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The roar of a car engine slices through the air, shattering the silence as the gate to D'Angelo villa creaks open. A tall, wiry guy beside me fixes his gaze on the approaching vehicle. Gravel crunches under the tires as the car rolls into the yard, and Dante descends the villa's stairs, ready to greet the guests.
Suddenly, the driver's door opens and Elijah, jumping through the front of the car, hurries to the passenger side where a disheveled, beaten, and exhausted man struggles to step out. Elijah grips his elbows and helps him stand up, gazing towards us. The blood stains, covering his crumpled suit, and the metallic tang of iron waft through the air as I recognize the man, struggling to stand before us.
When the man finally nods and Elijah carefully makes his way, helping him up the main stairs, his gray eyes lock onto mine. The elusive man that I've been chasing for the past week is now standing in the middle of my yard.
Apollo Fotos.
He's beaten, looks exhausted and devastated, but alive.
There's no time for introductions—I crack my neck to the side, signaling to Dante and Elijah, and a minute passes before they drag Apollo inside.
Elijah and Dante groan as they guide the kneeling newcomer through the villa's grand front doors toward the main hall. They rush to settle him onto a sofa draped in crimson velvet pillows, their breaths quick and labored. The moment he sinks into the cushions, a strained groan escapes his lips, followed by a low, bitter grunt.
"Thanks... guys." Apollo rasps in a low, pitiful voice.
They wipe their foreheads and nod, retreating as I step forward. Apollo's forehead glistens, eyes are dull and red-rimmed with confusion. Although I have my suspicions about what happened, I need to hear it from him. As Dante and Elijah stand nearby, listening for every straining word, coming from Apollo's strained lips, I bend my neck to the side.
Apollo exhales sharply, drags trembling fingers across his cracked lips, and squirms to the couch with visible pain.
"I'm sorry for barging in unannounced and uninvited, but this is crucial, Mr. D'Angelo. I need to speak with you—alone." he groans with a hoarse, yet urgent voice.
I nod, waving at Dante and Elijah. They grumble, yet obey, not taking their eyes off me and signaling if anything is to happen, I'd just need to call. I follow their retreating silhouettes, slamming the door with a resounding thud and twisting the lock twice—to my surprise, Apollo doesn't notice that.
Perfect.
I step to the old oak bar and graze a few bottle-necks with my fingertips, before asking, "What would you like to drink, Apollo?"
"Whiskey," he replies, his tone as sharp, yet exhausted
I pour two glasses of Macallan Whiskey, and drop the ice cubes, listening to Apollo's uncomfortable grunts. Once he finally finds the position and lays back, I give him the ice-cold glass. He downs his drink with desperate gulps, and I watch, waiting for the alcohol to loosen his tongue. Finally, he wipes his swollen lips and leans forward.
