Die On My Feet

Romeo woke up again. This time he was sure of where he was. He was back at Ivan's. But how? His mind was a blur, memories slipping through his grasp like sand. He remembered running—branches snapping underfoot, lungs burning—before everything went dark.

Now, he was in bed, dressed in clean nightwear. Someone had changed him. The thought made his skin crawl. He tried to lift his head but felt too groggy, so he let it drop back down, exhaling slowly. His mind raced, trying to decide which thought to prioritize: Where was he? Who had brought him here? And most importantly—how the hell was he going to get out?

Then the door opened softly.

In walked a new face, a much younger face than the burly men he had grown accustomed to in this residence. A friendly-looking face. A beautiful boy. Romeo quickly pushed these thoughts out of his head. He reminded himself that he liked girls.

The young man had thick black hair that fell to partially cover his eyes. There was something graceful about the way he moved, hips swaying ever so slightly as he approached Romeo's bedside table. Too delicate to be here. Too soft for a place like this.

He carried a tray with a bowl of beef stew, a plate of rice, and a glass of what appeared to be milk.

As he leaned forward to set the tray down, his hair fell away, revealing a stunning set of blue eyes on a thin face. Pretty. Too pretty. Dangerous, even.

When Aoki looked up at him, he quickly looked away. Shy.

"It's okay, I don't bite," Romeo said, his lips curling into a smirk. Not unless I have to. "What you got for me here?"

It was only his third day here, yet something in his gut told him that he was already losing track of time.

"Beef stew, rice, and milk to temper the effects of the drugs, DG," the young man said, still avoiding Romeo's eyes.

DG? Romeo's brow furrowed. "Huh? Where did that come from? Deputy Governor?"

"Haha… nooo," the young man let out an involuntary chuckle. "Diablo Gato. The men have been talking about you all day."

"The name's Romeo, mate. Call me that." He paused for a beat. "Anyway, what are they saying?"

The young man straightened his posture, suddenly more formal, as if catching himself.

"They're saying yesterday they saw the devil himself come out, sly as a cat with the fury of a wounded lion. Diablo Gato himself."

After a brief pause, he added, "They say you cut down Satoshi's men like a hot knife through butter. If it weren't for you, they would all be dead."

So that's why I'm still breathing.

"Mmmhhh… and what did you say your name was?" Romeo inquired.

"Dangote, sir." The young man turned his head away.

"We're peers. Don't call me that, just call me Romeo," he corrected.

"Alright, Romeo. I should get going." He shot a nervous glance at the door.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Dangote moved quickly, attempting to leave before the approaching figure reached the doorway, but he was too late.

Ivan's towering frame filled the entrance, his mere presence sucking the air from the room.

A few seconds passed in tense silence as Ivan carefully studied Dangote's face—like he had caught him in a lie, like he was waiting for his nose to grow like Pinocchio's.

Then, Ivan reached out with his right hand, running his forefinger along the length of Dangote's chin, forcing his face upward. A deliberate act of power.

Romeo narrowed his eyes. If he didn't know better, he would have mistaken them for lovers caught in a silent exchange. But he knew better.

The fear in Dangote's eyes. The smugness in Ivan's smile. The game was obvious. And Romeo hated it.

Ivan cracked a smile. An evil smile. A smile so dark it could make the devil blush.

"Know your place, boy," he murmured, his voice low and amused. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he smacked Dangote's ass, squeezing slightly before stepping away.

Dangote winced but did not protest. He wouldn't dare. The last boy who protested never left this room alive.

Ivan then turned to Romeo.

"You never told me you possessed such talent," he said, lowering himself into the chair beside the bed. Too close. Always too close. "The next time you keep secrets from me, well... let's just say it will not end well."

Romeo lay still. He had learned something in the past three days: silence was currency in the hands of a madman.

Ivan's expression darkened. "Don't make me smack the words out of your mouth," he warned, his voice colder now. "A thank you for my mercy is in order."

"Thank you?" Romeo scoffed. "For drugging me?"

"The fuck did you think you were running to? Imbecile, treadmilling your way to nowhere fast!" Ivan's voice rose, vibrating with anger. "You're lucky I had my sniper load tranquilizer darts instead of bullets. You're lucky you put on a good show. Otherwise—"

Ivan rarely explained himself. If Romeo had been anyone else, he'd already be dead.

That realization made Romeo's next action even more reckless.

He sat up straight, locked eyes with Ivan—then spat.

The sputum landed directly in Ivan's mouth.

Wrong move.

Romeo despised this man. Not just for the way he ran this place. Not just for the things he had done. But for the way he had treated Dangote—like property.

Ivan shot up. His face flushed deep red, vibrating with rage.

His hands shook as he reached for his pistol, the movement slow, deliberate. He pulled it free from the holster, lifted it, then bent forward until he was inches from Romeo's face.

Romeo could feel his breath.

The cold metal of the barrel pressed against the soft skin beneath Romeo's chin.

Click.

The safety was undone.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Romeo's temple. But his face? Blank. No fear. No regret.

"I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees," Romeo said, voice even.

His eyes never wavered.

"Go ahead. Squeeze it, you son of a bitch."

The tension hung thick in the air.

Ivan's finger twitched on the trigger.