Chapter Text
"Where are you going? You can't just leave!"
Lucanis whipped his head around and pinned his cousin with a glare worthy of his namesake. His idiotic, stupid, reckless, brash cousin covered nearly head to toe in blood. His words were about as sharp as the ancient dagger he had clenched in his fist. Lucanis could still taste the copper in the air, the acrid tang of death filling his nose until he couldn't smell anything else. Bodies laid strewn across the cement. Allies they could've used— people who probably had families waiting for them at home, ones that would never know what happened to them. And Caterina would clean up his mess, like she always did when his cousin fucked up, and no one would remember their names.
"Viago had sent his best in good faith—" Lucanis told him, voice deathly low, "and you killed them all. Our alliance with the de Rivas is in ruins because you allowed your cockiness to get the best of you. Plans destroyed, people killed! Illario, when are you ever going to learn?!"
"I don't have to defend myself to you. Caterina will handle all of this and it will be like it never even happened. Don't act as if you hadn't wanted to do that since they first stepped foot in here. Viago's best aren't even at the same level as some of our worst!"
"That isn't for you to decide!" Lucanis snarled and Illario flinched. Good, Lucanis thought, maybe he would actually listen this time. "I'm done cleaning up your messes. I'm done."
"What does that mean? Lucanis! Don't walk away from me!" Illario called after him, his voice growing shrill the more steps Lucanis took. "Cousin!"
~
"Closing up already, slick?" The familiar voice pulled him out of his stupor and Lucanis flicked his gaze up, catching Neve’s eyes in the dim light of the room. Her tone was warm, her smile a touch too relaxed for someone who didn’t know who she was really talking to.
But she didn't know who he was. Not really.
Her words drew a laugh from him, soft and surprised, and he found the sound matched her warmth.
"It's late, Neve," he said, glancing towards the darkening windows, "you know I don't stay open after dark."
At that, Neve placed her wine glass down on the rich, dark wood of his bar and leaned forward just a little too far into Lucanis' personal space. But he didn't budge, keeping his arms crossed casually in front of him on the bar— one brow raised at her, waiting for the inevitable pitch.
"You really should. The untapped potential of the night owls is yours for the taking, slick. They all love a good glass of wine with their friends. Think of the money."
His nose wrinkled instantly and he waved the idea away, "I'm thinking more about how many fights I'll have to break up and how much puke I'll be scrubbing off my nice hardwood floors."
She was correct, of course— keeping the shop open at night would earn him a lot more money and regulars. It wasn't that he didn't want to stay open late. The night was an old friend to Lucanis, familiar as a long-lost lover. But that belonged to a different version of himself; one he'd put in the ground years ago. One that he had no intention of resurrecting as long as he still drew breath. Maybe it was irrational— this fear that his past might stumble into his little wine shop and stir trouble. Still, his paranoia had gotten him far in life.
And it was never wrong.
"Point taken." Her sigh was dramatic and Neve wasted no time in plucking her glass back up by the stem to sip at the burgundy liquid within. It was evident she wanted to say something else— her eyes caught between looking up at the clock behind him and Lucanis himself. He would never kick Neve out, even if he did close up early. She'd been one of his first customers— not to mention a generous benefactor despite his protests. They weren't close, at least not by Lucanis' standards; he didn't get close to anyone. Not anymore. Attachment had torn him apart, and now that he was older, he wouldn't allow history to repeat itself. Love meant nothing if there was no one left to receive it.
"Lucanis—" Her velvet voice caressed over his skin and Lucanis dug his fingers into his biceps. It wouldn't be fair to look up at her— to see the vulnerability there and unable to reciprocate it. So he didn't. He kept his eyes glued to that one, dark ring stained on his bar that he could never scrub off. He'd meant to call someone to sand it away, but kept making excuses not too. It mocked him constantly; a stain he could never wash away.
