Chapter Text
To Your Heart's Content
I.
Charles dipped his fingers into the cream. It was cold at the tip of his fingers, it was even colder when he rubbed it against his bruised skin. He tried not to stare at himself too much in this mirror he hated. Only some squares of skin will do.
Tears gathered at the corner of his eyes. For a moment, he refused to blink. Refused to let them win. He wouldn’t fall into this trap again, where he ended up sniveling on the cold ties, breathing as erratically as his heart beat.
It was pitiful, really. To have been petrified that much. To have received the man’s blows without a sound. He almost wanted to heave. His throat was parched.
Soon he finished applying the soothing balm on his assaulted skin and found himself checking his body in the mirror. The assessment was clear. He would be lucky if he had any clients in the following weeks in such a state. His ashen face had sustained no damaged, although he could still feel the ghost of the man’s fingers gripping his hair. But his body…
A tear rolled down his cheek, and he wanted to scream. He was bruised beneath his collarbones, most markedly at his sides and hips, the blue disappearing beneath his joggers. The lines of his arms were littered with the same aberrations. It was everywhere.
He bit his bottom lip, stopped looking, fought the tears like he should have fought that man, like he should have reminded him that this was not part of the contract, that this was part of the list, that it could get him banned from the agency.
He won and the odd tears weren’t followed by others. Grabbing his tee shirt on the sink, he exited the bathroom, teeth greeted. Shivers ran down his spine as he put on the piece of clothing. Soon it would be summer and the lack of heating would not be a problem anymore, he tried to convince himself, before carefully sitting on his scanty sofa. He let out a whine at the pain that flared up his muscles, only to chastise himself.
Then he found himself fixating the opposite wall for a little too long, almost aghast at what he had just seen. As if he couldn’t stomach it. As if he hadn’t come back home countless times in a similar state.
Night had fallen above the sea out the window, an appealing gateway of beauty in spite of his miserable room. He had always loved that view. Had always loved being able to contemplate a broken horizon of blue, a usually half cloudless sky kissing the often warm Mediterranean Sea. It was almost ironic, really, how exceptional the view was compared to his scrimpy interior.
A sofa for bed. A coffee table and an almost torn down wardrobe on his left. A kitchenette behind him. It was all there was to make up for these four grey walls.
And he couldn’t even fill the food cupboards.
He wrapped the fleece blanket he should have washed yesterday around his shoulders, and curled on himself against one of the pillows, taking his phone from the table.
The email stared at him once more, the letters blinding in the dim light. He read it all over again, gulping as his stomach begged for a dinner he knew he didn’t have the strength to prepare.
He scrolled through the pdf files attached. The number of NDAs was ridiculous. The amount of money … shocking.
He read again the words of the agency’s secretary, as though he couldn’t quite believe what is stated in the documents. He couldn’t, maybe.
Who was so high-ranking that his reputation was worth… that much?
But he had heard of such contracts. Pierre had warned him about them. Everyone in the business had. Everyone who lived the same life they did had gripped his hand with a tight smile and had talked about the risks of giving in to the animalistic appeal of such sums of cash.
It was like flipping a coin for one’s sanity. Either the client was simply too famous to risk the slightest scratch to his fame, or…. Or he was one of those men who had such peculiar fantasies that Charles knew he wouldn’t be able to leave his apartments for weeks afterwards, damaged beyond recognition.
His brain took no time to supply him with various sex scenarios that such an amount of money could suggest. His grip tightened on his phone. The tears threatened to fall again.
A draught made him shiver despite the fabric around him. He looked at the sum again, Pierre’s words dancing in his mind.
"You call me, ok? I’d rather pay for your groceries than have you sign one of those contracts."
He went to contacts, stared at Pierre’s name for a minute. His thumb hovered above the call button. The silence, deafening.
In the end, he called the agency. He didn’t even trust his voice as he scheduled an appointment to sign the contract. But after all, he had chosen the oldest job in the world.
