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The neon sign of a 24-hour pharmacy flickered with a dying buzz, casting a sickly green light over the alleyway. It was Officer Abbacchio’s first week on the beat. His uniform felt like a costume—too stiff at the collar, the leather belt creaking with every step, the badge heavy and cold against his chest. He squared his shoulders, forcing his spine into a rigid line that he hoped looked like authority. He wanted to be the unshakeable shield of the city, the officer who commanded respect with a glance. But beneath the crisp navy wool, his pulse was jumping in his throat, and he found himself gripping his baton a little too tightly, scanning the shadows with a hunger that was equal parts eagerness and dread.
He heard the noise before he saw the source. It wasn't the chaotic scuffle of a fight, but a heavy, singular crack, like a dry branch snapping under a boot, followed by a wet thud. Then, silence.
Abbacchio rounded the corner, hand flying to his baton, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The alley was a graveyard of motion. Three men lay on the ground, tangled in a heap that didn't make anatomical sense. One man’s leg was bent sideways at the knee, the shin bone pressing hideously against the fabric of his jeans. Another was slumped against a dumpster, his arm twisted behind his back at an angle that made Abbacchio’s own shoulder ache just looking at it. They weren't fighting. They weren't even conscious enough to groan.
Standing in the center of the carnage, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight that cut through the gloom, was a man in white.
He was a vision of impossible purity amidst the filth. His suit was sharp, tailored, and covered in gold zippers that caught the dim light. A window in the chest of the jacket plunged deep, revealing the delicate pattern of black lace against pale skin.
Abbacchio’s first instinct was protective panic. A civilian.
"Hey!" Abbacchio shouted, rushing forward, his baton still undrawn. "Are you alright? Did they—"
The man in white turned.
He didn't look like a victim. He didn't look like someone who had just been cornered by three thugs. He was breathing evenly, his chest rising and falling in a calm, slow rhythm. He raised a hand to smooth his dark, sharp bob, not a single hair out of place. There wasn't a speck of dirt on his white trousers.
Abbacchio skid to a halt, his boots scraping on the grit. He looked from the unconscious, broken bodies on the ground back to the pristine man standing over them. The realization hit him cold and hard.
"Police," Abbacchio’s voice came out rougher, the concern evaporating into shock. He drew his baton, the metal telescoping out with a snick. "Back away from them. Now."
The man froze. He didn’t run. He didn’t reach for a weapon. He simply tilted his head, blue eyes locking onto Abbacchio’s. There was a flicker of surprise in those irises, sharp and intelligent, before they softened into something unreadable.
Bucciarati assessed the situation. The rookie was tall—imposing, even. But his eyes were wide, holding a terrified, righteous determination. He stood too straight, his shoulders locked back with a rigid, brittle pride that screamed he still believed the badge on his chest actually protected him.
Interesting, Bucciarati thought.
"You caught me, Officer," Bucciarati said. His voice was smooth, melodic, utterly at odds with the violence of the twisted limbs at his feet.
He raised his hands slowly, palms open, but he moved with a fluid, lazy elegance, as if he were merely stretching rather than facing an arrest.
Abbacchio blinked, adrenaline spiking. He stepped over a groaning man, careful not to step on a hand that looked like it had been crushed, and grabbed Bucciarati’s wrist. He spun him around, perhaps a little too forcefully, and clicked the cuffs onto the slender wrists.
"You’re under arrest for... for assault. Battery. Attempted murder, from the looks of it," Abbacchio stammered, his mind still trying to reconcile the brutality on the floor with the lace on the man’s chest.
"Self-defense," Bucciarati sighed, leaning back slightly into Abbacchio’s personal space as the metal ratified the arrest. He smelled like expensive cologne and ozone. "But I surrender entirely."
Abbacchio ignored the commentary, giving the chain a sharp tug to ensure the lock was secure. He reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder, thumbing the button to call for a squad car, but the device answered with a harsh, useless hiss of static. He smacked the side of it. Nothing.
"Fine," Abbacchio muttered, holstering his baton and gripping Bucciarati’s upper arm with a firm, guiding hand. "We walk."
The trek to the precinct was longer than necessary. Abbacchio could have waited—he should have found a payphone to call an ambulance for the twisted heaps of denim and bone left in the alley—but the static in his ear was annoying, and a stubborn, possessive instinct made him want to handle this booking himself.
He tightened his grip on the suspect’s arm with his finger pressing into the tricep just like in the academy drills. He marched him toward the main avenue while the silence between them grew heavy. It was amplified by the wet slap of boots on pavement. Abbacchio kept his eyes forward to maintain a professional distance, but the image of the broken leg kept flashing in his mind.
"You caused significant bodily harm back there," Abbacchio said finally. His voice was stiff as he recited the terminology to ground himself. He risked a glance downward to find the man wasn't even winded. The intricate black lace on his chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. It offered tantalizing glimpses of skin that made the collar of Abbacchio's uniform feel suddenly too tight. He forced his eyes back to the street to hide the heat crawling up his neck. "That didn't look like standard civilian self-defense. Do you have training?"
