Rocco's boots crunched over broken crockery as he dragged Victor toward the garage, their hands slick with sweat and gunpowder residue. The kitchen smelled like cordite and burnt rosemary now — a far cry from the heady musk of their coupling. Victor's shoulder pressed hot against his back as they moved, the older man reloading one-handed while popping the stitches on his bullet-grazed arm.
Enzo scrambled after them, clutching a bloodied dish towel to his bicep. "They're flanking the —"
Victor silenced him with a look, tossing Rocco a set of keys. The younger man caught them mid-stride, recognizing the weight immediately. "The '67 Alfa?" Rocco breathed, thumbing the worn leather fob.
Victor's grin was feral in the flickering emergency lights. "She purrs when you choke her." His palm smacked Rocco's ass hard enough to leave a print. "Drive like you fuck."
The garage door screeched open to reveal the cherry-red GT Junior crouched between concrete pillars. Bullets pinged off its hood as Rocco wrenched the driver's door open. Victor slid into the passenger seat like liquid mercury, already cranking the ignition while Rocco's knees bracketed the steering wheel.
The Alfa roared to life just as three Russians rounded the corner. Victor shot the first through his open mouth from six feet away — close enough to see the man's gold molar shatter. The remaining two dove for cover as Rocco floored it, tires screaming on polished concrete.
Enzo barely made the jump into the backseat, his sneakers kicking up spent shell casings. "Christ's bleeding —"
Victor twisted to fire through the rear windshield, blowing out a headlight and a Russian kneecap simultaneously. The car fishtailed onto the moonlit service road, gravel spraying like shrapnel. Rocco's bicep flexed as he wrestled the wheel, the Alfa's tail whipping sideways to crush a pursuer's motorcycle against the gatepost.
Victor's laughter filled the cabin as they hit the coastal highway, salt wind whipping through the shattered windows. His hand found Rocco's thigh, fingers digging into denim with proprietary pressure. "Left at the docks," he growled, reloading with his teeth. "We finish this where they started it."
Rocco's pulse hammered at the promise in those words. The Alfa's speedometer kissed 180 as they hurtled toward the burning warehouse district, Victor's thumb rubbing circles on his inner thigh — equal parts threat and reward.
Enzo retched over the door as Rocco took the hairpin turn without braking, tires smoking against the dock's warped planks. The scent of gasoline and charred olives clogged the air. Victor kicked his door open before they'd fully stopped, firing two-handed into the smoke. Three shadows dropped before hitting the ground.
"Eyes left," Rocco barked, vaulting the hood as muzzle flashes lit the cargo containers. The first Russian died with Rocco's knife in his windpipe. The second barely had time to register the shotgun pressed between his legs before Rocco pulled the trigger.
Victor moved like a storm front through the chaos — methodical, inevitable. His custom Beretta clicked empty. Rather than reload, he grabbed an iron cargo hook and embedded it in a gunman's clavicle, using the leverage to slam the screaming man onto a stack of olive barrels. The wood splintered under the impact, brine and blood mingling at his boots.
Rocco felt the sniper before he saw him — that primal prickle between his shoulder blades. He spun, but Victor was already there, tackling him behind a forklift as the high-caliber round shattered the Alfa's headlight. Their chests heaved together in the sudden stillness, Victor's sweat dripping onto Rocco's lips.
"Still hard?" Victor rasped, grinding his erection against Rocco's hip.
Rocco's answering growl was cut short by another sniper round punching through the forklift's gas tank. The explosion sent them rolling across the dock, Victor shielding Rocco's body with his own. Shrapnel peppered Victor's back, drawing a string of Sicilian curses.
Rocco flipped them, straddling Victor's waist to return fire toward the crane cab. The sniper's body tumbled forty feet, landing with a wet crunch. Panting, Rocco looked down to find Victor grinning up at him, bloodied and aroused beneath the emergency flares' hellish glow.
"Tell me," Victor breathed, gripping Rocco's ass, "you packed lube in that tactical vest."
Rocco's laughter was savage as he unbuckled his Kevlar. Distantly, more engines growled through the smoke. Victor didn't seem to care. He was too busy sucking a fresh claim over the hickey he'd left on Rocco's neck hours earlier.
