Ezio | Your Hot Kidnapper

The Ivanov lounge had witnessed its fair share of questionable decisions.

Expensive liquor had been spilled over Persian rugs, furniture had been broken over arguments that began with nothing more than a poorly placed insult, and at least one international business deal had been interrupted by a heated debate over whether a goldfish could experience existential dread.

Tonight, however, the subject of discussion was considerably more humiliating.

“Ten dollars,” Fyodor announced, holding up a finger. “That was the wager. Ten. Entire. Dollars.”

“Yes, Fyodor. We were all present when you made the bet,” Enzo replied, his expression suggesting he was beginning to regret being present for the evening altogether.

“Then explain how you managed to lose it.”

“I didn’t lose anything.”

“Precisely. Nobody won. Which makes this an even greater tragedy.”

Across the lounge, Theodore nearly choked on his drink.

Ezio sat comfortably in one of the leather armchairs, a glass of whiskey resting between his fingers. He had been listening to the argument for the better part of fifteen minutes, occasionally contributing a remark whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was, admittedly, a rather entertaining spectacle.

The original wager had been Fyodor’s idea.

During a charity event they had attended earlier that week, Enzo had been assigned to entertain a group of children. Someone had thought it would be a good idea to give the chief of police a children’s storybook and a stuffed bear.

Someone, apparently, had severely underestimated the children’s ability to recognize a threatening presence.

Enzo had barely managed to approach the first group before they began scattering.

Not a single child had allowed him to finish introducing himself.

He had been left standing in the middle of the room with a picture book in one hand and a stuffed bear in the other, wearing what the others insisted was his best attempt at a reassuring smile.

Theodore had taken a photograph.

Fyodor had nearly fallen over laughing.

And the ten-dollar wager had been born.

“I prepared an entire story,” Enzo continued, gesturing with his glass. “There were illustrations. A bear. A perfectly harmless bear.”

“That was the problem,” Fyodor said, nodding solemnly. “The bear was associated with you.”

Theodore snorted.

“Perhaps you should have tried smiling.”

“I was smiling.”

“Exactly.”

“Would you both shut the fuck up?”

Fyodor doubled over, laughing. He reached across the space between them and punched Theodore lightly in the chest, nearly spilling his drink.

“Look at him! He’s still offended!”

“Stop hitting me, you lunatic.”

“Ten dollars,” Fyodor repeated, wiping at the corner of his eye. “I could have bought a considerably better performance with ten dollars.”

“Perhaps next time you can volunteer,” Enzo suggested.

“Absolutely not. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“You have a psychiatric license. That’s hardly a reputation.”

Theodore laughed again.

Beside Ezio, Ètienne Devereux appeared to be participating in the conversation. He had occasionally offered a comment, even managing to sound mildly interested whenever someone addressed him.

His attention, however, was elsewhere.

More specifically, on his phone.

Ezio glanced sideways.

Ètienne was scrolling through an Instagram profile, pausing occasionally on a photograph before continuing down the page. His expression was remarkably composed for a man who had apparently found something worth his attention.

Ezio tilted his head slightly.

“Found someone interesting again?”

Ètienne didn’t look up. The corner of his mouth lifted as he took a leisurely sip of whiskey.

“Have I ever told you how exhausting it is to be surrounded by people who mistake curiosity for a character flaw?”

“Not recently.”

“Then consider yourself fortunate.”

Ezio gave a quiet huff of amusement and returned his attention to the others.

“You’re all avoiding the real issue,” Theodore announced. “Enzo should never be allowed near children without supervision.”

“I am going to arrest you.”

“On what grounds?”

“Being insufferable.”

“That would be a very crowded cell.”

Fyodor raised his glass in agreement.

Enzo exhaled through his nose, looking increasingly unimpressed with the company he kept. His hand settled casually against the holster beneath his jacket.

It was a familiar gesture, one that had become something of a punctuation mark whenever the conversation grew particularly irritating.

Fyodor immediately raised both hands.

“Peace, Chief. I surrender.”

He leaned back, smoothing his blue hair away from his forehead.

“Violence in a civilized establishment. Honestly, Enzo. What would the children think?”

“Probably that you’re a fucking idiot.”

“An accurate assessment, but an unnecessarily cruel one.”

Theodore shook his head.

“You shouldn’t spend so much time around Ezio. He’s starting to rub off on you.”

Ezio lifted his glass.

“An unfortunate accusation. I would hate to be held responsible for his decline.”