°°°°
Max fiddled with his empty coffee cup. He was feeling irascible. Abrasive. Something was lingering beneath his skin. Something hot and despicable. It had all day long.
His private driver’s uncharacteristic slowness didn’t help.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he barked, taking a quick look at the dazzling Patek Philippe adorning his wrist.
He couldn’t be late to the meeting. He hadn’t liked Carlos’ voice on the phone. And the Spanish man rarely left his country. It could only be a high-stakes encounter. Something had to be very, very wrong for the boss to come meet him in person.
The man at the wheel didn’t answer immediately. Monaco sparkled out the tinted windows, lovely and glorious. They were near the water. Max had always found proximity with the sea exquisite.
"You’ll be on time, Sir. As always."
The man’s voice resembled the purr of the ridiculously expensive car he was driving. Somewhere between his words dawdled an undercurrent of confidence that Max knew all too well. Professionalism. Coolness.
Max couldn’t help but snicker faintly. The man was probably right. He knew how to do his job to perfection. Max had hired him for that. And he was probably too much on edge to have a correct apprehension of time.
He put his coffee cup on the seat beside him, his fingers immediately checking his perfectly fine cuff links. His thumb toyed with the ring on his little finger, with that piece of gold that weighed far less that its worth. He caught sight of his face on the rear-view mirror. He looked impeccable. The suit was a natural fit. He was not worrying his lower lip nor was he frowning. Nothing to display the dismal mood that hadn’t stopped encircling his chest.
Daniel would see right through him. Carlos would too. In a heartbeat. The former because they had been friends for more than twenty years, the latter because they did the same job. Breathed the same air of collapsed legality. Carlos read him as well as he read the Spanish boss.
"Nearly there, Sir."
Max didn’t bulge at the voice. The words washed over him like wind on grass. His mind roamed far away as he realized they were leaving the roads closest to the sea. As they sled in the narrow Monegasque streets beneath the streets’ lights.
Perhaps he needed holidays. Perhaps he should ask Daniel to book him a couple of weeks of all-inclusive anonymity on a private island.
Perhaps he couldn’t fucking stand the gun pressed to his hip.
The car halted smoothly in front of the restaurant. Everything screamed smoothness. The Brioni fabric on his body, the leather of the car, the movements of the restaurant staff waiting on him as he faced them. He wanted to shake it all up. Form creases, folds, ridges, build fucking mountains or dig holes in such flatness.
Disrupt this clockwork world of affluence with his gargantuan acerbity.
Whatever was stirring inside him was not enough to deconstruct the play. The curtain parted and he was led inside, breathing assurance and confidence, a hand against his stomach, a semi-smile plastered on his face.
It was not enough to deconstruct the play. He was still playing perfectly.
Nothing had, in the past. He had always moved through the motions, automatic almost. Whatever he had done with a gun in his hand hadn’t changed that.
Whatever was boiling and raging below his heart was not enough but it was rotten. It had been there for ages and he knew it was lurking.
A woman began to lead him to the private bar upstairs, separate from the dining room. The noise diminished as they walked, only to morph into a sleek background buzz as they reached the bar.
Privatized. Of course.
Daniel and Carlos turned around at the same time, single malts in their hands. Max greeted them with what he hoped appeared like a smile as he made his way towards them. Carlos looked as healthy as ever. Exuded power and wealth. A familiar seriousness was engraved in the lines of his face. But Daniel… Daniel wasn’t smiling and his shoulders were tense like the days he had blood up to his elbows.
Their somber faces, matched by the crisp-black suit hugging their forms, were not welcoming in the least. It all screamed funerals and mistakes.
The Australian hugged him briefly. Max shook Carlos’ hands, looking him straight in the eyes. He found nothing of note in the Spanish’s pupils. Nothing that would enlighten him on the infuriating tension floating around them.
Carlos had always been brilliant as impassibility anyway.
