Chapter Text
His lip curled in annoyance as he straightened his tie, tucking the black fabric beneath the matching low-cut black vest. His fingers slid absently over the silk, thread so fine it drank the light in hungrily and left the eyes deceived into believing it matte. The effect was reinforced by the luster of the long-sleeved crimson silk shirt underneath it, accentuating the thin red outlines of flamingos decorating the vest. He pulled a hand through his spiky blond hair and frowned faintly at his reflection, lips quirking to the side with grudging satisfaction.
He turned away from the mirror and ambled over to the window, leaning both hands on the stone sill to stare at the stretch of shadow reaching toward the sun-limned city on the eastern horizon. He sighed almost imperceptibly as a breeze caressed his face, letting his eyes slide shut as it tugged the edge off his irritation.
There were much better things he could be doing with his evening. The city had finally deigned to grant the health permit for Blue Mora but continued to prove intransigent regarding the additional liquor license. As if he didn’t already have one for the Summer Swan. He tapped his thumb against the cool gray block of stone under his palm, eyes tracking but not really seeing the hawk circling above the stretch of forest between their property’s limits and the city. It was another of the Celestial’s petty attempts to curb his behaviors and it would be just as effective as the last time. He’d left Monet to handle finding which palms to grease—and which to break—but cutting things this close to opening night left him restless.
He lifted his hand, sprinkling grit from the sill against the backdrop of the hawk snapping its wings shut and plummeting for some small creature in the trees. He’d hoped to expend some energy finding this ‘Blackbeard’ who kept trying to set up shop near his businesses, but… He dropped his hand back to the stone, lips pressed together.
Instead, he was here. What a waste.
The whisper of the door swinging open heralded two pairs of footsteps, one irritating and one calming. His fingers tightened reflexively at the gasp and then his father’s exclamation cut clearly across the bedroom, “Oh, Doffy, you look great! Wonderful choice in attire!” His voice lowered marginally, “What do you think, my love?”
He could tell his mother was smiling as she replied softly, “Oh yes, dear.”
Doflamingo turned as he always did at her presence in time to catch her eyes sparkling, “You look quite dashing, Doffy.”
He let out another sigh, lips trying to twist into a grimace and halting just short of their goal, “Well, you did say it was supposed to be a formal event.” He gestured at himself, “What else would I wear?”
His mother’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, airy blush chiffon blouse rippling right up to where it was tucked into the waist of her pristine white capris. Doffy’s lips twitched smugly as she stepped away from his coward of a father and made her way past the couches and coffee table to adjust his collar. Quite unnecessarily, he knew, as he had literally just assured it was straight, but he let her fuss anyway. She patted his tie gently, smiling brilliantly as she looked into his glasses, “Oh, you really do look so wonderful, Doffy.”
He smirked, because of course he looked excellent, who did she think she raised? The expression melted when his father came forward and looped an arm around her shoulders, choosing to ignore Doffy’s disdain as always as Homing beamed at him, “You’re certain to be the life of the party!”
Doflamingo tried not to sneer, as his mother always looked upset when he did, but it was ultimately futile: she knew how much he hated him. He caught the pain behind her smile and felt the slightest stirring of guilt before he burned it as she turned her gaze up to her husband, “Your father and I were thinking, since Rosinante isn’t here…”
And oh, would he make his brother pay for leaving him alone for this stupid thing. Their parents offer the manor and their sons as hosts for ‘the next generation’ of nobles to mingle, and Rosinante suddenly has a mysterious emergency shift with the Navy? If he really wanted to play that game then Doffy would eagerly oblige his clumsy baby brother.
Accidents were so very easy to arrange.
His father straightened slightly, mint green sweater more than a bit of an eyesore in the pink, crimson, and gray palette of Doffy’s room, “Oh, yes! Now that Rosinante is gone and we’ll be leaving for our trip, we thought you might want to bring one of your friends instead.” Doffy kept his gaze on the man’s blond mustache and not on the eyes with false cheer, “We still have two places set up for you and your brother at the table.”
Doflamingo stilled, mind racing. An empty seat…?
His mouth stretched into a wide, terrible grin, red glasses flashing in the sunlight slanting in through the southern windows beside his parents, “You know…” He inclined his head at his father in concession, “I think I would enjoy that.”
Knock-knock-knock.
Gray eyes flicked up to stare at the door, failing to find a shadow in the clouded glass panels bracketing the frame. Whoever it was, they must be right up against the door. But he wasn’t expecting anyone today… He turned his gaze back to the book in his hands, relaxing into the embrace of the cushions. Not his problem.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
He grumbled, astutely ignoring the intrusion into his evening, lazily sinking into the cream pillow under his head and propping his book a little higher on his thighs to catch the sunlight streaming through the windows behind him. Whoever it was could disappear. A rare stint of peace and quiet, with Lami and their parents scouting out universities for her, was to be enjoyed, not wasted. He would most definitely not be interrupted while he was reading his anatomy text—
THUMP-THUMP.
“Law! You can’t hide from me!” That infernal grin was evident in his voice, “I know you’re in there~”
Law stared blankly at his book before letting his legs fall sideways to lean against the backrest, eyes narrowing at the eight-foot cream front door he could see through the archway. The sunlight slanting through the back windows unfortunately meant the eastern front of the house—and the sidelights framing the door—were in too much shadow to make out any useful details from here. There weren’t any telling sounds either, just the usual bird and people chatter from the tree-lined street.
But who knew what mischief the man would start if he remained bored and at large. Probably something stupid like start a war and bring it right to Law’s doorstep. So he dropped his textbook on the coffee table and braced his palms against the opalescent top as he swiveled to stand. Socked feet silent on the marble tiles, he smirked in anticipation and threw the deadbolt open, savoring the various mocks ready to be thrown from his lips.
The draft of warm air caressed his cheek with unpleasant humidity and then there Doflamingo stood, back to the door, one hand propped on the alabaster stone archway of the portico and his other slung in a pocket. Law rolled his eyes at the appreciative looks the blond was receiving from those passing by. Idiots. Complete and utter morons, eating out of the palms of his hands just by looking at him.
Blues save them, how did people survive when they were so stupid?
The blond glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening and grinned, “There you are!” He turned to face Law, sliding his other hand in a pocket too as he sauntered through the half-shadowed stoop, baritone smooth and confident as ever, “Come on, we’ve got to get you dressed.”
Smooth and confident… So this was not a boredom call. That changed things.
