bending over to nuzzle his neck and trail light kisses up to the corner of his mouth.
“Permission to kiss you?”
“Permission granted.”
Alex gently ran his tongue over Yassen’s lips, savouring the moment when they parted under his light kisses and allowed him entrance. Their tongues slid sensuously together as Alex slipped his hands through Yassen’s short hair and cradled his face in his palms as the kiss deepened and Yassen yielded all dominance to him in a way that was even more intoxicating that the champagne cocktails.
When Alex finally drew back, they were both breathing heavily, hyperaware of every caress of hands and mouth.
Alex was within a hair’s breadth of throwing caution to the winds when a low buzz sounded from the doorway.
With an apologetic look,Yassen extracted his phone from his pocket and thumbed one of the icons on the screen to bring up the view from a security camera in the hallway outside the door to his apartment. For an assassin with someone at the door, he didn’t seem overly concerned.
A dark-haired woman in her early 40s smiled up at the camera and gave a slight wave of one slim, elegant hand.
Yassen sighed and spoke into his phone: “Good evening, Monica.”
“So sorry to bother you. May I borrow a cup of sugar?”
“You don’t take sugar.”
“Don’t be difficult, Yassen darling, for all you know I might be baking a cake or cooking jam.”
Yassen execute a perfect eyeroll. “Do come in, Monica. I’ll find some sugar for you.” He sat up, stole a quick and dirty kiss, then tugged Alex to his feet and went downstairs to answer the door.
The woman kissed Yassen on both cheeks with easy familiarity. “Am I disturbing you?”
“You know perfectly well you are. Alex, meet my nosy neighbour, Monica Peretti. Monica, this is Alex Rider, my …”
“Soulmate,” Alex said, holding his hand out to the woman.
“I was going to say colleague,” Yassen said. “But soulmate is Alex’s preferred description. May I offer you a drink instead of the cup of sugar you most certainly don’t need?”
“Only if I’m not really disturbing you…” The woman’s vivid blue eyes twinkled with amusement.
Alex liked her already. He’d never imagined Yassen with nosy neighbours who dropped in on the flimsiest of pretexts to check out his guests. The man clearly had hidden depths. Or his neighbours did.
“Is Paulo at home?”
Monica smiled and nodded.
“Would you both care to come to dinner? I was just about to start cooking.”
“That would be delightful but do tell him he can’t afford you when he tries to take out a contract on half the cabinet.”
“Only half? And you know perfectly well he can afford me, even at my outrageous prices.”
“Don’t encourage him!” After thumbing a quick text, Monica settled down on one of the high stools at the kitchen counter and accepted a glass of chilled white wine and a dish of olives.
Alex made himself useful and cut some more thin slivers of the excellent ham. He’d barely finished arranging them on a plate when Monica went to the door and returned with a tall, handsome man in his late 50s, with iron grey hair and a short beard, wearing a white shirt and dark blue linen trousers.
Paulo Fortis. Italian Minister of the Interior.
Fortis shook hands with Alex and smiled apologetically at Yassen. “I told her to leave you in peace tonight.” His English was only slightly accented. The man was fluent in six languages, according to MI6’s files,
“He expects it of me!”
“There are times the poor man probably regrets declining that contract.”
“He declined a contract?” Alex’s curiosity immediately got the better of him as he scented the possibility of some juicy gossip. He was still getting his head around the fact that the Italian Interior Minister, the man responsible for internal security and for civil protection against terrorism quite clearly knew what Yassen did for a living. “I’m Alex, by the way.”
“Alex Rider. MI6. Your reputation precedes you. The piranhas are settling well into their new home, so I’m told.”
Alex groaned. “I’m not going to be allowed to live that down, am I?”
“Almost certainly not. I did tell your Mrs Jones that we considered there was no chance whatsoever of that particular plan succeeding.”
“Her analysts were singing from a different song sheet. Personally, I think she just does it so she can complain about the quality of my mission reports and the size of my expense account.”
“A three-peppermint debriefing?”
“Four. She wasn’t pleased with me for putting the anonymous donation to the zoo on my company credit card. Now about that contract Yassen declined?”
“I employed Yassen to kill me.” Monica threw the assassin an apologetic glance. “Except I told him I was employing him to kill my non-existent twin sister. Unfortunately, I underestimated his powers of observation.”
Alex listened, fascinated, as Monica told the story of how a pair of cheap glasses had betrayed her subterfuge. Yassen, busy preparing four monkfish steaks, added the occasional wry aside.
“He made it perfectly plain I was a spoiled, stupid little rich girl,” Monica said, smiling fondly as Yassen chopped salad with frightening speed and precision.
“If it’s any consolation, he tells me off, too.” Alex topped up their glasses. “He’s very annoying when he wants to be.”
