Fixable | VegasPete

1

Pete can't tell exactly how many times he has tried to complete his mission. Probably three or four. Or maybe ten. All previous attempts have merged into one stream of shameful failures, denting Pete's confidence in his own professionalism and leading him to a constant readiness to dodge a bullet in the forehead. Or a knife in the liver, it depends on the situation and the mood of the target. Any interaction with fucking Vegas imposes certain risks, even if it's a harmless small talk. And these risks naturally increase significantly in the case of surveillance and the search for compromising evidence, as it is now.

But so far the gods have been merciful. Instead of anything deadly, Vegas, invariably noticing that he was being followed, gave Pete only insightful glances and nasty knowing smirks in response to stupid excuses about "wonderful coincidences." Sometimes sops or ironic (and almost lyrical) notes were added to them. Too unbelievable and humiliating to tell anyone about it.

This time, it looks like there will be no gifts. Now, standing in front of Vegas in the middle of the night in the dark hallway of the minor family's mansion, Pete thinks he wouldn't mind coffee. Not with ice, as he received in mockery a few days ago, but hot, in a large cup, with a cinnamon pattern on the crema. Because all his guts seem to be frozen from a bad feeling. But Pete stays silent and only continues to diligently stretch his lips in an awkward smile.

"Oh, you are lost?" Vegas almost coos, subtly closing the distance in two steps to place a hand on Pete's shoulder.

Despite his soft tone and ostentatious concern, the whole look of Vegas hints at a very bad outcome, but Pete is determined to try to avoid it anyway. He's already so used to playing dumb that it's not hard for him to stoically ignore Vegas's palm and start nodding twice as convincingly.

"But I think you knew where you were going," Vegas drawls thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes. His fingers clench on Pete's shoulder. Not hard enough to cause real pain, but enough to make him want to rewind time and not turn into this damn hallway.

Pete shakes his head. No, no, everything is as he said before: he isn't looking for anything here, he just got lost in an unfamiliar house on the way to the smoking area. Guests aren't allowed to smoke in their bedrooms, aren't they? If Pete is wrong, he will gladly return to his place! He hopes that all this can be understood from the expression on his face, because his tongue has temporarily lost the ability to reproduce intelligible sounds.

"I don't believe you," Vegas says harshly.

Who would have thought that a man in a silk robe could cause fear? Stupid question with an obvious answer: anyone who regularly deals with the mafia. And anyone who has ever seen Vegas in action. He isn't a person with whom one feels safe in general. Whether he's wearing a robe or not doesn't make any difference.

"Khun Vegas, I apologize again..." Pete overcomes a sudden stuttering and squeezes out a nervous laugh. "What can I need on your territory?" he adds bravely, despite that at the moment he is pressed against the wall after a slight push from Vegas. He must have got a second wind from a sense of danger, not otherwise.

It was not worth asking, because a lot can be needed on the territory of the minor family. Pete knows this. Vegas knows even more. But Khun Kinn knows best. Khun Kinn with his heartfelt speeches about trust, which are impossible not to get imbued with. Loyalty is sometimes a very onerous trait. For example, Pete already wants to give himself a slap in the face for allowing for a fraction of a moment such a thought to flash through his head.

"I don't know..." Vegas chuckles, not letting go of Pete, as if he wants to leave a tasteless pattern in the form of a cousin's bodyguard on the wallpaper. "I have a lot of interesting things. But the most interesting thing for you here is me, right?"