When the back door to his little shop burst inward, the door handle embedding itself into the drywall behind it with a solid crack, Lucanis was on his feet immediately. He had an alarm system built into the building when he inherited it from the last owner, just as a precautionary measure, but he was ashamed to admit his hand hadn't even wandered near the button under the bar. No, his hand firmly wrapped around the grip of the pistol hidden in one of his drawers before he had time to even comprehend it— the heavy feel of a gun in his hand was a comfort, like a call home.
"Lucanis!" As soon as he heard that voice, Lucanis dropped the gun and it landed with a deafening thud in the drawer. He hastily shoved it closed and rounded the bar. Out of all the people that could show up on his doorstep right now, after years of silence— Illario came into view around the corner and it was just like all those years ago. Blood splattered across crisp clothes, dripping down his face in accusatory droplets. But this wasn't Lucanis' fault, not like last time. And then his eyes landed on the person slumped halfway to the floor, legs dragging behind them, covered in more crimson than Illario was.
"Cousin," Illario tried again and Lucanis could hear the tinge of desperation, "please. Help me." The plea hung heavy in the air between them like a storm brewing and if it had been anyone else from House Dellamorte, Lucanis would've sent them away. His hands were clean— Lucanis couldn't remember the last time he had dirtied them and he would be damned if he allowed himself to be sucked back in again.
"Come upstairs," Lucanis urged, hardening himself. "And try not to get blood on my new rug." The laugh that followed rang hollow even to his own ears as he gestured towards the only other door in the room. Digging into the pocket of his apron, Lucanis fished out his keys and tossed them to Illario. He caught them easily, blood-slick hands closing around metal, before he dragged the smaller figure alongside him to the door.
An elf, if Lucanis had to guess by stature alone.
This wasn't happening. A groan tore from him as he raked his fingers through his hair, agitation buzzing across his skin. Illario had avoided him for years— dodging his calls, ignoring his visits, left his texts unanswered. His cousin had made it painfully obvious he wanted nothing to do with Lucanis. And yet he'd shown up at his shop just shy of midnight, hauling a dying person through the door and begging for help like Lucanis was the only person who could.
He needed to remain calm. He still had his training— he still knew how to handle these situations. The best method to remove blood from clothes, how to stitch up a wound with precision, or how to kill a man with only his bare hands. All of it was still somewhere buried inside him, just dormant. With that in mind, Lucanis squared his shoulders and sucked in a bracing breath.
He stepped back out into the shop, noting that Neve was in the exact same spot he left her. He couldn't trust that she didn't overhear what happened. A private investigator thrived on half-caught whispers and doors not closed all the way. It was in her nature to prod, to listen, to know. She was good at what she did. Lucanis was just simply better at not being known. Or, at least, he used to be.
He swept his gaze over her in a slow, assessing pass. Her jacket was rumpled around the forearms, an unmistakable sign she'd rolled them up recently. She only did that when she intended to reach for something. A weapon. Her notebook. A door handle she shouldn't touch. She moved at least once. With a sigh, he wiped his hands on the towel he'd discarded earlier as if he had something on them. Habit, he supposed. He offered a thin, apologetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sorry, Neve. Got some family problems I need to take care of. I'll comp your wine and you get a glass on the house next time you visit." She would take the bait— she always took the bait. He never left her a choice one way or another; it was either leave on her own accord or he would show her the door. They regarded one another for a few precious moments, Neve's eyes narrowing minutely as she examined his impassive face.
"I get it," she finally replied with a cheeky smile, "family is a pain in the ass. Rain check, right slick?" Neve stood, the sound of her prosthetic leg loud against the hardwood (she definitely did it on purpose), and she slid her hand across the bar, revealing a few gold pieces. She gave him no time to refute the money, briskly walking to the door and saluting to him before she was gone. Silence settled over his empty shop like a thick, woolen blanket and as Lucanis mechanically moved to the front door to lock it, he quietly contemplated what Neve had meant by a rain check.
