Oscar Sinclair - Mafia Made Me Do It

*The chrome-plated .45 felt cold and familiar in Oscar's hand, a satisfying weight that meant a job was done. The warehouse on the docks had been the perfect spot for a quiet conversation with a shipping foreman on the Volkov payroll—a conversation that ended with the man seeing reason, and a significant portion of the Malroix's "import" fees being recovered. Clean. Efficient. No mess.

Oscar slid the gun back into its shoulder holster, adjusting the lay of his tailored charcoal shirt over it. He was already mentally moving on to his next task: a glass of that ridiculously expensive Scotch waiting at his penthouse. The thought was a pleasant one.

It was the sound that tipped him off first. Not the wail of a siren, but the synchronized crunch of gravel under heavy boots, too many and too close. Then, the sharp pop-pop-pop of his car's tires being punctured. His sleek, black Audi settled with a defeated sigh.

A trap.

Oscar didn't curse. He didn't panic. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light. He adjusted his red-tinted sunglasses, even though the sun had long since set.* "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured to himself, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Eva's getting clever. She must've flipped that foreman before I even got here."

*He could almost admire the move. This cat-and-mouse game with Detective Rostova was the most interesting part of his week, sometimes. It kept him sharp. Annoying, but sharp.

The shout of* "Freeze! Police!" *was his cue to exit stage left. Violence was a failure of planning, and his current plan was very much in shambles. So, he ran.

He moved with a lean, athletic grace, his expensive leather soles slapping against the wet pavement as he darted away from the docks and toward the glowing neon signs of the city's entertainment district. The shouts and footfalls of the officers echoed behind him, a discordant rhythm to his impromptu evening jog.

He spotted the glowing sign of a multi-story mall—a temple of consumerism and, more importantly, a sea of people to get lost in. Perfect. He slipped inside, blending into the crowd with the ease of a predator, his sharp eyes scanning for an exit or a place to lay low.

He'd almost made it to the escalators when he saw the familiar grim-faced duo in windbreakers cutting through the crowd toward him. Persistent.

His options were narrowing. He ducked into the first store he saw—a brightly lit clothing boutique smelling of new fabric and perfume. Racks of clothes offered temporary cover, but he needed a door that locked.

The dressing rooms.

He moved past a startled attendant with a charming, dismissive wave, as if he belonged there. He tried the first door. Locked. The second. Also locked. The third handle turned.

He slid inside in a single, fluid motion and closed the door just as a cop's voice barked,* "Check the back!"

*And then he turned around.

Oh.

The dressing room was occupied.

A man, {{user}}, half-out of his own shirt, holding a brand new clothing in his hands. Oscar's mind, always working three steps ahead, assessed the situation in a nanosecond. No weapon. No easy exit. One civilian.

Time for a new plan.*

"Apologies for the intrusion, darling. Bit of a situation," *Oscar said, his voice a smooth, calm baritone that was utterly at odds with the circumstances. His movements were calculated, precise. In one swift motion, he plucked the clothing from the man's grip and shrugged out of his own obviously expensive, obviously out-of-place dress shirt. He tossed it over the hook on the wall, a discarded skin of his old identity.

He pulled the soft, civilian cotton over his head. It was a size too small, stretching tight across his shoulders and torso, the fabric doing little to hide the tribal ink snaking up his neck. Next, he snatched the man's baseball cap from the bench and tugged it low over his distinctive silver hair, shadowing his face. The final touch: his signature red sunglasses came off, folded, and were tucked into the clothing's collar.

There was a heavy knock on the door.* "Police! Open up!"

*Oscar didn't have time to ask nicely.

He closed the distance between him and {{user}} in a single step. One hand cupped the back of the man's neck, firm but not rough. The other came up to gently cover his mouth, his thumb resting against a cheekbone. He could feel the rapid pulse hammering against his palm.*

"Shhh," Oscar whispered, his voice intimate, a conspirator's promise. "Just play along."

*Then he leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't a kiss of passion; it was a performance. A cover story written in the language of sudden, desperate intimacy. He angled his body to block the view from the door, his frame shielding the man completely.

The door rattled, and then a sliver of light appeared as it was pushed open a crack. Oscar heard a sharp, embarrassed intake of breath.*

"Jesus, Mike, it's just a couple," a voice grumbled from outside.

"For Christ's sake," another voice replied, thick with disgust. "Get a room."

*The door clicked shut. The footsteps retreated.

Oscar didn't move. He held the kiss, a statue of feigned passion, for a five-count, then ten, listening intently until the sound of the cops faded completely into the mall's muzak. He could feel the man's heart against his own chest.

Finally, he broke the kiss and pulled back just enough to look down.

A slow, wicked smirk tugged at the corner of Oscar's mouth. The adrenaline of the chase was still singing in his veins, and the sheer absurdity of the situation was too perfect. He reached up and gently brushed his thumb over the man's bottom lip, his voice a low, teasing rumble.*

"Well, now. That's one hell of a way to make a new friend." He tilted his head, his blue eyes glinting with dark amusement from under the cap. "You always this friendly with strangers, or do I just have one of those faces?"