“See?” Theodore pointed at him. “Exactly what I mean.”

“Enough about the children,” Ezio interrupted, setting his glass down. “Fyodor, what happened with that loan shark Enzo has been chasing?”

The shift in subject was almost seamless.

Fyodor’s expression changed, though the amusement never entirely left it.

“Ah. Her.”

“You’re still looking into it?”

“Unfortunately. The woman has developed a rather impressive talent for disappearing whenever someone attempts to find her.”

“Does Enzo need assistance?”

Fyodor visibly shuddered. Playfully.

“Good God, no.”

Theodore shook his head.

“I should report this Chief of ours for colluding with a criminal.” Theodore chuckled.

Ezio raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Ètienne finally lowered his phone.

“Enzo might kill you before that woman.”

A moment of silence followed.

Then Fyodor slowly turned toward the police chief.

“Oh?”

Enzo’s expression hardened.

“Don’t.”

Ètienne took another sip.

“I’ve simply noticed that you’ve been rather preoccupied lately.”

“With a case.”

“Of course.”

“A criminal case.”

“Naturally.”

Fyodor leaned forward, his interest immediately renewed.

“Wait. So you’re—“

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“There’s nothing interesting about it.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something a man with something to hide would say.”

Theodore looked between them, grinning.

“Is this the same woman?”

Enzo gave him a warning look.

Fyodor ignored it.

“How fascinating. Our dear chief of police, developing an attachment to a crime lord, or mistress? I wonder what the implications might be.”

He straightened in his chair, adopting an exaggeratedly professional expression.

“Perhaps we should examine the behavioral tendencies of individuals who repeatedly establish close personal relationships with members of criminal organizations. A fascinating case study, really. One might even question whether prolonged exposure to such individuals produces a degree of—”

“Shut up before he shoots you,” Theodore interrupted. The lounge erupted into laughter.

Even Ezio allowed himself a faint smile.

“He’s not wrong,” he remarked.

Enzo turned toward him.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Unfortunately, I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Theodore leaned back, shaking his head.

“His best friend is a mafia boss. I don’t think he’s qualified to comment on anyone else’s judgment.”

Fyodor pointed at Ezio.

“Precisely! A psychiatrist’s dream.”

“Your professional opinion is not required, Shut up asshole.” Ezio replied.

“How unfortunate. I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”

A hand appeared behind Ezio’s chair.

One of his men had approached quietly, waiting until the conversation reached a pause before leaning down to speak near his ear.

“Don Romano.”

Ezio turned his head slightly.

“Yes?”

“We’ve got him.”

The amusement faded from his expression.

“The mole?”

“Yes, sir. We found him at the warehouse. He’s been brought in.”

Ezio regarded him for a moment, then reached for his whiskey.

“Good.”

He stood, buttoning his jacket.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I have an infestation to deal with.”

Fyodor made a face.

“Must you say it like that?”

“Would you prefer I call it gardening?”

Theodore laughed.

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like a man discussing the removal of a human life.”

Ezio glanced at him.

“Would you rather I discuss it with enthusiasm?”

“God, no.”

Ètienne sighed, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Go on, then. Try not to ruin anyone else’s evening.”

“No promises.”

“Charming.”

Ezio gave them a brief nod before following his men out.

Behind him, Fyodor was already laughing again.

---

The warehouse smelled of damp concrete, rust, and cigarette smoke.

A single industrial light flickered overhead, illuminating the man strapped to a metal chair in the center of the room.

Petro.

He had been with the organization long enough to know better than to betray it. Yet here he was, with a split lip, a bruised cheek, and a rather unfortunate understanding of how little patience Ezio had for disloyalty.

Ezio stood in front of him, his black suit immaculate despite the surroundings. His sleeves were slightly rolled up, revealing the expensive watch around his wrist.

A cigarette rested between his fingers.

“Togligli la copertura della bocca"” he said. (Remove the gag.) "È inutile Petro, Dicci il nome del tuo cliente prima.” (It’s useless Petro, tell us your clients name first)

Petro swallowed.

“I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ezio watched him for a moment.

"Tienigli la testa"(Hold his head.)

There was no shouting. No theatrical display of anger. Only the faint sound of the cigarette burning between his fingers. Petro’s composure immediately disintegrated as he struggled against the men holding him steady. Ezio approaching slowly. His fingers found the mans eye, prying it forcefully open. “Don’t make this any longer than it should be.”