Law slapped his free hand against the door frame on instinct, black sleeve sliding halfway down his forearm as he barred the way. Doflamingo halted just shy of bumping into it and turned a wicked grin down at him, “What’s wrong, Law?”
Law raked his narrowed gaze over him. No wonder he’d been drawing stares. He was wearing all his highest quality work, that special blend of silk he wouldn’t tell anyone else how to make, the vest that was the culmination of his perfectionistic boredom and was his pride and joy—
He lifted his gaze back up to Doflamingo’s dark red glasses, “No.”
The man’s eyebrows raised, incredulity mixing with amusement, “No?”
He flicked his unamused eyes over the man for emphasis, “I don’t do social with you and you know it.”
Doflamingo tilted his head curiously, one brow dropping as his grin softened into something sly, “Is that so?” He tilted his head a little further, as if listening, and muttered, “And do I find you alone today, Law?”
Law didn’t like whatever Doflamingo was thinking, especially not if it was giving him that expression. Confidence and swagger he could handle. Scheming was a whole different level with him. He glared suspiciously at the taller man and swung the door shut just a little more, the cooler indoor air swirling through the pollen-dusted afternoon warmth as he braced his arm more securely against the frame and enunciated more clearly this time, “No.”
He did not need to be involved in a Doflamingo scheme, not when they invariably turned bizarre and complicated. Just one damn weekend to himself to study, be alone, and catch up on some much-needed sleep—was it really so much to ask?
Doflamingo let loose a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he leaned a crimson-clad shoulder against the bleached door frame and crossed his ankles. Hands still pocketed, he turned to view the flowering dogwoods framing the steps leading up to the stoop, “You know, I worry about you, Law.” He jerked his chin vaguely at the pedestrians strolling past the pale wrought iron gate, “There’s so much you could do out there and instead”—he twitched his head at the door frame he was leaning on—“here you are, in this big white house all by your lonesome, hiding yourself away.”
Law flicked his eyes over him again, “What, get tired of the spotlight already? And here I thought you said you could bring the world to its knees on your own.” He smirked at the man’s quirked lips, “I don’t know what you’ve been roped into and I don’t care. No.”
Doflamingo chuckled and Law’s eyes narrowed. Had he missed something? “Oh, Law.” He watched warily at the hand he slid from his pocket, though his fingers remained normal and not twisted in puppeteering as he reached forward to ruffle Law’s regrettably hatless shaggy black hair and whispered smugly, “How naive.”
Law smacked his hand away with a scowl, certain that he hadn’t missed anything and that had been a sad attempt at a comeback—and then he realized his mistake, too late, as Doflamingo immediately took a step through the now-unbarred doorway.
Damn it. Law planted both hands on Doflamingo’s silk-covered chest and tried to shove him back outside, but the man had to be made of rock because he didn’t even budge. Doflamingo looked down at the thin fingers digging into his sternum and his smirk grew, “Come now, Law. If you wanted to touch it, you just had to ask.”
Ugh.
He could be such a smug little brat sometimes. Whoever said twenty-six year olds could be adults had clearly never met the man.
Law rolled his eyes and groaned at the ceiling, “Get out.”
But he could feel Doflamingo’s silent chuckle through his hands as the man took another step inside and Law’s socked feet slid across the tile. Fuck. Well, fine. He’d lost that round, spectacularly, but that didn’t mean he’d lose the next one. He threw his hands in the air with a vague grumble and turned back into the sitting room, flipping his textbook shut with a thwmp and tossing his arms over the spine of the couch as he slumped into it, “How much is it gonna cost me to get you to leave?”
The man huffed derisively, shoes clicking crisply on the tile as he shut the door and followed him into the sitting room. He stopped in the archway, hands slung in his pocket and chin lifted with disappointment, “Like a cheap whore? Classy.”
Law raised a brow, “I was thinking more like blackmail.” He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and grinned darkly, “And what exactly could you have been up to for your mind to go straight to paid sex?”
The man barked a laugh that ricocheted off the ten-foot ceilings and made his way to settle in the nearest wing-backed armchair, one hand dangling at the end of the pale armrest and the other propping his grinning cheek up, “You may want to reconsider the question, kid.” At Law’s snort the man’s voice dropped and he purred, “Because asking exactly what I’ve been doing may get you more details than you’re comfortable with.”
Law’s lips quirked and he threw a puffy cream pillow at him, “You’re disgusting.”
Doflamingo snorted, snatching the pillow out of the air with a little death sweee as his fingers squished it. He fluffed air back into the feathers and then waved it at him admonishingly, “You’re too easy.”
Law waved vaguely, the elongated shadow drawing fingers across his friend’s collarbone, “Whatever. You can keep your creepiness to yourself, thanks.”
“Oh, are you sure?” He tossed the pillow back with a sigh, “And I really thought you’d be interested in this one, after all that griping about the lack of cadavers with certain qualifications, but what do I know…”
Law caught the pillow in midair and scowled at it. Certain qualifications? When’s the last time they talked cadavers, anyway? His internship was on break and even when they had bodies that idiot Hogback—His wide eyes snapped up, “You did not.”
The man’s grin grew and he linked his fingers loosely in his lap, leaning back into the chair with a little shrug, pearlescent linings winking in the orange light of early sunset.
Oh, shit. He absolutely had. Law squinted against the glare, lifting a finger from the pillow to point, “If Rosinante hears about this—”
The man gave a long-suffering sigh, “Oh, Law. What my brother actually hears about me can barely fill a report. What do you take me for?”
Law ignored the goosebumps prickling along his skin. He’d only complained once, in January, when his freak of a mentor made it clear his internship would mostly consist of glorified administrative work when it was supposed to give him practical experience… He sat back, flinging the pillow on the couch cushion beside him with a fwm of compressing feathers and crossed his arms, hood of his sweatshirt bunched between his shoulder blades, “Alright, then. Just how illegal was it? I have no interest in being tied to a murder.”
The blond raised a brow and lifted his hands placatingly, red sleeves brilliant bands against the cream and snow of the sitting room, “I know your preferences. No murder involved, cross my heart.”
It was Law’s turn to raise a brow, “Right. I know your definition of murder.” He wasn’t stupid. He smirked at the conciliatory tilt of the man’s head and continued, “So, then, next question: how about killing?”
His dark grin shifted to an amused smirk and he answered a little too readily, “I killed no one.”
Law just narrowed his eyes. He killed no one… He relaxed into the couch a bit more with a long sigh, doing an admirable job of not sounding too eager, “Now you’re too easy. Either you give me more details or you’re on your own.”