"Welcome back to Monaco," Max eventually mumbled.
Daniel gave him a short smile, almost tedious. In twenty years of friendship, they Australian had never been so cold towards him. Carlos only scrutinized Max’s face, silent. As if he was looking for something. As if something highly valuable was hidden in Max’s features.
Max hated it.
"I had to see you," Carlos then carefully stated, a hand against his side, making the holster protrudent beneath his suit.
Daniel’s face darkened. He sipped on his drink, eyes lowered to the floor. Max titled his head slightly in silent questioning. Whatever words are going leave the Spanish’s mouth, he was going to lose it. Whatever was simmering in his blood exploding the precarious hold he had had on his composure.
It’s pathetic, really. For a mafia boss.
Arms akimbo, he awaited Carlos’ answer. The tanned man invited him to seat on one of the lavish Chesterfield sofas of the bar. Gritting his teeth, Max complies, impatient and jittery. Carlos and Daniel sat right across from him, radiating a calmness Max couldn’t quite stand.
"Well?" he prompted, on the verge of losing control.
"Your father is dead."
Carlos took a long sip of his drink, his words having shattered the expectative between them into smithereens. His eyes didn’t leave Max for an instant.
Max stared back at Carlos, but the world seemed to stop turning. There was a ringing in his left ear. He wondered whether he was still breathing. If time still elapsed to the same excruciating pace.
His rigid body, completely immobile on the sofa’s leather, suddenly turned into nothing but a cold shell for his soul.
Some time must pass, because the silence stretched louder, and on Carlos’ left, Daniel grew worried, concern spreading over his features.
All of a sudden, Max felt the urge to flip the coffee table in front of him. To hear the clatter of broken glass.
Everything happened all at once. The bewilderment and the anger and the need to howl, to pour the fucking confusion in a rain of insults hurtling down his lips. As if a dam had been broken after a suspension of time. As if his brain had had to stop in order to register what Carlos had said.
He was losing control. By a fraction. He knew it. There was nothing left of phlegm on his face, and Carlos added distance between them, leaning just a bit more on the sofa. Daniel did the exact reverse, leaning forward, brow furrowed.
"It’s not all…" he muttered, his hand flat on the table, as though he was itching to reach out to Max.
Max’s eyes snapped to Daniel’s face in a heartbeat. He was standing on the brink, that he needed to regain control of himself, or he was going to lash out at two men who he respected and held in high regard.
But he was not sure he could handle much more.
Not when Jos was dead and he hadn’t had a chance to do the deed himself. To write off his debt.
"It was the French," Carlos eventually stated, his voice dripping with contempt. "They claimed responsibility. Gasly wants an audience with you."
Max stood up before he gave in and turned the table over, in a fight to control both his breathing and his brain. Drops of sweat were lining his spine. Everything in the room was assaulting him. From the privacy Carlos had bought to the expensive bottles of alcohol lined up aesthetically against the glass wall of the bar. He wanted to rip off his cufflinks, to scream and to hit whatever would tear his knuckles.
He forced himself to inhale deeply, teeth chattering. He could control himself. He had lived through impossible situations. Far, far worse than that. Full of blood and things he still trouble thinking about. This was just one of those.
After what seemed like an eternity, a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He stopped his pacing.
He hadn’t even realized he had begun to move.
"Let’s sit down, Max. Let’s talk this through."
Somehow, Daniel’s voice wormed its way into the web of panic and anger that embroiled his every thoughts. Somehow, he exhaled a normals breath, and sat back down in front of Carlos, pristine cufflinks still in place.
°°°°
Charles worried his lower lip between his teeth as Monaco’s nightlife flashed before his eyes. It was almost ridiculous, really, to drive such a short distance. But then again he didn’t really have a choice. It was in the contract. A man in a black suit had picked him up at midnight sharp in front of the agency, standing tall in front of an s-class sedan. For a second, Charles had thought that the man was his client.