"A little," Bucciarati lied with a light voice. He let his weight drop for a split second to feign a stumble over a loose stone.
Abbacchio jerked him upright and instinctively pulled him closer to steady him. "Watch it. Stay on the curb."
"My apologies, Officer," Bucciarati hummed. He righted himself with a grace that mocked the stumble and plucked idly at the gold pull-tab on his chest. "It’s the outfit. Not exactly built for athletics, though I do find the zippers accessible."
Abbacchio frowned and fixed his gaze strictly on the horizon. It was becoming a struggle to ignore the way the streetlights danced off the gold hardware. The heavy zippers traced the man’s physique like a map Abbacchio knew he shouldn't be reading. The faint metallic chinking sound with every step was wrecking his concentration. "Three guys. You broke one of their legs backwards. That is not just luck."
"They cornered me," Bucciarati replied with a simple and fluid lie. He looked at his cuffed hands and shrugged with a small motion restricted by the metal. "I grew up in the suburbs of the port. You learn to dance or you learn to run. I never liked running."
Abbacchio stopped at a red light. He looked at the profile of the man next to him to study the sharp nose and the heavy eyelids. The suspect stood with a straight spine even in handcuffs, with a terrifying sort of patience, as if he were the one allowing Abbacchio to hold his arm.
Bucciarati felt the weight of the stare and turned to catch Abbacchio’s eyes. He waited for the sneer or for the rookie cop to ask for a bribe to make the charges disappear.
"Why?" Abbacchio asked. The word slipped out before he could stop it. "You move like you've had training and you dress like... that." He gestured vaguely with his free hand at the white suit. "So why are you breaking legs in a gutter?"
Bucciarati slowed his pace. He didn't blink, didn't flinch. He just studied the officer’s face with a strange, heavy-lidded curiosity, looking for the trap. When he realized there wasn't one, his expression softened into something unreadable.
"Debts," Bucciarati lied, his voice dropping to a murmur that blended with the city noise. "Family obligations. The usual story."
Abbacchio made a noise in his throat—halfway between a scoff and a sigh. He looked at the sharp cut of the suspect's jaw, then down at the handcuffs biting into wrists that looked like they’d never held anything heavier than a wine glass. It was a waste. A stupid, reckless waste.
He didn't think about it. He just let go of the arm for a second to dig into his breast pocket.
"Here," Abbacchio grunted.
He pulled out a slightly crumpled business card. It wasn't the precinct’s official stock, but a cheap thing he’d had printed up for witnesses, with Leone Abbacchio and a handwritten mobile number scrawled on the back.
"Take it."
Bucciarati couldn't take it with his hands cuffed behind him, so Abbacchio clumsily tried to jam it into the white breast pocket. His fingers fumbled against the silk lining, brushing against the lace and the warm skin underneath. Abbacchio flinched like he’d touched a live wire, pulling his hand back too quickly.
Bucciarati looked down at the card now peeking out of his pocket, then up at the officer with an eyebrow raised.
"A date, Officer?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave.
"A lifeline," Abbacchio corrected sharply, looking anywhere but at the man's face to hide the flush rising on his neck. "If you want out... call me. You have presence. You don't have to be a thug."
Bucciarati stared at him. The card sat in his pocket like a burning weight. He looked at the officer, then down at the card, and a slow, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You are new, aren't you?" Bucciarati asked softly.
"First week," Abbacchio admitted. He stepped off the curb as the light changed and gripped the suspect's arm again, though gentler this time.
"It shows," Bucciarati hummed. He leaned just an inch closer than necessary, his shoulder bumping Abbacchio’s. "You are unpolluted."
Abbacchio flushed, the sudden color betraying him completely. He cleared his throat loudly, tightening his grip. "Just walk, perp."
"Yes, Officer," Bucciarati purred. The way he said the title made it sound less like a rank and more like a secret.
The precinct smelled of floor wax and burnt espresso. It was the dead hour of the night shift, where the only sounds were the low hum of the vending machine and the rhythmic scratching of a pen from the back of the room. The few officers on duty were slumped at their desks, fighting the heavy pull of sleep under the buzzing fluorescent lights.
When Abbacchio marched the suspect through the double doors, a hand firmly on his elbow, the sleepy lethargy of the room vanished instantly.
The desk sergeant, a man who had seen everything in twenty years on the force, froze with his cup hovering halfway to his mouth. Two officers chatting by the coffee pot went silent, their eyes widening as they took in the white suit and the handcuffs. An older detective near the back let a file slip from his fingers, the papers fanning out across the dirty linoleum with a sound that cracked like a gunshot in the sudden quiet.
They stared at the man on Abbacchio’s arm with sheer, unadulterated shock. It was as if Abbacchio had just walked in leading a tiger by a leash.
