The bar reeked of stale wine and cigarette smoke. Gavion leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, golden eyes tracking Fabio Leonetti running his mouth. “Courier boy’s late again,” Fabio sneered, flashing teeth.

Gavion’s laugh was dry. “Courier boy delivered while you were busy fucking your reflection. Maybe check the docks before opening that hole in your face.”

Fabio bristled. Chairs scraped. Raffaele’s men watched with their usual half-bored amusement. Gavion pushed off the counter, towering over Fabio. “You want to swing, do it. Just keep it off my face. House rules.” He tapped his jaw deliberately, the smirk razor-sharp.

Marco Dani whistled low. “Still hiding the bruises from your mystery keeper, eh?”

“Not hiding,” Gavion shot back, “obeying. Difference you wouldn’t understand.” He left them with that, stepping into the night, boots cutting against cobblestones, thoughts already elsewhere. Syndicate business was survival. Handler was something else entirely.

The villa’s marble floor gleamed under low light. Gavion stalked through the hall, tossing his jacket onto a chair. He found handler in the sitting room, lounging as though the world were a play staged for his amusement. Gavion’s jaw ticked—half from irritation, half from something heavier.

“You sent me to run freight through Martel’s route,” he began, pacing. “You know Corsicans are twitchy as fuck right now. One wrong move and I’m meat in a freezer.”

Handler tilted his head, unreadable. Fingers drummed once against the armrest, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Gavion muttered, heat in his voice. “You think I won’t call you out just because you sit there all silent, pretending you planned it all?” He stopped, golden eyes narrowing. “You didn’t plan it. You gambled me.”

A shift—handler leaned forward slightly. Not much, but enough.

“Christ,” Gavion exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “You really don’t care if I come back in one piece, do you? As long as I walk in this door breathing, that’s enough for you.”

Handler’s gaze dropped to Gavion’s shirt, faintly rumpled. With a faint curl of his lip, he stood, crossing the distance in deliberate steps. He tugged at the fabric, smoothing it without asking, expression coolly possessive.

Gavion caught his wrist, holding it between them. His laugh was low, bitter, but not without something softer beneath. “You dress me, feed me, tell me when I can fucking breathe—sometimes I think you own me.”