“Might I remind you who is cooking you all dinner?”
“You’re a jewel amongst men, my darling. Are we having baked beans with it and tinned peaches for afters?”
Yassen made a rude gesture with the knife and went back to very competently murdering a harmless salad.
Monica smiled in delight and announced, “I like him already, Yassen. I’m so glad you’ve found a … soulmate.”
“He’s a lot less murdery with me around,” Alex said. “I think he’s mellowing.”
Yassen’s grip on the knife tightened and a tomato met an explosive red doom.
“He’s not even on Interpol’s top 10 most wanted list any more.” Paulo Fortis sipped his wine and made no attempt whatsoever to hide the amusement on his face.
“I’m not?” Yassen’s tone expressed mild curiosity.
“He’s not?” Alex promptly grabbed his own phone and quickly logged into a secure area on the Interpol site reserved for the use of the various security services. A moment later, “He’s not. Who the hell did you get to hack in and sort that for you, Yas?”
With quick, precise strokes of his knife, Yassen fanned a radish into the shape of a rose and tossed it into a bowl of iced water to crisp. “Oh ye of little faith. Perhaps I really am less murdery…”
Alex stared thoughtfully at the information on his phone screen, then looked equally thoughtfully around the apartment until the penny – or more correctly, the euro – finally dropped. “This isn’t a safe house at all, is it? This is a home.”
“He has a perfectly good safe house on the Via Flaminia overlooking the Borghese Gardens,” Monica supplied.
“Thank you, Monica. Alex has already set out to compromise all my safe houses one by one. There’s no need to hand him the information on a plate with a spring of parsley on top.”
Alex sighed theatrically. “If you weren’t my soulmate, I’d hate you.” A moment later, his eyes widened in amazement. “Yas, did you just fan a radish?”
Monica promptly choked on a mouthful of wine.
With a few quick strokes of a dangerously sharp knife, Yassen carved a radish into the shape of a fragmentation grenade and tossed it to him. Alex caught it and popped it into his mouth, savouring the crisp, peppery taste.
“Can you do a Mills bomb?”
The remainder of the evening passed in a similar ebb and flow of gentle teasing. For Alex, watching Yassen relaxed and at ease with two friends was something he’d never expected to experience. Hell, he’d never even imagined the assassin having friends, let alone living in an apartment with neighbours who called around specifically to satisfy their curiosity about who Yassen had brought home with him.
The glimpse of a younger Yassen who had refused to kill a beautiful woman, despite having been paid to do so was equally intriguing. And then the removal of Yassen from the Interpol listing … Alex strongly suspected the involvement of Paolo Fortis in that. From some subtle asides, it was clear that Yassen had helped the Italian government in several ways, not only the ones he’d mentioned earlier. It made sense, particularly as Yassen wanted to live peacefully in Rome and enjoy the uninterrupted use of one of its most desirable apartments.
Alex made a mental note to check the Russian’s status on The UK security services listings. He strongly suspected some downgrading there, as well. That would explain the man’s apparent unparalleled ability to evade both Border Force entry checks and the constant surveillance on the streets of the capital and elsewhere else.
After Monica and Paolo returned to their own apartment, promising a return match in the hospitality stakes, Yassen accepted Alex’s help to clear the table and load the dishwasher.
“A nightcap?” Yassen held up a cut glass decanter. “This is an excellent cognac.”
“I could be persuaded. But could we be decadent and have it in bed after I’ve had a quick shower?”
“Of course.”
Alex promptly finished making the perfect bedroom look untidy as he unpacked his rucksack and hung up the few changes of clothes he’d brought with him. A couple of pairs of teeshirts, two pairs of jeans and two decent shirts and two pairs of smartish trousers. Underwear, socks and a pair of sandals went onto empty shelves in the wardrobe. The trainers he was wearing were new enough not to look too out of place with his nicer gear. He’d remembered a pair of soft cotton sleep trousers but he’d forgotten a teeshirt to go with them, but it wasn’t as if Yassen hadn’t already seen his scars. Alex had come to terms with them, but it made life easier not to have to explain them to a bed partner.
After a warm, relaxing shower, he quickly dried off and padded barefoot back into the bedroom.
The deep red curtains were pulled back to reveal the Eternal City in all its nocturnal glory and Rome wasn’t the only thing on display to an admiring audience. Yassen was dressed only in a pair of thin cotton pyjama trousers, his hair standing up in damp disarray as he rubbed it with a white towel. Alex presumed he’d used the shower in the guest room. He stared in frank admiration at the man’s smoothly muscled shoulders and chest, and the light covering of darker blond hair that led from his chest in a tantalising trail down to the waistband of his trousers.
Yassen returned the stare, a slight smile on his face.
