Chapter 3: Heat in the Shadows

Leo ducked fast as Gia’s gunshot cracked through Marco’s loft, grabbing a whiskey bottle from the bar. He smashed it against the edge—glass shards scattered across the polished wood, glinting under the dim lamp. The windowpane shattered—rain blasted in, cold and sharp, soaking the floor. Marco shoved him hard toward the back door—“Go!”—and Leo bolted, boots slipping on wet glass. He kicked the door wide—frame rattled—and stumbled into the alley, rain pelting his face like icy needles. A crow flapped overhead, cawing shrill, its black wings slicing through the misty dark. He kicked a trash can—metal clanged loud, echoing off the brick walls—and checked his phone, screen lighting up: 2:35 a.m. He tapped out a text to Ezra—“Dorm—now”—and slipped it back into his pocket, parchment crinkling against his thigh.

He cut through Seattle’s east-side alleys—boots splashed shallow puddles—wind whipped his soaked leather jacket, chilling his skin. Rain streaked down his cheeks, blurring the neon glow of distant signs—a stray gull cried over the Sound, faint and mournful. He pulled his Zippo from his sleeve, flipped it open—flame snapped to life—and lit a cigarette, puffing smoke quick to steady his racing pulse. Marco’s shove burned in his mind—hot breath brushing his neck—Gia’s gun flashing—damn them both. Why’d it twist his gut like this—not just hate? He tossed the cigarette into a puddle—ember hissed out—brushed his damp hair back, strands sticking to his forehead, and kept moving—west toward Ezra’s dorm—city lights flickered through the haze.

Leo kicked a loose pebble—skittered across the wet pavement—and climbed the dorm stairs, boots thudding on concrete. He banged Ezra’s door—wood creaked—Ezra opened it, brushing paint off his hands onto his jeans, a habit kicking in. He stepped aside—offered a beer from the mini fridge—cap popped with a soft fizz. Leo grabbed it—downed it in one long swig—cold burn hit his throat—set the bottle on the desk—glass clinked against a sketch pencil. He leaned against the wall—paint fumes lingered, sharp and clean—Marco’s smirk flashed—Gia’s shot rang—damn it all. “What’s up?” Ezra asked, tilting his head—hazel eyes cut through the dim, too steady—too calm.

Leo tossed the empty bottle—it rolled across the floor, clinking faint against the bedframe—and grabbed Ezra’s sketchpad from the desk. He flipped it shut—pages rustled—and kicked the desk leg—wood creaked low. “Nothing,” he muttered, brushing his sleeve—parchment crinkled in his pocket, crimson glow pulsing faint through the leather. He slumped onto the bed—pulled his hoodie off—tossed it aside—it landed soft on the floor—Ezra sat on the edge—brushed paint again—quiet—too damn quiet—why’d Marco stick like this?

He stretched out—kicked his boots off—heels thudded on the carpet—closed his eyes—rain tapped the dorm window, soft and relentless. Sleep hit fast—darkness swallowed him—a dream rolled in—a shadowed room—cigar smoke curled thick, heavy in the air. Marco stepped close—dropped his silk shirt—fabric pooled soft—lit a cigarette—ember glowed red—puffing smoke slow. He grabbed Leo’s waist—tugged him hard—Leo’s shirt ripped—buttons popped, scattering like pebbles—fabric tore loud. Leo pulled Marco’s belt—leather snapped—trousers slid to the floor—Marco’s lips crashed—hard—hot—teeth grazed—tongue pushed, fighting fierce—Leo’s hands roamed—yanked Marco’s briefs—cotton tore—skin pressed—sweat slicked—Marco’s hand slid—stroked—fast—firm—Leo gasped—moaned loud—hips bucked—heat spiked—wild—raw.

Marco pinned him—bed creaked under their weight—thrust deep—Leo clutched—nails dug into Marco’s back—groaned sharp—pulse raced—hot—fast—Marco’s breath rasped—close—ragged—Leo’s hands gripped—pulled Marco tighter—skin burned—sweat dripped—Marco’s strokes quickened—Leo arched—moaned louder—release hit—sharp—hot—flooding fast—Marco groaned low—breath broke—Leo jolted awake—bolted up—sweat beaded on his chest—checked his shorts—damp—sticky—damn it—damn him.