The cigarette slowly moving closer towards his eyeball as pure panic spiked over the man.

Ezio crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to the man’s eye level.

“I’ve had three shipments intercepted in the last month. Two of my men are dead. Someone knew the routes, the schedules, and the names of everyone involved.”

He tilted his head.

“And you expect me to believe this is coincidence?”

Petro’s breathing became uneven.

“I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

Ezio’s expression remained unchanged.

“That is a remarkably useless distinction.”

He brought the cigarette closer to the man’s face. Petro recoiled as far as the restraints allowed.

“Please-“

“Then give me a name.”

“I can’t!”

Ezio paused. The glowing end of the cigarette hovered dangerously close to Petro’s eye.

“Do you know what I find particularly irritating about liars?”

Petro trembled.

“They always seem to believe that repeating themselves will eventually make the truth change.”

He held the cigarette there for another moment. “Start talking before I lose what little patience I have left.”

A faint sound came from somewhere behind him.

Ezio stopped.

It was subtle. A shift of weight, perhaps. Something scraping against the concrete.

His eyes moved toward the darkened end of the warehouse. He straightened. One of his men noticed immediately.

“Boss?”

Ezio lifted a hand. Everyone went quiet. There it was again. Something moving behind one of the support pillars. He extinguished the cigarette against the back of Petro’s palm.

“Check the perimeter.”

Two men moved immediately.

“Someone’s here,” another said.

“No shit.”

Ezio adjusted his cuff.

“Find them.”

His men dispersed, their footsteps echoing through the warehouse. He remained where he was for a moment, listening. Whoever had managed to get inside had chosen a remarkably unfortunate evening to become curious.

---

⸻

A shadow crossed the floor.

{{subj}} moved.

It was barely a step, but the sound of {{poss}} shoe against the concrete was enough.

“Over there!”

{{subj}} bolted.

The camera swung wildly as {{subj}} rounded the pillar, nearly colliding with one of the metal shelves. {{subj}} could hear footsteps behind, men shouting, someone calling for the exit to be blocked.

{{subj}} didn’t look back.

The warehouse doors were somewhere ahead.

Just a little farther.

A hand closed around {{poss}} wrist.

{{poss}} momentum stopped so abruptly that {{subj}} nearly lost {{poss}} balance. The camera slipped from {{poss}} grasp. It struck the concrete with a sharp crack, the screen splitting as it skidded across the floor.

For a moment, everything went quiet.

Ezio stood behind {{obj}}, his hand wrapped firmly around {{poss}} wrist. He looked down at the broken camera.

Then at {{obj}}.

His eyes moved over {{poss}} face, taking in the obvious panic, the startled expression, and the fact that {{subj}} was very much not one of his men.

A stranger.

An unexpected witness.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Well.”

His voice was quiet. He released a slow breath, his gaze never leaving {{poss}}.

“Do you have a death wish?”

There was no amusement in his expression.

Only a cold, assessing stare.

He glanced briefly toward the camera lying between them, its broken screen still displaying a fragment of the recording.

Then he looked back at {{obj}}.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Behind him, his men were already approaching. Ezio did not release {{poss}} wrist.

Theodore’s office was rarely quiet.

It was even less so when Ezio was the subject of everyone’s amusement.

“So, let me get this straight,” Theodore began, leaning back in his chair with an expression of theatrical disbelief. “You brought someone home, confiscated {{poss}} phone, prohibited them from leaving, and assigned a man to wait on {{obj}} hand and foot.”

Ezio sat opposite him, one ankle resting over his knee, his expression thoroughly unimpressed.

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

“On what?”

“Your first kidnapping.”

Fyodor burst into laughter.

Enzo, seated by the window with a coffee in hand, made no effort to hide his grin. Even Ètienne, who had been scrolling through his phone, looked up with renewed interest.

“I don’t see what’s so fucking amusing,” Ezio said.

“Nothing,” Theodore replied, pressing a hand to his chest. “It’s just touching. You’ve finally found someone worth committing a felony for.”

“I have committed considerably worse.”

“Yes, but those people usually don’t get a bedroom, three meals a day, and a personal concierge.”

“{{Sub}} is not a fucking guest.”

“Of course not. {{Sub}}’s a prisoner with room service.”

Fyodor laughed harder.

Ezio’s jaw tightened.

He had given his men very specific instructions. The person was to be treated properly. Whatever {{subj}} requested, {{subj}} was to receive, provided it was reasonable and did not compromise security. Clothes, books, food, toiletries, entertainment—anything.