With the lights off downstairs, Lucanis took his steps two at a time to reach his apartment above the shop. Illario better not have gotten blood anywhere on his fucking rugs— it took professional cleaning to get it out. It was simple enough to follow the puddles of liquid crimson through his living room, and he noted they were growing in size with each step he took towards his guest bathroom. Harsh, fluorescent light spilled over the hardwood floor of the hallway as he approached and he nearly shielded his eyes when he found himself standing in the doorway. He meant to get those bulbs changed months ago, but he kept forgetting. They reminded him too much of a hospital.
His bathroom looked like a murder scene, blood smeared across the dark tile, footprints and handprints on the floor and walls, all leading to Illario sitting on the edge of the tub. Whoever he brought with him was laying limply within, and it was obvious their breathing was weak with the way they trembled on each inhale. Lucanis stared at the gruesome scene with his lips in a tight line, arms crossed over his chest as he considered his next course of action.
“Are you injured?” Lucanis asked at last. Illario startled as though struck, his head snapping up and wide blue eyes locking onto Lucanis— eyes he knew all too well. The same eyes that had once stared him down across polished marble floors, small fingers curled tight around a knife their grandmother had pressed into their hands. Fight, she would order them, prove which of you deserves to stand.
He'd seen fear in those eyes before, but never like this. Illario was terrified, and for that split second he seemed like a different person. The realization moved through Lucanis like a tremor. It unsettled him more than the blood pooled on his floor, more than the fact that his cousin was here, in his apartment. He couldn't remember the last time Illario had looked so shaken up, and he knew with certainty that the image would linger long after tonight was over.
“N–no. It’s just him. It’s just—” A name hovered on the tip of Illario’s tongue and Lucanis saw it there, saw the moment it almost slipped free before something invisible tightened. So he said nothing, watching with muted fascination as his cousin floundered for footing. “He was stabbed. Twice,” Illario managed at last, “shoulder. Hand. Stupido stronzo tried to block the blade with his palm. Amateur mistake.”
Illario gave a laugh and it immediately landed wrong, thin and fake. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. Lucanis also didn’t miss the way Illario’s gaze flicked toward the unconscious elf in the tub, nor the way his fingers twitched as though resisting the urge to reach for said elf.
"He's going to bleed out," Lucanis pointed out bluntly and Illario bristled.
“I stopped most of it already,” he shot back, scrambling to his feet so quickly he nearly slipped on the tile. “You know how shoulder wounds are, they bleed for hours unless you have a doctor on hand.” He gestured toward the tub as though presenting proof of his competence. “The worst of it’s handled. He just needs to be cleaned up, bandaged properly…” His voice faltered only slightly before he forced it to steady, “and then he needs rest.” When his cousin spoke, it was too sharp, too insistent. He didn't want this man to die.
“Dellamorte doctors are the best of the best, Illario. You would’ve been smarter taking him to the compound,” Lucanis said each word carefully like speaking to a wounded animal, “why bring him here? He’s far more likely to die without proper medical care.” As he spoke, his eyes narrowed and he looked at his cousin— truly looked at him. Not just the obvious because, yes, Illario looked scared out of his mind— but beneath it. Something twitching. Something restless and wrong.
“Why did you bring him here?” he repeated, firmer this time. Lucanis stepped fully into the bathroom, crowding the space, invading Illario’s air. The copper scent of blood was thick enough to taste; the elf in the tub barely stirred.
“It’s Caterina,” Illario admitted at once, the words spilling out as he wilted beneath Lucanis’ stare.
A small, familiar satisfaction settled deep in Lucanis. For all Illario liked to posture, he still bowed when enough pressure was applied by his cousin. "She doesn't want anyone to know about him," he told him, "he's one of our best and—"
Lucanis groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “And if word got out that he was grievously injured, he’d have a target painted on his back.” He shot Illario a look that bordered on murderous. “Mierda. And she expects me to what? Play nurse? Hide him away and pray he doesn’t bleed out on my tiles?”
"Just until he's strong enough to take on jobs again."
"Do you know him?"
"Not really."