Doflamingo’s head cocked.
Law rolled his eyes, huffing a sigh through his nose as he gestured at the blond’s formal attire, sweatshirt slipping along his forearm, “Please. You clearly want company at whatever you’re suffering a dress code for. So.” He smirked, “Details of what you’ve done, as I’ve already asked, and then I’ll tell you if I’m willing to bite.” Which he undoubtedly would, or Doflamingo wouldn’t even be here.
The man’s grin was genuine this time, “Excellent.”
Doffy sipped at the chilled aperitif in his hand, eyes on the lengthy shadows quickening over the pale gold patio, creeping closer to the light and noise spilling from behind him. He swirled the ruby liquid in his glass, crystal clinks dropping over his shoulder as his company toasted themselves and each other. He’d said his perfunctory hellos to the first few souls, delighting in the alternatively nervous or blustering responses, and then left them to mingle among themselves to what appeared to be their collective relief. And while he did so enjoy toying with his food, the tease of the cooling breeze had unsurprisingly proved more satisfying and he’d found himself drifting to the twilit threshold, the wind brushing over his hair, his clothes, his skin. The bank of floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors had been one of the best additions this house had ever seen. Even with all of his preparations, even with all the ‘guests’, it would be entirely worth skipping dinner if he could spend the entire evening right here.
He took another sip, mouth curving at the hysterical edge to the laughter behind him. He’d yet to find anyone with two brain cells to their name. Law would’ve been the perfect companion against the mockery: he enjoyed playing with his food nearly as much as Doffy did, a sly rogue to Doffy’s wicked demon.
But he’d fallen asleep while Doffy had worked on his masterpiece and for all the entertainment their verbal sparring provided, he’d decided to leave him be. Those dark circles said Law needed all the sleep he could get, so he’d left him passed out on one of the couches in his room upstairs. Doffy wiggled his fingers by his thigh, watching where their shadows faded as they crossed the streaks of burning sunset between reaching bands of tree-cast shade. Law’s unexpected nap had put a bit of a crimp into his plans and his company was certainly missed, but… Doffy had found no difficulty in further adjusting his plans for the evening to accommodate the new parameters.
He grinned wickedly. In fact, the new plans were sure to prove even more… memorable.
Feeling someone come up behind him, he let his smile curve around a sip of his drink, giving himself a moment to enjoy the silence before the new guest drew up at his side, shadow reaching even further than Doffy’s. Doffy slid his eyes sidelong, his curious inspection safe from notice behind crimson lenses.
Wavy blond locks peeked out beneath the black brim of a well-worn top hat, the little bouncy tentacles framing a square jaw and a wide pink scar barely visible in the dying sunlight. Doffy thought the pinstripe suit might look more navy blue than purple when under less scarlet lighting but either way, it stood out from the drab blacks so many other guests were wearing. In fact, Doffy suspected they were the only two men with any spot of color on them. The rest of them had gone with tuxedos and the dreadful default palette of black and white.
The other blond far outshone even him, a delight in itself, because just who might have that kind of audacity? His white vest and shining gold bow tie wrapped his ensemble in a convivial air, combining with his rakish scar and the scuffed blue goggles that were the trim of his top hat to complete the sense of something almost conman. Or maybe a bit fae.
The assessment took all of a moment and Doffy’s lips quirked against the edge of his tumbler as he let the alcohol slip over his tongue.
Kid had style. For a yuppie.
“Your garden is gorgeous.”
His voice was deeper than expected, but the buttery smoothness was entirely in keeping with the charming charlatan demeanor. Doffy dropped his free hand into his pocket and gestured at the crimson-dusted grounds with his drink, tone mellowed by his grin, “It’s my mother’s pride and joy.”
The boy hummed, pushing the brim of his hat up with a brown-gloved finger as he leaned forward just slightly, peering at something. His hum rose and he pointed, forehead pinching faintly, “Are those heliconias?” He straightened and settled his chin on a gently curled fist, brow pinching as he murmured, “I wouldn’t have expected them to grow so well in a climate this dry.”
A yuppie who knew plants? His smile faded and he twisted to get a better look at him. How interesting…
He lifted a finger from his drink and pointed straight out to the south end of the garden, to unseen glass screened behind the copse of sweet kumquats, “They’re grown in the greenhouse and then transplanted outside when they’re stronger. My mother decided to grow them after one of our trips south.” He measured the look on the boy’s face before continuing lightly, “It’s a bit of a family joke. Do you know the other name they go by?”
The boy’s dark eyes slid sideways, head following his curious gaze, “You mean False Bird of Paradise?”
The corner of Doffy’s mouth twitched as he turned back to the garden and inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut at the soothing mix of citrus and sage and juniper, “Mm. That’s the one.” And hadn’t it been magnificent. He let his breath out and rocked onto his heels, “We were at a resort.” He gestured with his drink, “Years ago. It catered to various wealthy guests, a group of which included some rather drunken hunters.” He grinned, fingers tapping in a remembered rhythm against the chilled crystal in his palm, “They thought it was the height of fun to chase the never-before-seen human-sized bird of paradise all over the grounds.”
He could feel the scamp’s thoughtful attention as he puzzled over Doffy’s statement. He took another sip, rolling the bright, sweet liquid over his tongue, debating replacing the olives he’d already eaten. He’d had hopes but perhaps the kid wasn’t as—
The amusement was plain in his low murmur, “And where did that ‘human-sized’ bird of paradise come from?”
Doffy caught his smirk from the corner of his vision, the kid’s dark eyes glittering as he clasped his hands loosely behind his back and rocked once on his heels. Ah, but did he guess correctly? Doffy shrugged, glancing at the ruby alcohol he was swirling in his glass as even the reflection of the sun off the bottom of the clouds faded into shadow, “Oh, it was by far the best costume I ever made.” He couldn’t stop his growing smirk as he finished quietly, fingers tapping out another remembered rhythm, “My dear little brother liked the wings so much he flapped them when he ran.”
There was a beat before the blond choked out a chuckle, head shaking as he ran his gloved fingers over the brim of his hat. Doffy could’ve sworn he muttered, “Oh, they’ll like you…” But then he took a deep, bracing breath like he’d just woken up and turned to face Doffy more fully, pointing at his half-empty glass, “By the way, is that a Sherry Negroni?”
A yuppie who knew plants… and drinks?
Not a yuppie at all.
