Tear Me Apart (An M/M Dark Romance)

7. Alejandro

Night cloaked the Aegean coast in silver and shadow as our helicopter descended without lights, blades cutting silently through salted air. Below us, the cliffs of his Greek estate rose from the sea like a fortress carved by arrogance itself. Like glass, steel, and stone perched above crashing waves. Beautiful and isolated. Perfect for a man who believed himself untouchable.

I watched the compound through night-vision lenses, every movement mapped across my mind with surgical clarity. Guards rotated in predictable intervals. Thermal signatures pulsed along the perimeter. Surveillance grids overlapped efficiently. It was impressive, but not flawless. Nothing built by men ever was.

“He increased security,” Leandro murmured through the comms.

“Not enough,” I replied. My voice sounded unfamiliar even to me. Totally calm, empty and precise. Grief had burned away hesitation, leaving only purpose behind. Beside me, Ibram checked his weapon with quiet efficiency. Neither brother spoke of Lana. Neither needed to. Her absence existed between us like a wound that refused to close. This was not revenge. Not yet. This was retrieval.

The helicopter never touched the ground. We dropped into darkness one by one, ropes sliding silently beneath gloved hands. My boots met stone without sound, knees bending to absorb impact as the aircraft vanished back into the night. No witnesses. No announcement. Only inevitability. The sea roared below the cliffs, masking our approach as we moved along the outer perimeter. Motion sensors blinked faintly beneath concealed housings. It was expensive technology relying on predictable logic. I disabled the first panel in six seconds.

Leandro handled the next. Ibram eliminated the first guard before the man realized he was no longer alone. A gloved hand over the mouth, blade beneath the ribs, quiet exhale. It was efficient. Merciful compared to what waited for their employer.

We advanced through shadows, ghosts slipping between beams of artificial light. Inside the compound, laughter drifted faintly from distant rooms, staff unaware their world had already ended. My pulse remained steady. There was no rage and hesitation. Only focus sharpened by loss.

I entered through a service corridor, memorized from architectural files acquired hours earlier. Marble floors reflected dim emergency lighting. Cameras blinked once before dying as our signal jammer activated. The house went blind. It was exactly as planned.

Two guards rounded the corner. They died before finishing their breath. One shot suppressed, the other silenced by steel. We continued forward. Every step closer tightened something cold inside my chest. It was not emotion, but certainty. I could feel him here, somewhere above us, sleeping peacefully inside walls funded by blood and ambition.

Sleeping while my daughter lay cold. The thought did not ignite fury. It clarified intention.

We reached the private wing. Leandro checked the hallway. Clear. I pushed open the final door. Inside, silence ruled. Moonlight spilled across expansive glass walls overlooking the sea. Modern art lined the room. Expensive pieces chosen by a man who valued control over comfort.

And there he was. Nikolai Vassiliou. Standing at the balcony, back turned, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in his hand as he watched the dark water below. For a moment, I simply observed him. He has a relaxed posture, aware and alive. Of course I know that he knew I am here. The predator at rest.

I stepped forward. The faint click of my shoe against marble was enough. He turned slowly. No panic crossed his face. Only recognition. “…Alejandro.”

My name sounded almost amused on his tongue. “How disappointing,” he added softly. “I expected more time.” I said nothing. Words were unnecessary now. His eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway, calculating distance, exits, and odds. He understood instantly. He was already too late.

Ibram and Leandro emerged behind him, weapons raised. Nikolai exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with deliberate care. “You came personally,” he said. “I was right.” I walked closer until only a few steps separated us.

Up close, he looked exactly as I remembered. He was composed, dangerous, curious even now. “Did you enjoy it?” I asked quietly.

A pause.and his gaze sharpened. “Enjoy what?” My fist struck before he finished the sentence. Bone met bone with a sickening crack as he staggered backward, blood blooming across his lip. He recovered quickly which was impressive but I was already moving again. Another blow. Then another. Not uncontrolled but measured. Each strike deliberate.

He fell to one knee, breath uneven but eyes still defiant. “You crossed a line,” I said. He laughed softly through blood. “I crossed many.” I grabbed his collar, dragging him upright.

“You took my daughter.” Something flickered behind his gaze then, not guilt but interest and dangerous curiosity. “I provoked you,” he corrected quietly. The calmness shattered the last restraint inside me. I drove the pistol into his ribs, forcing air from his lungs before injecting the sedative directly into his neck. His body tensed instantly. Realization dawned. “…Clever,” he murmured weakly. His knees gave out seconds later. I caught him before he hit the floor. It was not mercy but control.

Leandro secured restraints around his wrists and reinforced steel prepared specifically for him. Outside, alarms finally began activating, systems rebooting too late to matter. Chaos spread through the compound but we were already leaving. I dragged Nikolai toward the exit, his consciousness fading but not gone. His head lifted slightly, eyes struggling to focus on me. “You look different,” he whispered faintly.

“I am.”

His lips curved weakly.

“Good,” he murmured. “I was getting bored.” Then he lost consciousness. Minutes later, we vanished into the night the same way we arrived unseen. As the helicopter rose over the Aegean, I looked down at the unconscious man restrained at my feet. The architect of my destruction. The beginning of his own. This was not justice nor revenge. This was only the first step.

Because when Nikolai Vassiliou woke again, he would not wake as a king in glass and sunlight. He would wake in darkness. And I would be waiting. The hunt was over. Now came the reckoning.