"Suspect for processing," Abbacchio announced. His voice boomed in the hollow silence of the room. "Aggravated assault. Multiple victims."
He guided the man into the temporary holding cell—a cage of wire mesh in the corner. The suspect sat on the scarred metal bench and crossed his legs at the knee. He didn't look like a prisoner awaiting judgment. He sat with a terrifying sort of patience, as if the steel cage was just another room he owned.
"Sit tight," Abbacchio said, pointing a finger through the mesh. "I'll start the booking."
"I'm not going anywhere, Officer," the man smiled, calm and infuriatingly polite.
For the next hour, the station was a farce. Abbacchio sat on a folding chair outside the cell, the only sound in the room the furious scratching of his pen on the incident report as he tried to describe the angle of the broken leg he’d seen. The other officers were exchanging frantic, silent glances, typing nonsense into their terminals just to look busy. They kept stealing looks at the holding cell, unable to reconcile the reality of who was sitting on that bench.
The suspect watched him. He didn't look worried. He looked... entertained.
"You meant what you said earlier?" the man asked, his voice low, leaning his head against the wire. "About the job?"
Abbacchio stopped writing. He looked up, the harsh lights reflecting off the linoleum. He stood up and walked to the water cooler, filling a paper cup, then brought it back, sliding it through the slot. Their fingers brushed—warm skin against cold metal.
"I meant it," Abbacchio said, his voice dropping to a whisper so the sergeant wouldn't hear. "The offer stands. You plead guilty, show remorse... I can talk to the judge. The card I gave you? Use it."
The man took the water. He held the cup, looking at the rookie cop who was so desperate to save a soul that didn't need saving.
"You’d do that for me?" he asked softly, swirling the water. "For a guy who breaks legs?"
"For a citizen," Abbacchio corrected, though he refused to meet the man's eyes, focusing instead on the gold zipper at his throat.
The door to the Captain’s office slammed open, shattering the quiet.
The Captain walked out, looking pale and sweating through his shirt. He held a phone in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, marching straight to the cell, bypassing Abbacchio entirely.
"Open it," the Captain barked at the guard.
"Sir?" Abbacchio stood up, clipboard in hand. "I haven't finished the booking. The victims are still in the hospital—"
"There was a mistake," the Captain said loudly, his voice shaking. "We received new evidence. Witness testimony. It was self-defense. The men in the alley... they were armed."
Abbacchio’s jaw dropped. "Armed? I saw them! They were barely conscious!"
"A knife," the Captain insisted, glaring at Abbacchio with a look that screamed shut up or you’re fired. "A big one. Mr. Bucciarati is free to go. Immediately."
The cell door buzzed and swung open.
Bucciarati stood up. The facade dropped instantly. There was no more nervous tapping, no more hesitation. He smoothed the lapels of his suit and checked the zippers with a cold, professional calm. He stepped out of the cell not like a man being released, but like a man who had simply finished waiting.
The Captain didn't wait for an argument; he retreated into his office and clicked the door shut, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in his wake.
Abbacchio stood motionless, the clipboard forgotten in his hand. The other officers kept their heads down, studying their desks with sudden, intense fascination.
It wasn't a mistake. It was a hierarchy.
Abbacchio looked at the open cell door, then down at the report he had been filling out. The name stared back at him in black ink—a name he should have recognized before he tried to save its owner.
Bruno Bucciarati.
"You..." Abbacchio whispered, betrayal stinging his eyes. "You played me."
Bucciarati walked past the Captain without a glance and stopped directly in front of Abbacchio. He was inches away. He reached out and plucked the clipboard from Abbacchio’s numb fingers, setting it on the desk.
"I didn't play you, Leone," Bucciarati said, using his first name with a familiarity that made Abbacchio shiver. "I just... enjoyed your company."
He stepped closer. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the crumpled, cheap business card Abbacchio had forced on him. He held it up between two slender fingers, tapping it lightly against Abbacchio’s chest, right over his pounding heart.
He leaned in. To the rest of the room, watching in terrified silence, it looked like a threat. But Bucciarati’s voice dropped to a frequency that existed only for the two of them, lower than the hum of the vending machine, softer than the rain outside.
"My record is clean," Bucciarati purred, his breath hot against the shell of Abbacchio’s ear. "Legally, I’m innocent, Officer.” He pulled back just enough to let his heavy, lidded gaze drop to Abbacchio's lips. "But if you let me use this number... I promise you, I plan to be absolutely sex offensive."
Bucciarati gave him a sharp, devastating wink and tucked the card deliberately back into his breast pocket, right against his skin.
He turned on his heel and strutted out of the precinct, the double doors swinging shut behind him.
Officer Abbacchio was left standing in the dead center of the room, surrounded by silence. He was furious. He was humiliated. His face was burning a violent red. But worst of all, as the heat climbed up his neck, he found his hand drifting automatically to his pocket, already checking his phone to see if he’d called.