"Christ —" Rocco hissed when Victor bit down, his fingers fumbling with the vest's clasps. The damned thing was still damp with their earlier sweat, clinging stubbornly to his shoulders. Victor solved the problem by tearing it open, sending ceramic plates clattering across the docks.
The older man's hands were everywhere at once — palming Rocco's ass through torn denim, wrenching his belt loose with one sharp tug. A bullet whizzed overhead, embedding itself in an olive barrel. Victor didn't even flinch. He just spat into his palm and reached between them, fisting their cocks together in one brutal stroke.
Rocco's hips jerked forward instinctively, his head falling back as Victor's calloused thumb swiped over his leaking slit. The docks smelled like gunpowder and brine now, their mingled musk cutting through the acrid smoke. Victor's breath was hot against his ear — "You shoot as good as you fuck" — before sealing his mouth over Rocco's in a kiss that tasted of blood and stolen wine.
Enzo's scream came from somewhere near the burning warehouse. Rocco barely registered it. His world had narrowed to Victor's hand on him, the way the older man's swollen cock dragged against his with every rough pull. Another explosion rocked the docks, sending a shower of sparks over their tangled bodies. Victor used the distraction to flip them, pinning Rocco against the blood-slick planks.
"Watch," Victor growled, jerking his chin toward the approaching headlights. Rocco's breath caught as four figures emerged from the smoke — Russians, armed with Kalashnikovs and bad intentions. Victor's grip tightened punishingly on his cock. "Come for me when they die."
The first Russian dropped before finishing his war cry, Victor's throwing knife embedded in his eye socket. The second fell clutching his throat, gurgling around the garrote wire Rocco had looped around his neck from behind. Victor shot the third through the palm — a deliberate mercy — before twisting the man's arm until the bone snapped.
Rocco came with Victor's mouth on his shoulder, his vision whiting out as the last Russian's skull met the dock at terminal velocity. Victor swallowed his groan with a kiss, licking into his mouth as the distant wail of sirens finally pierced the night.
Enzo limped toward them, clutching his ribs. "*Zio*, the cops —"
Victor didn't lift his lips from Rocco's neck. "Count the bodies," he ordered. Rocco shuddered, his softening cock pulsing against Victor's thigh when gunfire erupted from the warehouse roof.
Victor rolled them sideways just as a sniper round sparked off the dock where Rocco's head had been. "Persistent *bastardi*," he mused, wiping sperm from his fingers onto Rocco's tactical pants. The younger man's breath hitched when Victor suddenly reached into his waistband and produced a grenade pin clenched between his teeth.
"Your turn," Victor murmured, pressing the cold metal into Rocco's palm. He jerked his chin toward the rooftop silhouettes. Rocco's grin was all teeth as he rose, still half-hard, and hurled the grenade in a perfect arc. The explosion painted the docks orange, raining shrapnel and body parts onto the smoldering olive barrels.
Victor caught him by the belt loops when he turned, dragging him into a filthy kiss tasting of gunpowder and come. "Salary negotiations," he panted against Rocco's mouth, "start tomorrow." His hand slid down to cup Rocco's ass as police spotlights swept the harbor.
Enzo groaned. "*Dio*, not again —"
Victor tossed him the Alfa's keys without breaking the kiss. "Distract them." Rocco laughed against Victor's lips when the kid cursed violently before revving the engine toward the approaching cruisers.
Victor's lips grazed Rocco's jugular as the first flashbang lit up the night. "Lesson three," he growled, shoving him toward a waiting speedboat, "always have an exit strategy." Rocco's knees hit the deck just as Victor gunned the engine, sending them slicing through the ink-black waves. Salt spray stung their fresh wounds as the dock dissolved into chaos behind them.
Victor's hand found Rocco's thigh again, fingers pressing into the fading marks. The boat's prow lifted as they hit open water, the moon painting Victor's blood-streaked chest in silver. Rocco leaned into his space, licking a strip up the older man's neck to his earlobe.
"Where to, *capo*?"
Victor's grin was wolfish in the darkness. "Somewhere with a bed that doesn't smell like olives."