To think, he hadn’t believed any one of his guests could bring him a gift he’d want, and this young man merely had to show up to entertain him. But good company deserved reciprocation, so he twisted his fingers in his pocket and answered, “Why, yes it is. Would you like one?” A flick of his pinky and a full tumbler dropped from where it had been traveling near the ceiling and fell straight in front of the boy’s face—
He barely glanced at it as he snatched it from the air with a flourish, not spilling a glittering crimson drop, and raised it between them with a grin and a manic glint in his eyes, “Why, thank you.” He nodded to the quiet rustling darkness to his right, voice softening to match the tenor of the whispering streams and fountains, “How about a toast to celebrate the delicate beauty of your mother’s garden?”
Oh. Doffy chuckled with genuine mirth. He liked this one and his silver tongue! The dangerous ones always introduced such exciting mischief.
He tapped his glass against his new companion’s with a quiet chime and they both drank, listening to the faint flutter of dark wings as the hum of insects rose and the wind and shadows settled.
The other blond eventually broke the silence, hushed voice barely disturbing the activity around them, “So when your brother flapped his arms like a bird…” His eyes dropped to his drink.
Doffy couldn’t quite quell the dark chuckle rumbling past his lips, replying just as quietly, “I made him fly.”
He could still hear the faint sounds of the crowd, though the noise was muffled by the tapestried walls. He tapped his fingers against his glass in a slow tattoo, eyes taking in the idyllic woven scenes and the artfully placed stands adorned with bouquets. He flicked his gaze up, noting that the scroll-work on the baseboard was repeated in the cornice, sweeping into an arched coffered ceiling of vine-patterned antique gold tiles. He traced them, vines creeping closer to the walls and wrapping down the two columns braced at the inner end of the hall. He glanced back toward the heavy double doors that comprised the still-open entrance from the driveway, the vines bursting into flowers where they tumbled down the doors in gold foil until they—he leaned to get a better look and, yes, he’d remembered right—they scattered carved leaves and petals all over the cinnamon-brown stone steps.
Sabo whistled under his breath. How much did this place cost?
Because the mansion truly deserved the name, and if the rest of the sprawling structure was as decorated as this one hallway… He ran his fingers over the picture frame on the table in front of him, of what appeared to be a very young Donquixote family in a different but just as beautiful manor. Not a decoration Doflamingo would choose, surely. He seemed to speak fondly of his mother, but his business choices gave Sabo the suspicion he wasn’t terribly sentimental. Besides, the humanitarian awards scattered throughout the small part of the first floor he’d been able to explore so far suggested both Donquixote parents were saints. He stroked the frame again, wondering if they knew anything about Doflamingo’s underground activities… and smirked, letting his hand fall to his side as he wandered toward the glass-paned double doors set on the east wall. Not likely, but then, they’d raised him, so they couldn’t be totally oblivious to his personality.
Speaking of, Doflamingo hadn’t been quite what he’d expected. Though to be honest, he hadn’t been sure what to expect, given the rumors ranged from naming him a fire-breathing hell-spawn to a cold-hearted automaton, and some of the stories pedaled could hardly be credited as physically possible. And while Sabo had delighted in probing the depth of the intellect he’d been facing, he really couldn’t sense the depravity he’d been expecting.
Cruelty, certainly. It lurked in the shadow of that eternal smile of his, eddied in the wake of his laughter. But depravity… He wasn’t sure.
Sabo did not like uncertainty. It put lives on the line.
He opened one of the glass-paned doors and it swung inward silently as he let his eyes adjust to the single lamp casting a diffuse orange glow, waiting until he could pick out the bay window across from him and the carved desk the lamp squatted on before he drifted in. Even if the depravity wasn’t obvious—especially if the depravity wasn’t obvious—he was insatiably curious about where the rumors of it came from.
The best rumors started from a kernel of truth, after all. The only question was whether that kernel was from him, or from the people spreading the stories.
Curiouser and curiouser.
He trailed his fingers over the slick leather back of one of the four armchairs arranged in a loose circle in the center of the room, eyeing the packed shelves to his left, set between windows facing the circular expanse of reddish sandstone driveway. He wandered over and tugged on a few decorated spines, lips twisting into a pout at the distinct lack of secret passages. So not only had his curiosity about Doflamingo been left to starve but now the house wasn’t nearly as spy-friendly as he’d wanted.
He spun to face the rest of the room, eyes skipping impatiently over the chairs to squint at the solid-looking desk set along the south wall, straight across from him, light from the hallway falling in a soft-edged rectangle on the carpet between him and it. Doflamingo had suggested this as somewhere he might be interested in exploring and it was right at the front of the house so there probably wasn’t much to find. But… Given the devil that made him fly, Sabo couldn’t decide if it was a red herring or not.
He sighed and strode to the desk, sweeping around the still-shadowed side closer to the bay window, avoiding the hall light until he could plop into the molded chair and spin slowly from side to side, gaze sweeping the orange-lit piece of furniture. They’d been just about to get into what promised to be an entertaining—and undoubtedly dangerous, if either of them slipped up—game of wits when Doflamingo had been pulled away by a frantically whispering servant. Sabo had offered to help, but his host had merely given him a sly grin and piqued his interest even more by saying he couldn’t possibly spoil the night’s fun for Sabo. So he’d suggested a few areas of the mansion for Sabo to explore and then strolled after his agitated servant like a parent indulging a child’s antics, except no parent Sabo knew had the casual menace of a stalking demon.
Although now that he thought about it, there was one particular gray-haired grandpa…
Sabo scowled, shivering the thought away, and set his drink on the desk so he could run his fingers under all the edges. He’d kept a surreptitious eye on the two men as they vanished from the room, but after waiting a moment for them to come back he’d drifted into the hallway after them. Of course, there was no sign of where he’d gone by then. At least that rumor was accurate.
Sabo harrumphed and flopped back, still secret-less and bored. He stared at his drink for a moment before swiping it off the varnished wood and spinning with a flair until he could face the wall behind him.
Aha. The photos of both the Donquixote family and various groups of what looked like orphans made it abundantly clear this office belonged to Doflamingo’s parents. He pursed his lips. He should’ve noticed that sooner. There were very likely no hidden ledgers or secret passageways or dungeons full of skeletal trophies. He’d not-so-secretly been looking forward to seeing if that last one was true.
And yet… His conversation with Doflamingo had hinted at just enough teasing that Sabo could absolutely see the man sending him to a room that did have secrets, just to see if Sabo could find them.
He snorted, unable to keep the smirk from his lips. They’d barely spoken and already he had plenty to add to their dossier on him. How fascinating.
