Damian paced the length of his private office, fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh as the dial tone rang in his ear. The sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden warmth across the room, but it couldn't thaw the ice growing in his chest.
Every second wasted brought the apocalypse closer. He could feel it—like a storm building behind a calm sky.
A click.
"Sir Damian," came a familiar gravelly voice.
"Ramon," Damian said without hesitation. "I need you to gather a team. No questions. Just follow my instructions."
There was a beat of silence, then a steady reply. "Understood."
Damian ended the call and exhaled slowly, trying to calm the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Ramon had been with him through the worst, one of the few survivors he trusted without reservation. He would understand the urgency, even without knowing the full truth. He might even guess the truth.
Damian pulled up his tablet and opened a digital layout of the La Cosa villa—his home, his stronghold. He zoomed in, eyes scanning each wing, each vulnerable point. The estate had always been luxurious, built for comfort and prestige. But comfort wouldn't save them.
He needed to turn this place into a secure one.
Secure the perimeter. Reinforce the structure. Stockpile supplies.
His fingers moved quickly, drawing annotations on the blueprint: – Reinforced windows and doors with bulletproof materials
– Perimeter walls heightened, electrified, with discreet turrets installed
– Backup power generators with solar integration
– Hidden storage areas converted into supply bunkers
– Medical room equipped with trauma kits, antibiotics, surgical tools.
As for food, he'll deal with it later. Damian let out a breath, his closed eyes opening up to look at the floor.
He wouldn't let the past repeat itself.
Damian moved to his desk and pulled out a drawer, revealing an old folder labeled "Black Protocols." Contingency plans from his father's time—paranoid Cold War-era nonsense, he used to think.
Now? It was salvation. He didn't expect he'd be counting on "Black Protocols." When he was a child, he'd mock his father for even considering such an absurd idea, now.. this absurd idea is coming to life, slowly.
By sundown, he'd already wired funds to discreet contractors, some offshore. Ramon had updated him—trusted security firms were en route under confidentiality contracts. Supplies were being rerouted from other La Cosa properties, all under the radar.
He had power. Influence. And this time, he'd use every drop of it this before it went away.
Damian stood in front of the mirror as the final light of day cast shadows across his face. The same tailored suit. His perfectly combed hair disheveled.
There was fire behind his eyes. Purpose. Regret, too, but it no longer consumed him. It fueled him.
___
Theodore's POV
Theodore's fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel as the city lights streaked past in a blur of gold and gray. The radio hummed quietly, a soft lull beneath the storm brewing in his chest. Traffic moved slowly, but his thoughts spun faster than the cars around him.
Damian was acting strange.
Not the usual kind of strange, either. Not the distant, ice-cold aloofness or the veiled mockery he had grown used to over the years. No, this was something else entirely. The look in Damian's eyes this morning had shaken him more than he cared to admit.
Gentle. Regretful. Like he'd seen a ghost and came running back to life.
And he touched my hands.
Theodore's jaw tightened as the memory surged. The concern in Damian's voice had felt real, painfully so. Almost like he cared.
But it was too late for that, wasn't it?
He parked outside the modest building where he worked, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. It was nothing compared to the luxury of the La Cosa villa, but it was his. A small tutoring center tucked between a bakery and an old bookstore. The scent of ink and chalk hit him the moment he stepped inside, grounding him like always.
"Morning, Theo!" Emma, the receptionist, grinned over her coffee.
"Morning," Theodore replied with a faint smile, tugging his scarf tighter as he passed. His thoughts, however, remained miles away.
The trembling in his voice when he said, "Don't cook for me anymore." as he looked at my hands, I knew what it meant. I raised my palms and scrutinized my fingers, they were covered in old scars. scars from the time when I was an amateur at cooking, often accidentally hurting myself with a knife. I loved cooking for him, but as we grew more and more apart I eventually hated it and when I didn't want to cook for him anymore he insisted.
Why now?
He had stayed. Through the late nights, the cold silences, the scent of unfamiliar omega pheromones on his husband's skin. He had endured it all because he believed in the boy Damian once was—the one who'd chased him down the hallways in middle school, begging to carry his books. That version of Damian had felt like a dream too good to hold onto.
He slipped into one of the tutoring rooms and set his materials down. The students wouldn't arrive for another thirty minutes, and for now, the silence was a blessing.
He sat quietly, tracing a finger over the edge of his lesson plan. His thoughts drifted again. Was this some new manipulation tactic? If so, it was definitely working. He leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply. For now, he would focus on work, on structure, on the things that made sense. He had a life outside of Damian. A calm, stable world.
He wouldn't let Damian ruin it again.