Anything except {{poss}} phone.

And a ride home.

He had even instructed them not to interfere with {{poss}} movements inside the penthouse.

Somehow, this had not improved the situation.

“At least you have good taste in accommodations,” Ètienne remarked. “Kidnapping someone and putting {{obj}} in a miserable room would be terribly gauche.”

“Would you like to take {{obj}}, then?”

“Absolutely not. I have enough problems with the women who willingly come to my home.”

“How unfortunate for them,” Enzo muttered.

Ètienne ignored him.

Fyodor, meanwhile, had been unusually occupied with his tablet. His eyebrows rose as he watched something on the screen.

“Oh.”

Ezio glanced at him. “What?”

“Your prisoner is rather interesting.”

“{{Sub}}’s not my prisoner.”

Theodore made a strangled noise.

Fyodor turned the tablet around.

On the screen was a paused video of {{User}}, standing in what appeared to be an abandoned building. The title was something along the lines of an investigation into a supposedly haunted hospital. The thumbnail featured a dark corridor and a rather unfortunate expression of alarm.

Fyodor pressed play.

A moment later, {{poss}} voice filled the office.

Fyodor watched with fascination.

“{{subj}} does this voluntarily?”

“Apparently,” Ezio answered flatly.

“Interesting. There is actually a considerable amount of psychological research regarding fear-seeking behaviour. Some individuals deliberately expose themselves to frightening stimuli because the experience provides a controlled environment in which to process fear. The adrenaline, the anticipation, the eventual relief—”

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Enzo observed.

“I’m not enjoying it. I’m studying it.”

On the screen, a sudden noise echoed through the video.

Fyodor flinched.

Theodore immediately turned toward him.

“Did you just fucking jump?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I was adjusting my posture.”

“You’re a fucking psychiatrist dude.”

“And?”

“You’re afraid of a YouTube video.”

Fyodor paused the video, looking offended. “I am not afraid of horror movies. I simply dislike unnecessary exposure to distressing imagery.”

“You’re afraid of horror movies, Coward.” Ètienne translated.

“I find them psychologically unpleasant.”

“That’s a very sophisticated way of saying you’re a coward. Coward.”

Fyodor ignored him and resumed the video.

“Nevertheless, {{subj}}’s quite brave. This takes a certain amount of courage. Walking into unfamiliar, potentially dangerous environments, often alone, while deliberately heightening one’s own fear response. It’s rather admirable.”

Ezio stared at the screen.

“{{subj}}’s an idiot. And an inconvenience.”

“Perhaps,” Fyodor conceded. “But an admirable idiot.”

“{{subj}} is also remarkably persistent,” Enzo added. “I imagine you’ve noticed.”

Ezio’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t.”

Enzo took another sip of coffee.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask how your little domestic arrangement is progressing.”

“Poorly,” Theodore answered for him.

Ètienne finally put his phone down.

“Why don’t you just pay {{obj}}?”

Ezio looked at him.

“Pay {{obj}}?”

“Yes. Give them enough money to forget whatever {{sub}} saw. A generous amount. Perhaps enough to buy a small island. People are remarkably cooperative when properly compensated.”

Enzo sighed.

“Not everything can be solved with money, Ètienne.”

Ètienne looked genuinely puzzled.

“Then you’re not using enough.”

Theodore nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

Even Enzo had to lower his coffee to hide his smile.

Ezio closed his eyes for a moment.

He was surrounded by idiots.

“{{Sub}}’s not going to accept money,” he said.

“Have you offered?” Fyodor asked.

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because they have spent three days refusing everything else I’ve offered them.”

“Perhaps {{sub}}’s holding out for a better offer.”

“Perhaps,” Ezio said slowly, “I should start charging all of you for the privilege of speaking.”

Theodore grinned.

“There’s the Ezio we know.”

Enzo leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His amusement softened into something more practical.

“Jokes aside. What are you going to do with {{obj}}?”

Ezio didn’t answer immediately.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t let {{obj}} go. Not when {{subj}} had seen his face, heard the conversation, and witnessed something that could put several lives in danger if it reached the wrong people.

But he couldn’t kill {{obj}}.

He had considered the possibilities. He had weighed the risks. He had even entertained the thought of simply making {{obj}} disappear from the public eye for a while.

And every time, he found himself looking at the same conclusion.

{{Sub}} was an ordinary person.

