Kyan climbed onto the bed slowly, like it might bite him. His hands were cold, nervous—but he placed them gently on Nico's back and began to move in small circles. Soft. Careful. Like he was scared to break him.
Nico didn't speak at first. Just let out a low sigh as his muscles started to relax under Kyan's touch.
Kyan's fingers brushed along the edge of a tattoo just below Nico's shoulder blade. It was a black phoenix—fierce wings, rising through flames.
He paused. "It's… beautiful," he whispered, eyes tracing the lines. "What's the story?"
Nico turned his head a little, voice low, rough. "That phoenix… It's the first thing I ever drew."
Kyan blinked. "You drew it?"
"Yeah." Nico's tone shifted. Just a little softer. "I was fourteen. Got the ink done the day I left my father's house for good."
Kyan's fingers froze.
Nico kept going, quietly, "He broke my ribs the night before. I still had bruises when they inked it. Told myself if I survived him, I'd rise higher than any man he ever was."
There was a silence after that. Heavy. Human.
Kyan touched the phoenix again, slower this time. "You did rise, Master."
Nico smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "Damn right I did."
Then—he added, arrogantly, "Now shut up and keep going. You were doing fine… until you stopped."
Kyan kept massaging, fingers gliding gently over Nico's warm skin, following the lines of his muscles like he was memorizing them.
"You know, back in the former place I used to work," Kyan lied, his voice light, "they made us clean the chandelier every Sunday. It was so high up, I used to pray I'd fall and break a leg so I could skip kitchen duty."
Nico didn't move. Just laid there like a king, one hand behind his head, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He let out a long breath—half boredom, half amusement.
"Fascinating," he muttered dryly, eyes still closed. "Please, tell me more about your thrilling chandelier adventures."
Kyan pouted, but kept going anyway. "And once, I swapped the salt with sugar just to mess with the cooks. It was a disaster, but worth it."
Nico smirked, still not looking at him. "You talk too much for someone with such small hands."
Kyan gasped. "Excuse me? These hands are perfectly sized for massaging egos—yours especially."
That earned a low chuckle from Nico. "If you're done with the bedtime stories, focus on the pressure. My back's not going to fix itself."
"Right, right. Sorry, Your Majesty." Kyan rolled his eyes and went back to work, but a smile tugged at his lips.
Nico stayed still, pretending to be annoyed—but he didn't tell Kyan to stop talking.
Not yet.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Heavy. Getting closer.
Nico's eyes snapped open.
Damn it.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, muscles tensing beneath Kyan's hands. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.
Kyan blinked. "What?"
"Get off," Nico said sharply, already grabbing the sheets to cover himself.
"But—"
"I said move."
Kyan scrambled off the bed just as the footsteps stopped right outside the chamber door. Nico was already up, dragging on a shirt, running a hand through his hair like he hadn't just been lying half-naked with a male servant rubbing him down.
It was a rule in the Luciano house—one written in pride, ego, and outdated masculinity.
Massages were a woman's job. Always had been.
Ever since Nico's grandfather—Godfather Moretti himself—had made history by knocking up almost every woman who dared lay a hand on his back. "That's how you prove you're a real man," the old man had said, raising cigars in rooms full of blood and war stories.
Touch was power. Female hands were for pleasure. That was the Luciano legacy.
But Nico?
He hated it.
He couldn't stand the way a woman's touch made his skin crawl, like his body remembered something he couldn't say out loud.
And now, Kyan—wide-eyed, messy-haired, shirt wrinkled from leaning too close—was standing in the middle of the room, looking way too suspicious.
If anyone saw this...
Nico's jaw tightened. He moved fast, grabbed Kyan by the arm and yanked him toward the hidden back door.
"Out. Now. Go through the wine corridor. Don't let anyone see you."
"But—"
"Now, Kyan."
The door handle turned. Voices outside.
Kyan slipped through the secret door just as the main one creaked open.
Nico turned around, shirt on, expression cool, unreadable.
A guard stepped in. "Forgive me, sir. The Don requested—"
Nico raised one brow. "You knock once before entering my chambers again, or I'll cut your tongue out and feed it to the dogs."
The guard bowed low, muttering apologies.
Nico exhaled once they left.
Safe.
Barely.
And all he could think about… was those soft, clumsy hands—and why the hell he wanted them back.
Nico pulled the hidden door shut behind him and turned to Kyan, who was still a little breathless from being dragged out of the chamber like a sack of stolen gold.
Nico leaned down, one hand on the wall behind Kyan's head, that smug look on his lips again—the kind that made Kyan's chest tighten and his knees think about folding.
"Make my bed ready," Nico said, his voice low, full of heat and arrogance. "Fluff the pillows. Light the candles. I'll be back, and when I come back…" He paused, leaning just a bit closer, lips near Kyan's ear. "I want the room warm. And you quiet."
Kyan swallowed, wide-eyed. "Y-Yes, Master."
Nico straightened with a lazy smirk and turned to go, tossing one last line over his shoulder.
"Don't wrinkle the sheets. I hate messy things—except you."
---
He made his way down the grand marble hall, each step echoing in cool silence. The Luciano villa was quieter now, but it didn't matter—since Nico became King, the Don was always calling for him.
Always watching.
Always looking.
And just like clockwork, as he stepped into the sitting room, the old man was there again. Seated with a glass of untouched scotch, the Don didn't even look up. Just spoke in that cold, steady voice.
"You're late."
Nico didn't blink. "I was busy being King."
"Sit down. I've got something to say."
Nico raised a brow, unbothered, and sank into the leather chair across from him like he owned the place—which, in most ways, he did. One leg crossed lazily over the other, his fingers casually tugging at the hem of his grey sleeve.
"I'm listening," Nico said coolly, his eyes sharp.
The Don finally glanced up, eyes dark, measuring. "This isn't a joke, Nico. It's about round two."
That made Nico's smirk falter just slightly. Only slightly.