He kicked the sheets off—grabbed his phone—screen lit—3:19 a.m.—buzz flashed—Marco—“Meet—docks—now.”—Leo pulled his hoodie from the floor—strings snagged on his fingers—kicked the bed—wood thudded low—brushed his hair back—messy—wet—stepped into his boots—laces slapped loose—headed out—rain eased to a drizzle—gulls swooped low over the campus lot, cawing faint—a passerby in a raincoat stared from the path—Leo lit a cigarette—Zippo snapped—puffing smoke—flipped him off—strode south—boots crunched wet gravel—parchment burned in his pocket—crimson pulsed—damn it—why’d he go?

The docks loomed ahead—rain dripped off rusted cranes—wind carried salt and oil, thick in the air—Marco waited, leaning on a crate—cigar lit—smoke curled slow—dark eyes flicked up—silk shirt open—rain gleamed on his bare chest. Leo tossed his cigarette—ember hissed in a puddle—checked his watch—3:47 a.m.—brushed his sleeve—parchment crinkled—stepped close—boots scuffed the gravel—Marco straightened—stubbed his cigar on the crate—ash flaked soft onto the wet wood.

“Gia’s flipped—wants you dead,” Marco said, voice low—sharp—grabbed a flask from his pocket—twisted the cap—downed a swig—offered it—metal glinted under the dock lights—Leo took it—sipped slow—whiskey burned his throat—set it down—clinked on the crate—puffed air—Marco’s eyes—too close—damn it—why’d it pull?

Leo kicked a loose board—wood splintered faint—grabbed his knife from his belt—flipped it once—“Why me?”—voice low—raw—rain pattered—a crow perched on a crane, cawing shrill—Marco stepped closer—boots crunched—grabbed Leo’s wrist—tugged light—warm—firm—“Pact—blood—you’re—mine,” he said—dark eyes locked—pulse jumped—not just hate—damn him—damn this.

He yanked free—brushed his jacket—lit another cigarette—Zippo snapped—puffing smoke—Marco’s touch lingered—hot—why’d it burn? He kicked the crate—wood creaked—checked his phone—3:55 a.m.—text from Vito buzzed—“East hit—Gia—watch.”—slipped it back—pocket crinkled—parchment glowed—faint—alive—Marco poured another shot—flask clinked—slid it over—ice rattled—Leo grabbed it—downed it—burn hit—set it down—clink echoed.

“Gia—what’s her play?” Leo said—flipped his knife—puffing smoke—Marco leaned on the crate—silk shifted—cigar smoke curled—dark eyes glinted—city lights flickered—rain streaked—steady—slow. “Power—you—me—us,” Marco said—grabbed his phone—tapped it—screen lit—held it up—Gia’s voice crackled—speaker on—“He’s mine—kill him, Marco!”—Leo froze—kicked the crate—wood splintered—glass tipped—shattered soft—ice skittered.

Marco grabbed his collar—tugged hard—breath brushed—smoky—close—“She’s lost it—run—or fight,” he said—voice low—dark eyes locked—too steady—Leo shoved him—chest bumped—silk crumpled—boots scuffed—Marco laughed low—released—lit another cigarette—smoke curled—damn him—damn this—pull tightened—hot—alive—why’d it stick?

Leo brushed his sleeve—grabbed his phone—texted Ezra—“Stay in—trouble.”—slipped it back—pocket crinkled—parchment burned—crimson pulsed—checked his watch—4:03 a.m.—ran a hand through his hair—wet—sticky—headed out—rain dripped—wind howled—a shadow loomed—quick—chain dragged—metal scraped—gravel crunched—tires screeched—passerby stared—hood up—Leo flipped him off—pulled his knife—flipped it—strode on—whose blood—whose fight—whose pull—yanked him—next?