When he’d had his fill of the photos—checking a few just in case they had doubled backs or hidden envelopes—he spun back around and rifled through the papers on the desk. Notes and missives ranging from correspondence with children to letters of gratitude for generous donations, but nothing particularly tantalizing. No false bottoms in the drawers either. Sabo pursed his lips. Maybe Doflamingo hadn’t sent him to a room with secrets? He scanned the room, carpeted floor to decorative ceiling, photo wall to bookshelf wall, glass-paned doors to bay window. Nothing.
He took a deep breath and let it out with relish, nodding once. Oh definitely, half the fun was not knowing. He’d just have to extract more information from the man to find out, wouldn’t he? And no doubt Doflamingo knew that, was planning for it. So Sabo removed evidence of his presence, returning every last scrap of paper to exactly the way it had been, smirk growing. Sounded like a conversation that would go excellently with a meal, if he was able to sit near enough to the man.
Speaking of… He cocked his head, brow quirking at the clear tinkling of a bell. Perhaps the dinner signal? He swept his tumbler back up and stood, fixing the chair before sauntering into the hallway, making sure to smooth his footprints from the carpet as he went. He leaned back while he closed the door, peering away down the hallway as the rest of the guests streamed in from the bar and patio, congregating by the massive double doors west of the central stairs.
Sabo pulled his blue pinstripe sleeve up and glanced at his watch. Surely he would’ve heard if they’d come in? He cast a look to his left, eyes searching the vacant front doorway. Nothing but night and the steady chirp of insects. He pursed his lips.
Where could they be?
He grumbled under his breath and shook his sleeve back out, straightening out his jacket and hat as he drifted to the back of the crowd gathered outside the elaborately carved dining hall doors. He slipped between two loose groups, close enough to be mistaken as a participant in either but far enough not to draw either group’s attention. He could see Doflamingo over the five dozen or so heads huddled in front of him. His crimson sleeves stood out against the gold-accented brown behind him, two rosy petals fallen to sun-streaked earth.
Sabo grinned.
Or spilled blood.
Fidgeting drew his eyes to the left where, lo and behold, the agitated servant still agitated, wringing his white-gloved hands together, struggling to keep the horror off his face as he stared at his master. Sabo couldn’t quite read Doflamingo’s lips, since he could only see half his face, but he muttered something that had the servant shaking his head fervently. Doflamingo chuckled and clapped a hand on his black-liveried shoulder, leaning in to say something else that sent the poor balding man scurrying.
Doflamingo turned to face his crowd, arms thrown wide and genial grin tinged with something dark. Sabo smoothed his features out as red sunglasses turned in his vague direction.
“Welcome, everyone! I’m glad you’ve all come tonight.” Sabo covered his snort into some quiet throat-clearing. He could’ve sworn Doflamingo’s lips twitched but it was hard to tell as he rolled on, “We have a tremendous feast prepared for you, if I do say so myself. However…” He clapped his hands together loosely and inclined his head apologetically, “There’s been a slight change of plans.”
Sabo’s fingers stilled their tapping against his elbow. Oh? He mapped the sources of the low murmurs in his peripherals, keeping his eyes on Doflamingo. No doubt this was the heart of the servant’s agitation. But what change of plans could have a devoted Donquixote servant so fearful?
“We had originally planned to serve you each individually, as is proper.” He’d admit it: Doflamingo could lie with laudable serenity. But Sabo knew some of the best liars in the world. Whether the servants had intended to serve them individually he couldn’t say, but he was certain Doflamingo had always had other plans. His tone was just a little too smooth to be genuine, not that any of these sheep could tell.
He lifted a brow when Doflamingo’s gaze swung back to him and the man’s grin grew closer to a smirk. Sabo grinned, chin dipping and glass raising in the tiniest of toasts. Nothing like confirmation from the target himself that he was right.
“Due to some complications, however, we’ve decided to alter the dining plans slightly. There are still placards for each of you at the appropriate seats, but all of the food is prepared and ready on the tables, so please…” He swept an arm out and bowed just slightly, voice lowering, “Eat to your heart’s content.”
And without further ado, he turned on his heel and the thick wooden double doors seemed to open of their own accord, swinging aside silently to allow him to pass through. Nice trick. Sabo glanced at his tumbler, fingers sliding over the unadorned glass, wondering how it all worked.
He’d sort of been ignoring the appreciative murmurs growing around him as the people in front of him trickled into the room—and then the scent hit him and Sabo couldn’t prevent his mouth from watering.
He snapped his head up, fingers tipping the brim of his hat up so his greedy eyes could get a better look. This was no feast for a few dozen. It was a feast for a few hundred. Towers of sliced fruit, fountains of wine, heaps and platters of roast pig, cow, duck, skewers of chicken and beef, bowls of kimchi, rice, roasted peppers, breads and pastas, dish upon dish of every kind of fish, shrimp, crab, octopus. He’d thought it would be southern, given the style of the house and flora, but this selection easily covered all four seas.
He let out a delighted laugh.
Oh, they’d be so sorry they missed this.
Sabo was already loading his plate a fourth time, completely and utterly ignoring the growing din as delighted taste buds and heady bouquets made both belts and lips loosen, when the noise suddenly took a turn. The hush was so abrupt it sang in his ears. He didn’t bother to slow his eating—who could say no to this decadence?—but he did a quick sweep up and down the table to find people drawing back into their seats, eyes flicking between where Doflamingo sat at the head of the table and their neighbors, hissing whispers to each other just outside of Sabo’s hearing range.
He sat up, unbending from where he’d been subconsciously defending his plate, swallowing hastily as he turned to lean over the empty seat to his right, where somebody was supposed to be, to talk to the next person… And he congratulated himself on only pausing for a split second before whispering in his smoothest voice to the lemon heap of silk and tulle supposedly inhabited by a human, “Excuse me, miss. Do you know what’s going on?”
He was impressed she managed to peek two enlarged brown eyes set in a porcelain white face out of the tulle scarf… thing squatting around the collar of her dress—and then he had to bite his lip, fist tightening until the handle of his fork started to bend, because she had bright orange lipstick on and all he could think was ‘rubber ducky’ and Koala would kill him if he blew his cover with a noble.