The tension was running through his limbs like fire espoused canon fodder. He had never been so wired before a job. And yet so weary at the same time. He bit his lip even deeper as the thought of the bruises adorning his body surfaced again. He hadn’t even tried to cover them up. Hadn’t even tried to hide them. Sweat from sex always marred any attempts of make up cover-up.
Some clients didn’t mind the bruises. Some were even amused by them. Some tried to add to his collection. Others took it exceedingly badly. As if they cherished the illusion that they were the first to touch him. Charles didn’t know to which category he wanted that night’s client to belong.
Tears welled up all too easily as he subjected himself to his usual routine and re-read on his phone the contract he had signed the day before. He swiped through the countless NDAs, the usual payment closes, until he reached the list, his thumb trembling above the screen.
He closed his eyes for an instant, desperate to regain control of himself. The chauffeur couldn’t be a witness to his breakdown.
After what seemed like ages, he won his fight against the tears.
He stared at the screen once more, cold sweat dripping down his white shirt. What should have been a list of all the sexual acts he didn’t accept to perform wasn’t really one. There was only one word typed in the blank square, with sole companion his own signature.
None.
A new rush of terror ran through his blood at the word. He almost choked on his breath, and placated a hand against his mouth in an attempt to compose himself. This- This meant that he would be prey to anything.
Some cynical part of him thought of the numbers that would soon appear in his bank account. Reminded him that he would be able to have full meal.
But the visions- The visions took over. The visions of sexual cruelty and madness that were synonymous with that word he had signed. Of suffering and subjugation.
The clients that demanded such lists weren’t sane. None of them. They were looking for an outlet to a violence they arbored and couldn’t let out in the civilized world. A whore always did the trick to exteriorize their savagery.
Charles bit his lip with enough strength to draw blood. It was just twenty four hours. Twenty four hours and then he would go home and hide for as long as it took to heal.
It was all worth it.
The car slowed down to a halt in front of an apartment building as that last thought danced in his mind. It had to. Be worth it. He just hoped that it wouldn’t go far enough to make him want to quit the profession.
The car-door opened before he had the chance to make a move, the chauffeur politely inviting him to exit the vehicle, his palm opened up in the direction of the building’s entrance. Charles couldn’t help but audibly gulp as he glanced at the edifice, one of those ultra-luxurious real estate complexes that had sprung up from the ground in weeks to accommodate the UHNWs individuals flocking to the Principality.
A doorman was waiting in front of the building’s main doors despite the ungodly hour, looking suspiciously like a security guard. Charles passed a trembling hand to his hair as he stepped towards him, the chauffeur still on his tow. This was the moment he needed to morph into his working self. This was exactly when he was expected to put on his seductive mask and begin to move, feline, in accordance with was expected of his profession.
He tried to put on a smile. To relax. To look more at ease. To loosen his limbs and lower his shoulders. To veil his face with fake serenity and calm.
The doorman let him in with a genuine sympathy spread on his features, but Charles’ tentative smile dropped as soon as he stepped inside the lobby. The vision he was greeted with in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of the concierge’s desk chilled him to the bone.
He stood there, staring at himself, the chauffeur immobile next to him, a confused expression on his face. Tears flooded Charles’ cheeks. He couldn’t do anything about it. He was a fucking failure. The seductive smile plastered on his face as he had walked in had been a joke. Some of the bruises were visible beneath the overly sheer fabric of his white shirt. The black pants he had put on emphasized how slim his legs were. Too slim. The line of his shoulders screamed tension as much as his demeanor. And his face… His face simply not fit for the job. Sunken eyes, dark patches beneath his lashes, a skin pale to a fault. He looked absolutely terrified. And beaten-up. There was no other word for it.
He should have looked in the mirror before hurrying out of his apartment, should have put on some make up… Shouldn’t have avoided what had become his nightmare: his reflection.
"Should we move on, Sir?"