The speedboat cut through choppy waters, spray soaking them anew as Victor navigated the shoreline's jagged outcrops by muscle memory alone. Rocco braced himself against the console, his thighs flexing when Victor suddenly banked hard right toward a hidden cove. Moonlight revealed the silhouette of a stone boathouse nestled in the cliffs, waves lapping at its weathered doors.
Victor killed the engine twenty yards out, letting momentum carry them silently toward the entrance. His palm smacked Rocco's ass when he moved to stand. "Swim."
Cold water shocked Rocco's overheated skin as he plunged overboard, the salt stinging fresh scratches. Victor surfaced beside him, silver chest hair plastered to muscle, and dragged him under for a brutal kiss before kicking toward the submerged door. Rusted hinges groaned as Victor shouldered it open, revealing a cavernous space smelling of damp stone and diesel.
Rocco's bare feet slapped wet concrete as Victor hauled him up a rickety ladder. The loft above was all moth-eaten velvet and weapon crates, a single brass bed bolted to the floor. Victor didn't bother with lights — he shoved Rocco backward onto the mattress, following him down with the weight of a man half his age. Their wet bodies met with a slick slap, Victor's lips already at Rocco's jugular.
Distant explosions pulsed through the cliffs as Victor's hand slid between them, fingers circling Rocco's reawakening cock with possessive familiarity. "Still my bodyguard?" he rasped against the younger man's thigh before taking him deep, his tongue working the underside with obscene precision.
"Til death us do part," Rocco, snapped back.
Rocco's fingers twisted in the sheets as police helicopters thundered overhead. Victor didn't pause — just hollowed his cheeks and swallowed him whole, throat fluttering around the intrusion until Rocco's hips left the mattress. The bedframe cracked against the stone wall with each thrust, their mingled fluids staining the antique coverlet.
Victor pulled off with a filthy sound, wiping his mouth. "Good," he growled, flipping Rocco onto his belly. "Now guard this."
The older man's cock breached him in one brutal stroke, forcing a shout from Rocco's raw throat that echoed off the boathouse beams. Victor didn't pause — just anchored his thick hands on Rocco's hips and set a punishing rhythm, each thrust knocking the younger man's abused prostate like a trigger pull. Splinters bit into Rocco's palms where he gripped the headboard, the brass frame groaning under their combined weight.
Victor's mouth found the nape of Rocco's neck as distant sirens wailed along the coast. "Harder," Rocco snarled, arching back to take him deeper. Victor's chuckle vibrated against his spine before the older man obeyed—slamming home with enough force to make the bed skid two inches across the floor.
Rocco came untouched, his vision whiting out as his cock jerked ropes of sperm across the moth-eaten sheets. Victor followed with a growl, pumping him full of his seed for the second time that night. Their mingled sweat dripped onto the mattress, salt and gunpowder and sex thick in the damp air.
Victor collapsed atop him, his breathing ragged against Rocco's spent back. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs with the same relentless rhythm they'd just fucked to. Somewhere beyond the boathouse walls, Enzo was probably getting strip-searched by harbor police.
Rocco smirked into the pillow. "You hire all your bodyguards this way?"
Victor's hand slid possessively up his flank, one thumb rubbing circles over a fresh bullet graze. "Just the handsome ones." His lips brushed Rocco's ear. "And only when they shoot straight."
A drop of condensation fell from the ceiling onto Rocco's shoulder blade. Victor licked it away before rolling them sideways, keeping their bodies flush even as he softened inside him. The tactical pants around Rocco's ankles were beyond ruined — stained with blood, seawater, and both their releases.
Victor's palm warmed the small of Rocco's back. "Sleep," he ordered. "We hunt the rest at dawn."
Rocco's eyes slid shut to the sound of Victor reloading the Beretta one-handed beside his head. The metallic clicks were as familiar as his own heartbeat now. He drifted off with the older man's fingers carding through his hair — rough and tender in turns — and the salt-stiff sheets clinging to their cooling skin.
A distant buzz pulled him back. Victor's phone vibrated on the crate beside them, casting blue light across the damp walls. Rocco watched through slitted eyes as the older man checked the screen, his bicep flexing where it pillowed Rocco's neck. Whatever the message said made Victor's thumb pause mid-swipe.
"Problem?" Rocco murmured against the gunpowder grit still coating Victor's sternum.