Alex felt a blush start to develop at the intensity of the appraisal he was receiving from the blue eyes.
“One way glass,” Yassen commented, nodding to the window. “You don’t need to worry about being seen in your sleepwear.”
“Bullet proof?”
“Of course. Do you have a preference for which side of the bed you would prefer not to fall out of?”
Alex laughed. The bed was so large they’d probably need the help of a search party to even find each other. A couple of books were piled up on top of each other on the lefthand side, so he presumed that was where Yassen normally slept when he didn’t have to pretend that assassins had no preferences because preferences got you killed.
“Righthand side is fine for me.” He walked over to the one-way glass and admired the other view, desperately willing his cock to behave itself.
After depositing the damp towel in the ensuite, Yassen stood behind him and raised one eyebrow enquiringly, knowing Alex was watching his reflection in the glass.
“Permission to touch granted.” Alex smiled. “For the avoidance of doubt, that permission will remain in force until explicitly withdrawn.”
Yassen closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Alex’s waist. Alex relaxed into the embrace, enjoying the warm press of Yassen’s chest against his back and the gentle tickle of breath on the nape of his neck.
“Thank you for inviting me into your home,” Alex said quietly. “And I enjoyed meeting your friends.”
Yassen kissed the back of his neck, sending a delicious shiver down Alex’s spine. “Come to bed. I would very much like to cuddle you.”
They settled into the bed, with Alex’s head comfortably pillowed on Yassen’s shoulder, and drank cognac from the same glass, trading brandy-tasting kisses, chasing the smooth heat of the liquor around each other’s mouths with lips and tongues as hands slid up arms and over backs, by mutual assent always staying above the waist, despite both having given up any attempt to hide their erections. Only one last sliver of decorum stood between Alex and his desire to shamelessly rub himself off against Yassen’s thigh.
Just at the point when he was about to excuse himself and make a dash for the bathroom, Yassen paused his determined assault on Alex’s mouth and murmured, “How far does the permission to touch extend?”
“No limits.” Alex buried his face in Yassen’s neck and gasped as gun-callused fingers wrapped around his hard cock, slick with the pre-come beading at the tip and started to slide up and down his over-sensitive skin. His breath hitched in his throat and moments later, his cock pulsed in Yassen’s hand, and he came hard, his nails digging into Yassen’s shoulder as his hips bucked uncontrollably and he lost himself in a long-denied starburst of pleasure.
When he finally regained some higher brain function, Alex murmured, “Sorry, that was embarrassingly quick.”
“Really? I thought we’d had six years of foreplay leading up to this …”
Alex wormed a hand between than and smiled happily when he discovered Yassen was still hard. “Only six? You mean you were immune to my charms until I turned 18?”
“Yes. I do have some self-control.”
Ales slid his hand down Yassen’s cock and lightly stroked over his balls, drawing a very satisfactory gasp. “So do I, I’ve wanted to touch you like this for a very long time.”
“Alex, you have no self-control whatsoever. You blow things up on the flimsiest of pretexts, you have disturbing pyrotechnic tendencies and absolutely no idea of the meaning of the words proportionate response.”
“Harsh.” Alex tightened his grip on velvet smooth skin. “I have stacks of self-control. I’ve never snogged you in front of one of your mad clients.”
“You’ve wanted to?”
“Oh hell yes. Why else do you think I let you catch me so often? You’re seriously hot when you’re trying not to go all murdery on me.”
Yassen let out a small choking noise, part gasp, part laugh as he came over Alex’s hand, his blue eyes warmer and more alive that Alex had ever seen before.
Their next kiss was messy, uncoordinated and utterly satisfying. When they finally drew apart, Alex said, “Yas, there’s just one problem …”
Yassen paused in the serious business of nuzzling Alex’s ear. “Mmm?”
“I only packed one pair of pyjama trousers, and these are a bit … damp.”
“I have more than one pair and I am happy to lend them to you. Alternatively. we could just dispense with the need to wear clothes in bed. Unless of course you need something to hang onto to prevent you falling on the floor …”
Alex quickly shimmied out of his damp sleepwear, wiped himself down then wound himself around Yassen’s now naked body. “Got plenty to hang onto, thanks.”
Yassen held Alex tightly to him. “So have I, and it’s much nice cuddling you without clothes on ….”
“You only had to ask.”
“I know. But I wanted you to be sure.”
“I’m sure.” Alex kissed Yassen lightly on the shoulder, savouring the slight tang of sweat on the smooth skin. He’d actually been sure for a very long time, but he’d been trying extremely hard not to spook his maybe-not-quite-so-murdery bedmate.
And Alex was certain that Yassen had at least half a dozen other safe houses just crying out to be compromised, so he could afford to take things slowly.