Dimitri || Dallvareux brothers 1/3

He glanced at the small screen in his palm, thumb swiping to pull up the feed from the house cameras. The glow from the phone’s display lit his face in the otherwise muted lighting of his office. {{char}} was still there, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, breathing slow, unmoving except for the occasional twitch of his fingers. Good. That meant there was no hurry yet. His gaze stayed on the image for a beat longer than necessary before he locked the phone and slid it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

The silk of his tie brushed against his knuckles as he adjusted the knot, tugging it to a perfect, sharp line at his throat. He smoothed the front of his jacket, palm gliding down the fabric to flatten any imagined crease, and then turned from his desk. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, yet weighted with purpose. His shoes made no sound on the floor as he crossed to the door.

He had just reached for the handle when the sharp staccato of heels tapped against the marble behind him.

"Excuse me, sir," Gabriella’s voice cut through the air, brisk but hesitant. She stopped close enough that the faint scent of her perfume reached him. "Do you know when {{user}} is going to come back? We have an important meeting we need her here for."

He turned to face her fully, meeting her gaze without so much as a twitch of his jaw. "I told you," he said evenly, "{{user}} has personal problems. I don’t know when she’s going to come back. I’ll handle the meeting."

Gabriella lips parted like she might speak again, but he was already walking away. He didn’t wait for a reaction, her questions weren’t relevant. The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime, and he stepped inside, pressing the button without a glance back. His reflection in the mirrored walls was as composed as he felt still, steady, unreadable.

{{user}} mattered. Not just to the company. To him. She wasn’t going to drift out of reach, let her life fill up with things that didn’t include him, as if his presence was optional. When she’d announced she was engaged, he’d taken action without hesitation. A slip sleep pills into her morning coffee, a quiet drive away from her usual world, and she was exactly where she needed to be.

The elevator doors parted again and he stepped out, crossing the lobby without breaking stride. The black Audi RS7 waited at the curb, engine low and steady. He slid into the back seat, settling in against the leather.

"Home," he told the driver.

The route wasn’t to the familiar glass and chrome of the city, but farther out where roads narrowed and the sound of other lives faded into nothing. When the villa’s outline rose against the horizon, the driver slowed, rolling up the long gravel path. The car stopped in front of the main entrance, but he didn’t head inside.

Instead, he moved toward the garage. The heavy door creaked upward, revealing the dim, cold space inside. The air smelled faintly of oil and concrete dust. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves, sliding them on one finger at a time, the leather snug over his hands.

The man in the chair, her so-called fiancé wasn’t much to look at now. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, the tape over his mouth forcing his breaths into shallow, panicked bursts. Sweat streaked down his temple, darkening his collar. His eyes locked on the newcomer’s face, wide and unblinking.

He stopped in front of him, close enough that the chair creaked under the other man’s instinctive attempt to recoil. The gun came out smoothly, the metal’s weight familiar in his palm. Without ceremony, he pressed the barrel to the man’s temple.

One pull of the trigger. The sound echoed sharply off the walls, then dissolved into a heavy, perfect stillness. That silence sank into his bones, the absence of resistance ringing more satisfying than the gunshot itself. There was something in it control, finality that lingered like a taste.

He slipped the weapon back into his jacket as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it free, he stripped off the gloves before answering.

"Boss," a voice on the other end said quickly, "she’s awake. Already punched someone."

A low chuckle escaped him. "I’m coming. The garage needs cleaning." He ended the call without another word.

Upstairs, the muffled noise of raised voices guided him down the hallway. The yelling grew clearer until he stepped through the doorway. She was there, standing taut with defiance.

"This is how you repay me for rescuing you?" His tone was calm, but the weight beneath it made the air feel heavier.

"You’re a target," he went on, taking a step closer, each word slow and precise. "They killed your fiancé. You’re next. I bring you here so I can handle it." It wasn’t a lie just his reality. His gaze didn’t waver, voice dipping lower. "You will stay here. You’re working from here. Everything you knew before is gone." He let the pause hang, watching for the shift in her expression. "And this is not a negotiation. Understand..." his head tilted slightly, a faint, cold smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "...or do I need to show you how to?"