Victor's exhale stirred the hair at Rocco's temple. "My sister." He tilted the screen — a photo of Enzo handcuffed to a hospital bed, flipping off the camera with his uninjured arm. The caption read: *Your turn to bail him out.*
Rocco snorted, tracing a finger down the scar bisecting Victor's ribs. "Thought you said he was your nephew."
Victor's teeth flashed in the dark. "Nephew. Sister's son. Same blood, different lines." He tossed the phone aside, rolling atop Rocco with sudden purpose. His knee nudged the younger man's legs wider. "You swim good for a bodyguard."
The compliment — if it was one — landed somewhere between Rocco's navel and his freshly fucked hole. He arched into Victor's weight, feeling the older man's renewed interest press against his thigh. Outside, waves crashed rhythmically against the boathouse doors, their rhythm syncopated with the distant thump of police rotors.
Victor's mouth found Rocco's pulse point. "Tell me," he growled against damp skin, "what you did before Palermo."
The question caught Rocco mid-groan. He stilled, fingers tightening in Victor's hair. The older man didn't pull back — just waited, his breath hot on Rocco's neck. The boathouse creaked around them like a living thing.
Rocco exhaled through his nose. "Corsica. Wetwork for the —"
Victor's teeth bit into his shoulder. "*Bugiardo.*" His palm slid down to grip Rocco's half-hard cock. "Try again."
The pain-pleasure made Rocco's hips jerk. He caught Victor's wrist, twisting until the older man grunted. They rolled together across the ruined sheets, a tangle of scar tissue and fresh bruises. Rocco pinned Victor's wrists above his head, leaning down to lick the mark he'd left on Victor's collarbone earlier.
"Interpol," Rocco admitted against sweaty skin. "Three years undercover." Victor's muscles tensed beneath him. Rocco smirked, grinding their hips together. "Got fired for fucking a suspect."
Victor's laugh shook the bedframe. He surged up, flipping them with effortless strength. The brass headboard cracked against stone as he pinned Rocco beneath him, his cock pressing insistently at the younger man's entrance. "Liar," Victor breathed, but his hips rolled forward anyway, sheathing himself in one smooth thrust.
Rocco's gasp echoed off the water-stained walls. Outside, dawn painted the cliffs in bloody light.
Victor paused mid-thrust — an excruciating stillness — his fingers tightening around Rocco's wrists. "Still collecting evidence?" His breath smelled of gunpowder and the anise liqueur they'd swiped from the docks.
Rocco arched, forcing Victor deeper. "Only the kind that gets me fired." His teeth scraped Victor's knuckles when the older man resumed fucking him — slower now, each drag calculated to unravel him.
Victor's chuckle vibrated through their joined bodies. "Interpol sends their best to fuck me?" His thumb pressed against Rocco's pulse. "Or their dumbest?"
Rocco's thighs clamped around Victor's hips, rolling them sideways. The bedframe shrieked as they crashed onto the floor, landing with Rocco straddling Victor's waist. Morning light exposed the truth in Victor's eyes — not anger, but hungry amusement.
"Neither." Rocco palmed Victor's throat, feeling the older man's Adam's apple bob beneath his grip. "They sent me to kill you."
Victor's erection twitched inside him. "And?"
Rocco leaned down, licking the salt from Victor's lips. "I'm bad at following orders."
Victor's hips snapped upward, punching the air from Rocco's lungs. Their laughter mingled with the sound of waves and distant gunfire — somewhere, Enzo was probably setting a police car on fire.
Victor's hands mapped Rocco's ribs like terrain. "Tell me," he growled against the younger man's mouth, "what they promised you."
Rocco's nails bit into Victor's shoulders. "Early retirement." He gasped as Victor's teeth found his nipple. "A beach house."
Victor flipped them, pinning Rocco to the damp floorboards. His thrusts turned punishing. "You'll get better beaches." He sealed the promise with a kiss that tasted of copper and stolen wine. "And better enemies."
Sunlight streamed through the cracked boathouse doors as they moved — a tangle of limbs and half-healed wounds. Somewhere beyond the cliffs, the world kept turning. But here, in this moment, there was only sweat and skin and the salt-sting of promises kept.
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