Charles almost jumped at the chauffeur’s voice, giving the man an incredulous look. He almost snickered cynically at the word ‘Sir’, only to nod slowly. The man smiled warmly and took the lead towards the elevator.
It didn’t matter. With such a contract, the man probably didn’t care. He just wanted someone to fuck. It didn’t matter if the whore looked like that.
He caught the eyes of the caretaker as they waited for the elevator’s door to close. As he suspected, the building had a twenty-four hour concierge service. What he didn’t expect, however, was the elevator’s doors to open directly into what seemed to be a 1000 sq ft living space.
Stunned, he stepped in. The chauffeur didn’t. He simply waved at him as the elevator’s doors closed once more. Charles didn’t even got the chance to say a thing. Swallowing nervously, he looked around himself, unwilling to take one more step. High-end furniture on the right. A kitchen with quartz worktops on the left. A humongous sofa that probably cost more than what he earned in a year. A beautiful dark blue Persian carpet covering a great part of the floors.
Comfort. Quality. Convenience. This was what luxury was all about. And the view. God, the view was worth all the gold in the world. To him at least. Beneath stretched not only Monaco and its espousal of the sea, but also the French Riviera beyond the Principality, so that the penthouse actually allowed for an almost bird’s eye embrace of the coastline.
Charles realized three things as he tore his eyes off the most beautiful midnight view he had ever laid his eyes on. The lights weren’t on. The space looked empty. He hadn’t stopped crying.
°°°°
Max pinched the bridge of his nose as he went into the car. Before his chauffeur could close the door, however, Daniel leant in, having rushed from the bar’s entrance.
"I forgot to tell you…" the Australian begun, his face serious and grave.
Max gritted his teeth, silently nodding for the man to continue. He couldn’t stand much more. He wanted to scream at the entire world. To run home and hide and force some sense down his own throat.
To put himself back together.
"I left a- a gift at your house. For your birthday… I planned it long ago, before-"
"Alright," Max cut him, short and harsh.
Right. Happy fucking birthday to him. He had forgotten. In between work and his state of mind he just couldn’t understand, he had forgotten.
"But, Max, I must tell you-"
"Bye, Daniel."
The chauffeur closed the door and a minute later they were gone. He didn’t even feel an ounce of remorse at his behavior. That thought had him close his eyes for an instant, the back of his head pressed against the leather of the seat. The dark didn’t succeed in clearing his head. The three-hour long conversation he had just barely managed to go through coated his every thought. Jos was at each corner of his mind, memories bubbling up like rats in a pestered town.
Carlos’ words, calm and measured, sensible, of course, mingled in the mess that was his brain. Daniel’s concern, too.
He glanced at his watch, a wave of utter exhaustion washing over him. Frowning, he felt himself slacking, all the energy he had left leaving his body.
Perhaps had he been running on coffee and adrenaline for way too long. Or perhaps was it the shock of his father’s death.
A jolt of headache forced him to close his eyes once more as a web of enmeshed thoughts assaulted his mind again. The car stopped in front of his apartment building before the peacefulness of a night ride could soothe his nerves. He rushed out and nearly threw himself inside the elevator, almost shivering.
He needed a bath and some meds. To burry himself into the satin sheets of his bed and shut the world out for just a bit. Sighing, he began to unbutton his shirt, only to freeze when the elevator doors opened up to his penthouse.
The lights were on.
Grabbing the gun tucked in his waistband, he stepped inside, alert, all tiredness forgotten. This-This was the proof he couldn’t let his guard down, not even a bit. His job didn’t permit it. He should have fucking learnt that by now.
But who he found was nothing of a hitman.
There, sitting on the edge of the sofa, almost curled up on himself, was a clearly terrified young man with bags under his eyes and visible bruises running up his neck.
A young man who had also undoubtedly been crying, and who raised his hands in shock.
It took Max an embarrassingly long minute to realize that the man at the end of his gun was Daniel’s gift.