SOMETHING ELSE....

EMILIO'S POV

Emilio walked briskly on the streets, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The cold air did little to ease the fire burning inside him. His mind was still tangled with thoughts of Dante. He should've never let himself get caught up in this mess, but it was too late now.

A car horn blared, pulling him out of his thoughts. Emilio turned to see Rossi's car pull up. Without hesitation, he slid into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind him with a soft thud.

"Boss, you don't look good," Rossi said, eyeing Emilio with concern as he started the engine.

"Mmmh," Emilio grunted, sinking into the seat. He wasn't in the mood for talking. "Let's drive to the bar."

Rossi nodded and pulled out, the engine growling as they headed toward Emilio's usual spot. The car ride felt like an eternity. Every second, Emilio's mind replayed the moment Dante had pulled away, the moment he had realized just how much it hurt.

When they finally arrived, Rossi parked, and they entered the VIP room. Emilio sank into his usual seat, his mood heavy. Rossi moved to the bar, pouring him a glass of whiskey. He handed it over to Emilio before sitting across from him, observing his boss carefully.

"Boss, Milan comes here almost every day looking for you. What should I tell him?" Rossi asked, his voice steady but with a hint of concern.

Emilio didn't answer at first. He just nodded, his eyes fixated on the swirling amber liquid in his glass. It was too much to deal with. Too much for tonight.

After a few moments of silence, Emilio let out a deep breath, his voice barely a whisper. "I seem to be addicted to someone."

Rossi raised an eyebrow, not expecting such a confession. "Boss, who?"

Emilio looked up, locking eyes with Rossi. He could see the confusion in his eyes, but he also saw the understanding. Rossi wasn't someone who overtalked, and Emilio appreciated the silence. He needed that right now.

"Dante," Emilio said slowly, his voice heavy with a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

Rossi's eyes widened. "Dante? You serious?"

Emilio chuckled bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "That was the question I asked myself," he muttered. He took a long sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle in his chest. "It started casually for me, and right now it isn't. I'm... addicted to it, and he's still casual about it. I hate him so much."

Rossi remained silent for a moment, absorbing what Emilio had just said. He leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. "So you're telling me, you've gotten yourself tangled up in something you didn't expect to care about?" Rossi asked, his voice softer now, more understanding.

Emilio's fist clenched around his glass. "Exactly," he muttered. "And I don't know how to stop it. Every time I see him, I feel like I can't breathe. It's driving me crazy."

Rossi hesitated, clearly unsure of what to say. "I don't really know what to say, boss... but if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

Emilio gave a small nod, though his mind was elsewhere.

The silence that followed felt like a weight pressing down on him, but it was the only thing that made sense right now.

Rossi's phone buzzed again and again, vibrating on the table between them. He glanced at the screen, then looked up at Emilio. "It's Milan. He's outside. Says he wants to talk to you."

Emilio didn't react right away. He just kept staring into his half-empty glass like it had answers. Then he sighed and leaned back into the booth. "Let him in."

Rossi gave a small nod and left the VIP room. Moments later, the door opened again and Milan strode in with his usual energy, arms already reaching.

"Where have you been, babe?" Milan's voice was light, teasing—but there was something needier beneath it. "I've been calling, texting... You just vanished."

He moved in for a hug, wrapping his arms around Emilio's shoulders like they were still something. He was of average height, with soft brown hair, clear eyes, and a certain boyishness that used to pull Emilio in. Once.

Now, Emilio didn't return the hug. But he didn't push him away either.

"I told you we were done," Emilio said evenly, his voice neither cold nor warm. "What do you want, Milan?"

"I missed you," Milan whispered. His grip didn't loosen.

Emilio looked away, something heavy settling behind his eyes. Maybe this was what he needed. Something easy. Familiar. Maybe Dante had wrapped too tight around him because he hadn't allowed anyone else in.

Maybe if he went home with Milan tonight, it would shake the addiction loose. That burning obsession that Dante never asked for, never returned.

"Alright," Emilio said softly, almost to himself.

Milan's face lit up with a relieved smile, but Emilio didn't say anything else. He simply grabbed his coat and followed Rossi out.

The ride back to his home was quiet.

Milan sat close to him in the backseat, leaning his head slightly on Emilio's shoulder as if trying to remind him of something soft between them.

But Emilio's gaze was elsewhere—cold glass, blurred lights, dark sky. His mind was a million miles from the boy beside him.

The whiskey hadn't dulled his thoughts. If anything, they screamed louder now.

He hated how much Dante had gotten under his skin. Hated that he couldn't breathe tonight without thinking about the casual way Dante said, "I have lots of them," as if Emilio was nothing. As if he he hadn't thrust into his ass with hunger and desperation.

Dante was an asshole. Selfish. Closed off.

But Emilio wanted him like fire wanted oxygen.

As they pulled into the driveway, Emilio straightened in his seat. Something felt off.

From behind the tinted window, a lone figure stood in front of his house. Head bowed. Phone in hand. Still.

Emilio's breath caught.

He didn't need the porch light to see who it was.

That posture. That presence. That silence.

It was Dante.

And he wasn't supposed to be here.