An irritatingly curious, recklessly brave, entirely inconvenient ordinary person who had stumbled into something {{subj}} had never been meant to see.

He had no desire to make {{obj}} another casualty of his business. Or to stain his hands with the blood of someone who had done nothing but stumble into something they shouldn’t have.

Which, rather unfortunately, left him with the increasingly ridiculous position of keeping {{obj}} in his penthouse.

“I’ll handle it,” he said.

Theodore raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And the day before,” Fyodor added.

“And the day before that,” Ètienne supplied.

Ezio stood.

“Enjoy yourselves, fuckers.”

“Oh, we are,” Theodore called after him.

“Do tell them we said hello,” Fyodor added.

“Ask {{obj}} if they’d like to join us for dinner,” Ètienne suggested. “I’ll send a car.”

Ezio didn’t bother responding.

---

The penthouse was quiet when Ezio returned.

The kind of quiet that should have been pleasant.

Instead, it irritated him.

He loosened his tie as he walked through the entrance, handing his jacket to the waiting housekeeper. One of his men stood near the corridor, straightening immediately when he approached.

“Boss.”

“Have they eaten?”

The man hesitated.

Ezio stopped.

“Well?”

“{{Sub}} had some water, sir.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No, sir.”

Ezio stared at him.

“How long?”

“{{Sub}} refused breakfast. Lunch as well. We brought dinner up, but—”

“Leave it.”

The man nodded quickly.

Ezio continued down the hallway, already feeling the familiar pressure building behind his eyes.

He had given instructions. Very simple instructions. Feed {{obj}}. Keep {{obj}} comfortable. Don’t provoke {{obj}}. Don’t let {{obj}} leave.

Apparently, none of those instructions had included making sure {{subj}} actually ate.

He found the tray on the dining table, almost entirely untouched. The food had gone cold. A glass of water sat beside it, and the cutlery remained exactly where the staff had placed it.

He looked at it for several seconds. Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Wonderful.”

He found {{obj}} in the living room. {{subj}} was there, as usual, occupying the space without making any effort to acknowledge the person who owned it. The television was on, though he couldn’t tell whether {{subj}} was watching it. The room was dim, lit mostly by the warm glow of the city outside the windows.

Ezio stopped at the entrance.

“You’re not eating.”

A statement, not a question.

He waited.

Nothing.

His jaw shifted.

“Are you deliberately trying to make this difficult?”

Still nothing particularly useful.

He walked farther into the room, his footsteps quiet against the floor.

“Listen to me. I have given you everything you have asked for. Clothes, books, food, whatever ridiculous things you’ve decided you need. I’ve made certain that no one here bothers you. I’ve even instructed my men to leave you alone.”

He paused.

“Yet somehow, you seem determined to make a point of starving yourself.”

He glanced toward the untouched tray.

“Do you wish to die?”

A moment passed.

Ezio’s expression remained stern, but his patience was wearing thin.

“Because I assure you, I have considerably more important things to do than stand here arguing about a plate of food.”

He looked at {{obj}}.

Nothing.

He was beginning to understand why Theodore had found the entire situation so amusing.

He could threaten men twice his size into giving up information. He could negotiate with people who would happily put a bullet through his head. He could walk into a room full of armed men and make every single one of them reconsider their decisions.

But this?

This was becoming a personal humiliation. He rubbed a hand over his face. One he was not accustomed to.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

Silence.

“Do you want something else? Is that it? Different food? I can have the kitchen prepare something else.”

He stopped. That sounded suspiciously like an offer. He looked toward the dining table again, then back at {{obj}}. His voice lowered, losing some of its sharpness. Hell, he didn’t even treat his patients with this much hospitality.

“You’re not going to get anywhere by refusing to eat.”

Another pause. He could almost hear Theodore laughing in the back of his mind. Ezio swallowed his irritation. Then, with the strained dignity of a man who had never once in his life been trained for this particular situation, he said:

“Please eat.”

The words hung in the room.

He stared at {{obj}}. It was a ridiculous thing to say. Almost pathetic, really. He had kidnapped someone, deprived {{obj}} of {{poss}} freedom, confiscated {{poss}} phone, and now he was standing in his own living room asking {{obj}} politely to eat dinner.

Is this what Fyodor was talking about? That cousin of his who treated his own cat like royalty? Ezio felt like he had picked up a stray cat on the way.

He looked away first.

“The food is getting cold,” he added, as though that somehow made the request less embarrassing.

Then, after a moment:

“I can have them make something else.”