She was already pointing at something, hand held close to her breast as if embarrassed by the impropriety of doing so, but good grief did it look like she had stubby little wings—he hurriedly traced the direction she indicated, fork a splintering lost cause in his palm. He could hear her fluttering whisper behind him, “There’s… There’s…”
‘There’s’ what? He frowned, his burn scar tightening around his left eye. All he saw was food. There was a delightful-looking plump of fried squid he hadn’t tried yet because the other somebody had also decided not to show up, which meant his unique eating skills could not be preyed upon. There was no way it was the source of the dread slithering through the other guests, and yet he didn’t see anything noteworthy. His eyes flicked up and down the glittering and gleaming people around the table, using the whites of their eyes to trace their furtive glances, narrowing in on—
There was a head on the table. A—
Sabo blinked rapidly to clear his vision and then squinted to get a better look.
No, he’d been right. There was a human head on the table.
It didn’t look fresh. Its eyes were closed and its skin was a whitish-blue as if it had been frozen, though there was no ice around it, which puzzled Sabo. It might take a while for congealed blood to thaw enough to leak, but boy was it messy when it did. And yet it had obviously been placed there intentionally: it was set on its own silver platter, wreathed in sprigs of rosemary, facing the double doors into the dining hall, it’s back to Doflamingo. It was circled by roasts, tucked in tight so it would only be seen once the meal had progressed enough to deprive the surrounding ribs of meat.
Meant to draw attention only when the guests had been there for quite some time, eating, drinking, and relaxing; revealing itself in a macabre cage of fat-slick bone.
Sabo glanced down the table to the crimson and shadow figure of Doflamingo, finding the grin that had never left the man’s face.
He was ignoring the sudden tautness in the room, cutting into his steak as silence rippled visibly through his guests. He alone continued to eat, cutlery chiming against china, appearing to Sabo to grow more amused by the second.
“Isn’t that just awful?”
Sabo returned his gaze to his plate, certain he’d lose his cool if he looked at Rubber Ducky again. He caught enough in his peripherals to tell she was now covering her mouth in disgust, angling her hand so that he at least could hear her just fine. “I had heard rumors, but his parents are so amazing and I thought for sure they couldn’t be true. But that!” She closed her eyes and shuddered and Sabo rolled his lips between his teeth as her entire yellow ensemble rippled like fluffing feathers—“His poor parents must be mortified to have such a… a demonic son!”
Sabo found himself frowning very hard. Mission. Focus on the mission.
Oh, but they would have had a field day—
He cleared his throat and lifted his glass gingerly, “Do you know who it is? Or why he put it there?”
She scoffed, now eyeing Sabo with disappointment, “He’s a disgusting monster. What other reason does he need to put a poor dead man’s head on a dinner table? I can’t believe you would even ask that.” She deliberately turned away from him, to the woman on her other side, muttering, “As if someone could have an actual reason for doing that…”
Sabo leaned back in his chair, letting his mangled fork drop quietly to the table as he swirled his lovely red pinot. Something didn’t seem right. Besides the head, of course. He supposed this type of behavior would be in line with the rumors he’d heard… It fit the man’s public profile to a T. But Sabo prided himself on cold-reading a person’s character—bet his life on his ability to do so daily—and couldn’t bring himself to believe he’d misjudged so badly, even if he had only spoken with him for a handful of minutes. He wasn’t Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Army for nothing; Dragon wouldn’t put an amateur in charge of training spies.
So that begged the question already swirling through his thoughts: why the head?
Sabo ran a gloved finger over the thin crystal stem of his glass, eyes scanning the other guests. A message, perhaps? There was no mistaking the overwhelming tang of fear in the air, a crush of furtive glances and strangled whispers. This dinner wouldn’t be forgotten anytime soon. Sabo flexed his free hand, wrist rolling where it dangled off the chair’s hard wooden arm, and flicked his gaze to the head of the table.
As he’d hoped, Doflamingo turned from grinning wolfishly at the guests desperately avoiding his attention and raised a brow at Sabo, thoughts clear on his face. ‘Is something wrong?’
Sabo pursed his lips. Was there? He slid his eyes back to the severed head.
The head’s eyes were open. They blinked.
Sabo’s hand stilled, his swirling wine gliding to a slow stop in the glass.
The head blinked again and muttered something, frowning.
And then those gray eyes widened and a husky voice thundered, “DOFLAMINGO!”
Sabo jerked, wine hopping the rim of his glass to soak into the rich white table cloth. The silence in the dining hall was deafening.
The head’s eyes were swinging back and forth, flicking over food and people until a snarl ripped from its grimacing lips, “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?”
One little hiccuping whimper echoed against the gold-domed ceiling—and then everyone was screaming. Those closest to the head tumbled from their chairs, not bothering to stand as they scrambled for the doors, dresses and suits ripping as they clawed over each other. Sabo sat frozen in his chair as people stampeded past him, his hand automatically snatching his hat into his lap as someone hit his seat and nearly knocked it off where he’d hung it on the back.
So.
Physically improbable rumors: check.
His eyes drew inevitably back to the head and he couldn’t hear whatever the dark-haired man was saying over the screaming but he had a great view of his lips.
“WHERE’S MY BODY?”
His…?
Sabo’s lips twitched, eyes wide. The man’s face twisted in horror and Sabo thought he heard under the hysteria around him, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH IT?!”
Someone slammed into his chair again and Sabo gripped the table to stabilize, part of his mind calculating the pros and cons of either rolling under it or hopping on top if needed. The dining hall had been packed, the path to the doors narrow, and Sabo knew without a doubt it had been arranged that way deliberately. Was he the only one left still sitting?
No, he should’ve known better. There Doflamingo sat, lounging in his chair and sipping at his wine, his free hand making strange movements in the air beside him.
Then there was a tremendous crash and the servant’s door behind him on his right burst open to reveal a man standing there.
A headless man.
Sabo choked on a laugh as the screams around him renewed with vigor and wondered how many broken bones the hospitals would see tonight. The headless body lumbered jerkily into the room, stalking after the other guests with outstretched hands, slow and relentless as it closed the gap between itself and the doors leading to freedom. The last of the nobles were bottle-necking, those in the back climbing over those jammed between the vast double doors, glancing back at the clumsy zombie body and Sabo felt something hot and acidic and painfully satisfying shoot through him at the similarity to the panic in a burning trash heap so many years ago—
He clutched at the stitch growing in his side, ribs aching as he leaned on the edge of the table for support because he couldn’t breathe—
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
Sabo rolled over the arm of his chair and hit the tiled floor with a smack, hat tumbling to his side as he clutched at his stomach, legs kicking, and laughed.
“ROOM!”