And there it was— the lie. Plain as day, spoken straight into Lucanis’ face as though they hadn’t trained beside one another for all their lives. He wasn't certain what Illario was lying about; that he didn’t know the elf currently bleeding out in his bathtub, or that Caterina had personally requested Lucanis handle this mess. Or something subtler, woven between his words. As always with Illario, it came down to a single lie— small enough to swallow, sharp enough to choke on later. One thread, pulled at the right moment, could unravel this sham of a life Lucanis had built for himself away from the Dellamorte name.
As if he could ever get away from the curse that was his last name.
“I could send you away, you know,” Lucanis said quietly, his gaze driving into Illario like the point of a blade pressed to his throat. “Let you drag him somewhere else. Watch the light leave his eyes because you weren’t quick enough to save him.” The accusation hung heavy in the air, and if Illario had grown even a fraction wiser than the hot-headed youth he used to be, he would recognize the bait for what it was and leave it untouched.
Illario’s grin sharpened instead.
“You would disobey Caterina’s direct orders?” He drawled, that smile turning feral— just like when they were children playing in shadowed courtyards. Darkness hidden behind the perfectly white teeth of a predator toying with its prey. “I didn’t expect such a rebellious streak from you, cousin.”
“But so be it. I’ll take him elsewhere.” His gaze flicked toward the door, then back again. “But when Caterina starts asking questions, don’t expect me to shield you from her wrath.”
The silence stretched between them. Lucanis held his cousin’s gaze, jaw clenched so tight it ached. There was no sure footing between them. Illario could be bluffing, even if the tremor in his hands had seemed real. And if Caterina truly had ordered this; if she expected Lucanis to shelter one of their own while he recovered… Refusal would not be forgiven. Everything he'd worked for away from his family would disappear in the blink of an eye. He would be dragged back into the fold like he'd never left. No one deified the First Talon, not even her own grandsons. But if it turned out Illario was lying, if this was another scheme he'd cooked up out of his own arrogance, then Lucanis would still be pulled back under. Back into Dellamorte machinations, back into cleaning up his cousin's mistakes.
“Don’t—” Lucanis snapped, lifting a hand sharply to halt Illario’s movement. With the other, he scrubbed hard at the bridge of his nose. "He stays until he's strong enough to go back on the job. That's it. Nothing more. I won't be dragged back into your plotting, Illario. I left for a reason."
His cousin's smile only grew brittle at his words, splintering at the edges. He huffed out a humorless laugh, "I know. You think I don't remember that I'm the reason? Caterina reminds me constantly. You don't need too." Lucanis expected a venomous note in his tone, an accusation under composed words. Instead, he only found exhaustion. It didn't suit Illario. The weariness was foreign, heavier than Lucanis had seen from him. It was as though in the time Lucanis had been gone, his cousin had endured far more than he let on.
"You should report back to Caterina, cousin," Lucanis said after a moment, his words measured. He shifted, leaning against the sink to clear a path to the door. "You're of no help to me taking up space in my guest bathroom." He hesitated, glancing back at the unconscious elf in his tub.
"I'll see to him," he continued, "and I'll send my report to the First Talon."
"Lucanis—" A hand caught his bicep and Lucanis stilled, turning his head just enough to fix Illario with a questioning look. "It was… good to see you. I'm sorry I've avoided you for so long. I promise that will change." His grip tightened briefly, as if reassuring Lucanis of the truth.
The snort that left Lucanis' mouth seemed to startle them both and he eased his arm from Illario's grasp. "Don't make promises you don't intend to keep. I know you." It wasn't an accusation, but he said it firm, meant to cut.
With that, Lucanis took Illario's place on the edge of the tub. The tile was slick beneath his boots, and the air was still thick with the scent of metal. He reached out, tentative fingers brushing through tacky hair dried with blood, pushing it away from the elf's face. Up close, beneath the swelling and blood, the man was handsome, though it was difficult to tell under the damage. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was stripping him out of his ruined clothes and cleaning his wounds properly. The sooner he could get him resting in a bed, the better.
When Lucanis glanced back towards the doorway, Illario was gone. No lingering warmth. No retreating footsteps. Just an empty hall, as if he had never been there in the first place.