Doffy drained the rest of his wine and stood, pushing his high-backed chair away as he placed the empty glass on the white tablecloth with care, decorum delightfully at odds with the strewn chairs and dripping sauces down the length of the table. He straightened his cuffs with a grin, heels clicking in the vast emptiness as he stepped out from the table, “Whatever is the matter, Law? Did you not have a good nap?”
The teen stalked forward, furious stomps echoing as if there were three of him until he was close enough to jab Doflamingo in the chest and hissed, “This isn’t what you asked me for help with!”
Doffy chuckled, tilting his chin to look down at that white-painted face, “Of course this is what I asked you for help with. We made a deal, didn’t we?” He resisted the urge to pat Law’s painted cheek by sliding his hands in his pockets, watching gray eyes from behind rose-tinted glasses, “I’d get enough for two experiments if you came and helped me with the evening’s entertainment.”
There was no surprise, no betrayal in those eyes, only belligerence emphasized by every jab at Doffy’s vest, “This—This isn’t what I thought you were talking about!”
Oh, my. Was that a blush he could see creeping between Law’s slate gray collar and his ghostly-white face? Doffy struggled to swallow his glee.
He couldn’t ask for a more perfect symbol of his victory.
He managed to hide his smile with a thoughtful frown, “Why, Law.” He cocked his head, forehead furrowing, “Are you saying this wasn’t part of the deal?”
“Yes!”
Oh, his poor youngest brother. It was always too easy. Law had known him his whole life and still he walked right into it every time.
He shook his head and muttered, “That’s unfortunate…” His gaze swept over the ruin of abandoned plates and shattered glasses, “I’d really hoped to get you what you needed but, well…” He quirked his lips, grateful Law hadn’t yet caught on to the nearly silent breathless laughter drifting from the other side of the room, “I don’t think they’re coming back so I suppose our bargain’s moot now, isn’t it.”
Doffy raised his brows at Law’s dropped jaw and finally gave in to the glory of his grin, savoring the feel of the words on his tongue as he purred, “Right, Law?”
Law’s fingers twitched, hands inching upward as if to either grab fistfuls of Doffy’s vest or strangle him, and he was pleased to realize he didn’t know which one the teen would go for. But then Law pursed his lips, gray eyes bulging as he took a deep breath through his nose before making an incoherent groaning noise and spinning on his heel.
Doffy loosed a hiccuping chuckle and said after the stalking gray- and black-clad figure, “Pleasure doing business with you!”
“SHUT UP!”
The slamming servant’s door cut Law off from the renewed wheeze and Doffy’s smirk deepened. His brogues were quiet on the tile, a muffled tap warming the silences between his last guest’s gasping breaths. He side-stepped a pile of sauce-soaked rice, the edges of his smile softening as he maneuvered around toppled chairs and broken glass, spilled wine and water, until he came to a halt at the blond’s head and peered down at him, “And what do you think? Was that sufficient entertainment for the evening?”
The kid wiped brown-gloved fingers through his tears, blue pinstripe suit falling open to bare a plane of white vest and a strip of royal blue silk underneath. He peered up at Doffy, lips pulled into a grin even though he squinted against the brightness above, and huffed out between chuckles, “You… You are the absolute… Worst… Aren’t you?”
Oh, yes. Yes, he definitely liked this one.
Doffy gave his most winning smile, “I do try.”
The blond choked on a snicker and rolled onto his side with a cough, elbow braced against the floor. He turned a half-open gaze as Doffy crouched and something passed through the kid’s eyes at the hand he was being offered. But he eventually took it despite whatever misgivings he clearly had, his free hand sweeping his well-worn black top hat off the floor with a flourish as they both rose gracefully.
Doffy glanced at the placard still on the table as the blond brushed himself off, “Well then… Sabo, is it?” A grin slashed across the young man’s face at his name and Doffy lifted a brow, gesturing back at the head of the table, “Would you care to join me as we finish this lovely dinner?”
The expression he received in response was priceless.
The front doors were open, but no other cars were in sight… Rosinante let out a relieved sigh and pulled around the fountain, creeping to a stop beside the stairs to tuck his car under the soft drape of the seven-foot zebra grass. He clambered out of the driver’s seat to the chorus of crickets and other night sounds and found himself glad he’d had his silence running since before he hit the mile-long driveway. He brushed his fingers through the fronds safeguarding his vehicle with a small smile and hurried toward the stairs.
The cocoon of darkness around him parted as he left the concealing plant behind and started silently up the sweeping stone, the wide-open front doors casting yellow light almost all the way to the bottom of the steps. His trot faltered at the ache in his legs but he blew out a steady breath and continued, determined to bear his exhaustion for the chance to finally eat after an unexpectedly eventful shift.
The scent hit him like a wall as his head came level with the top step and his eyes fluttered shut, dry mouth already watering. He knew he should sweep the area for any sign of his brother but he had eyes only for the doorway to the dining hall, though he couldn’t see it from here. He crested the top step and picked up the pace, his slow jog still easy compared to the rest of his night as he left the evening chirps and croaks behind. And then coming around the corner and finding a veritable feast on the table, and not a guest in sight… Entirely worth the aching bruises and cooling sweat that had his uniform clinging to his skin. Unequivocally.
And then his brain caught up with what he was seeing—all of what he was seeing—and his steps faltered again. He stopped, hand brushing along what might be a smear of blood or sauce—he hoped it was sauce—on the door frame, gaze raking over strips of silk and tulle and more than a few abandoned shoes scattered across the gold-and-silver tiles. Toppled chairs, toppled wine glasses, toppled food… The dread in his gut grew unbearably heavy.
Yes, his scheming had gotten him out of this ridiculous dinner, but…
It was slowly dawning on him that he had left Doffy. Alone. With the servants and a bunch of strange guests.
He grimaced, pulse moving like sludge. The last time they’d done that, all the servants had quit.
But that had been when Doffy was a child and… nothing was on fire this time?
He scanned the hall as he walked through it, careful to keep his silence running, taking no chances with his brother’s uncanny hearing. Plenty of destruction, yes, but… He sniffed, sifting past the heavenly scents wreathing the room, but there was nothing other than the feast he paced beside and the fresh night air pervading the house. No smoke, no fire, right? The dread loosened.
Despite the dishevelment, maybe things hadn’t gone that badly.
Law flinched at the feel of air brushing by his ear and glanced over to find a neat glass of brandy hovering there. He reached up to take it from brown-gloved fingers and straightened from his slouch, the whisper of silk on well-worn leather joining the muffled ticking of the clock. He watched the guest stroll silently to the armchair across from him, lifting a finger from his own glass to point at Law’s as he settled in his chair and smiled kindly, “I thought you might need that.”
Law’s eyes dropped to the amber liquid and he sighed, shoulders bowing. Need was an understatement. He lifted the glass in a toast, the blond matching it with a grin before they both took a sip. Law gestured at himself, “Law.”
The other man dipped his chin far enough to cover his gold bow-tie, “Sabo.”
They sat in silence, then, the slender blond perfectly content to look around the room as Law looked at him, the tick of the giant clock above the mezzanine a metronome for their observations. The scar over his right eye was big, old, and definitely from a burn. He couldn’t see any other scars, clad as he was in long blue sleeves and brown gloves, but between the way he carried himself and the silence with which he’d approached, Law was willing to bet he was no stranger to violence. There was something sharp beneath his seamless movements, the calm of a sated bird of prey.
Law smirked at his brandy as he took another sip. Anyone who could handle Doflamingo’s antics with equanimity was either dangerous, stupid, or both. Tracking the growing expression of awe and avarice on Sabo’s face as his gaze swept over the two-story library… Law slouched a little and closed his eyes with a contented sigh as the alcohol warmed his empty stomach. That hit the spot. Feeling the warmth soak his veins, he cracked his lids and muttered, “Thanks.”
Sabo’s eyes brightened, head tilting, “Certainly.” He propped an elbow on the armrest, index finger tracing the curve of buttons decorating the front, “I imagine it’s rather jarring to wake as a head in the middle of a banquet.”
Law felt heat creeping up his neck and slouched further, dangling his drink between his knees and staring at it as he grumbled, “The worst part? That was merciful compared to his usual.”
Sabo replied quietly, “I believe it.” Law’s eyes flicked up, surprised to find sympathy in the other man’s gaze as he explained, “He was telling me earlier about when he got his brother chased as a Bird of Paradise…”
Law’s snort was swallowed by the book-filled shelves surrounding them, “Bet he didn’t tell you they had to use bolt cutters to free Rosinante from that stupid costume.”
Sabo’s eyebrows nearly reached his shaggy blond locks, “No, he did not. What in the Blues was the costume made of?”
Law opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by an immense boom that rattled books off the walls, followed closely by screaming.
And laughing.
Law rolled his eyes, “What is he doing now?” He lurched to his feet wearily, missing his hat and running his fingers through his hair instead, “Damn it. This is why his parents never leave him alone in the house!”
And maybe Sabo was stupid after all, because he trotted after Law with a sharp, excited grin and Law’s scowl deepened.
Explosions in the Donquixote manor were not to be approached with glee.
“Why the hell are you here?!”
Rosinante snatched another golden candlestick from the side table and chucked it at the criminals but they both dodged it effortlessly, the younger one laughing and the older one glaring.
This wasn’t happening. He half-tripped over a toppled chair, knee landing in something squishy, but he ignored it as he swiped a steak knife from the main table and scrambled back to his feet. “This was the dinner you were supposed to be going to?!”
Fire Fist clenched those fiery fists with a ferocious growl that reverberated against the domed gold ceiling and rattled the crystal chandeliers, “Why are you here?!”
Rosinante was prevented from pulling his hair out by the knife still gripped in his palm. This. Was. Not. Happening. “I LIVE HERE!”
“What?!”
Lu was still laughing as his arm stretched out impossibly long and grabbed one of the chicken legs off the table, eyes glittering as he ate the thing whole. Oh, hiding his abilities the whole time, was he? Rosinante hurled both a glare and his knife at the kid. One of them missed.
“Hey! Stop throwing things at Luffy!” The Whitebeard commander’s arms lined with fire again with a brilliant flare and he held his hand near his waist, palm up, a fireball swirling to life between his curled fingers before he raised his arm to throw it—
“Ace! Luffy! You finally made it!”
Oh, great, there were more of them?
He kept his eyes peeled on the fire dimming to a warm haze along the sleeves of the brunette’s red button-down as the Whitebeard looked around wildly, “Sabo?! Where are you?”
“Over here!”
“SABO!”
Fire Fist and Rosinante both managed to look over just in time to see whoever this Sabo was get blasted backward with a Lu-colored projectile, the two flying back out of the room and into the southeastern servant’s hall he’d just popped out of.
And then Rosinante did a double-take, because—“L-Law?!” He scanned the teen as he stalked into the dining hall, familiar dread dragging itself back into Rosinante’s gut as he choked, “Why…”
Law clenched his teeth and knocked the rest of his drink back before setting the empty glass on the nearest part of the dining table. Oh, yeah. Dread was definitely appropriate. Law loosened his plum tie, unbuttoning one of his gray silk sleeves to roll the cuff up his forearm with deliberate slowness, stalking toward Rosinante while a wicked grin split his bone-white face.
Why was he here? Why was he dressed up? Why was he wearing makeup?
What had Doffy done?
Rosinante felt an involuntary shiver travel down his spine at Law’s tone as the teen said quietly, “Why am I here?” Oh. Oh, no. He was doing that thing, the thing where he read minds without reading minds. That thing he only did when… Rosinante checked his escape routes.
Law tucked and straightened his rolled cuff at the crook of his elbow before switching calmly to his other arm, fingers moving meticulously, words slow and precise, “Why am I dressed like this?”
Not the eastern doors: Fire Fist stood in that path, fiendish grin growing as he watched Rosinante’s agitation escalate. He’d never get past him to the stairs or the front doors, not without possibly bringing the whole place down in flames. Not the kitchen to the south, either: Law was there, shoes a steady tap… tap… tap… as he paced down the side of the table where Rosinante was backing toward the western wall of windows.
The teen finished rolling his second sleeve and his smirk widened, an all-too-familiar manic gleam coming into those gray eyes as he halted and asked with very quiet menace into the silence, “Who do you think had to take your place at dinner, Rosinante?”
Rosinante’s throat was too dry to swallow. His eyes flicked to the southeastern servant’s hall. If he could just find something to distract Law then he could get over the table and—Rosinante cursed himself. He should know better than to wish for distractions because it always always backfired and—yep, there it was. Fear shocked his system as the one voice he’d wanted so much to avoid tonight sing-songed from the depths of the mansion—
“ROSINANTE~”
The air whooshed out of him as if he’d been struck, “Shit.”
He’d wanted to get home quietly, eat some food, get a drink, and go to bed.
All without facing his brother’s retribution for abandoning him.
So much for his plans.
Rosinante spun to the window at his back and fumbled at the catch.