Chapter 8: The Obsidian Protocol
1186 Words
POV: Julian
The envelope on my desk was heavy, cream-colored, and smelled of pretension.
The Obsidian Gala.
It was the premier event of the London underworld season. Ostensibly, it was a charity auction for "Unsung Heroes." In reality, it was where the city’s crime lords gathered to trade secrets, launder money through overpriced modern art, and measure each other's weaknesses over lukewarm champagne.
Attendance was mandatory. Absence was seen as a sign of weakness. And right now, with Marcus Thorne circling my clients like a shark, I couldn't afford to look weak.
"I hate these things," I muttered, rubbing my temples.
"The canapés are usually frozen," a voice chimed in from the doorway.
I looked up. Ezra was leaning against the doorframe. He was back in uniform: a powder-blue sweater vest today, holding a feather duster like a scepter. He looked completely harmless, except for the way he was staring at the invitation like he wanted to set it on fire with his mind.
"You're hovering," I said.
"I’m dusting," Ezra corrected, swiping the duster over a spotless bookshelf. "And I’m assessing your cortisol levels. You’re radiating tension, Julian. It’s bad for the feng shui."
"I have to go to this," I tapped the invite. "Tomorrow night. And I need a Plus One."
Ezra paused. "Sarah usually goes with you."
"Sarah is out. She’s... unavailable." (She was actually fine, but Sarah couldn't snap a neck with her thighs). "I need security. But I can't bring a bodyguard. It’s a 'civilized' event. No visible weapons. No thugs. If I walk in with a heavy, it looks like I’m scared."
I looked at him.
"I need someone who can blend in. Someone who can charm the wives, memorize the exits, and watch my back without looking like they’re on a payroll."
Ezra pushed his glasses up his nose. "And you want... me?"
"You're the best actor I know," I said. "You’ve fooled the doorman, the grocery clerk, and my son. Surely you can fool a room full of mobsters."
Ezra sighed, inspecting his feather duster.
"I don't have a tuxedo, Julian. My wardrobe is strictly... knitwear."
"I’m a Fixer," I said, standing up. "I fix things. Be ready at 7:00 PM tomorrow. And Ezra?"
He looked at me.
"Leave the yellow cardigan in the incinerator."
POV: Ezra
The suit was exquisite.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest room. Julian hadn't just bought a tux; he had commissioned a second skin.
It was midnight blue velvet, cut dangerously slim. The trousers broke perfectly over the patent leather shoes. The shirt was crisp white silk.
I felt... exposed.
For weeks, I had hidden inside my oversized sweaters. They were my camouflage. They made me look small, soft, and breakable. This suit did the opposite. It highlighted the breadth of my shoulders. It emphasized the taper of my waist. It made me look like exactly what I was: a predator.
"Leo," I said to the reflection in the mirror.
Leo was sitting on the bed, playing with a Rubik’s Cube. He looked at me. His eyes went wide. He gave a silent whistle.
"Thank you," I bowed. "Now, protocol check."
Leo scrambled off the bed. He ran to the window and pointed to the sensors I had rigged. Secure. He pointed to the panic button under the nightstand. Check. He pointed to the heavy steel bolt I had installed on his bedroom door. Lock.
"Sarah is coming to sit outside your door," I told him. "She has a taser. She is terrified of it, but she knows how to use it. You do not open this door for anyone but me or Julian. Code word?"
Leo made a shape with his hands. Muffin.
"Correct. Muffin."
I turned back to the mirror. Something was missing.
I reached into my toiletry bag. I pulled out my contact lenses. I hated them—they dried my eyes out—but the thick glasses ruined the lines of the suit.
I popped them in. The world sharpened instantly.
Then, the accessories.
I picked up the cufflinks Julian had provided. Gold. Flashy.
I replaced them with my own. Titanium. Sharpened edges. In a pinch, they could s***h a throat.
I checked the waistband of the trousers. My ceramic knife fit perfectly in the small of my back, invisible under the jacket.
I checked my watch. 7:00 PM.
"Showtime," I whispered.
POV: Julian
I was waiting in the foyer, checking my watch.
"He's late," I muttered to the empty room. "He’s probably knitting a matching bow tie."
The elevator dinged.
"I’m not late," a smooth voice said. "I was calibrating my cufflinks."
I turned around.
And I stopped breathing.
Ezra was walking down the stairs.
The yellow cardigan was gone. The glasses were gone. The shy, stumbling baker was gone.
In his place was a man who looked like he owned the building.
The midnight blue suit hugged him in all the right places. Without the glasses, his face was striking—high cheekbones, a sharp jawline I had never noticed before, and eyes the color of a storm cloud. He walked with a fluid, predatory grace that the sweaters had hidden.
He didn't look like a nanny. He looked like a Bond villain.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He smirked—a confident, arrogant tilt of his lips that went straight to my groin.
"Close your mouth, Julian," Ezra drawled. "You're drooling on your Armani."
I snapped my mouth shut. I cleared my throat, tugging at my cuffs to hide the tremor in my hands.
"You clean up well," I managed to say, my voice sounding strained.
"I try," Ezra walked over to me. He reached out and adjusted my bow tie. His fingers were cool. "You, however, are printing."
"Printing?"
"Your gun," Ezra murmured, patting the left side of my ribs. "The shoulder holster is too bulky for that cut of jacket. It ruins the silhouette."
"I need a gun, Ezra. We’re going into a shark tank."
"You have me," Ezra whispered. He stepped closer, invading my personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne, gunpowder, and danger. "I am the weapon, Julian. You are the bait. Remember?"
He stepped back, looking me up and down with hungry eyes.
"Besides," Ezra added, "I have three knives, a garrote wire in my watch, and these cufflinks can cut glass. If anyone touches you, I’ll dismantle them before they can finish their sentence."
I stared at him. I was terrified of him. I was obsessed with him.
"Let’s go," I rasped, opening the door. "Before I decide to skip the Gala and dismantle you against this doorframe."
Ezra laughed—a dark, throaty sound that vibrated in my chest.
"Later, boss. We have a party to crash."
We walked to the elevator. He didn't walk behind me like a servant. He walked beside me.
My equal. My partner. My lethal plus-one.
As the doors closed, I realized the Gala wasn't ready for us.
They thought they were inviting a Fixer.
They were about to meet the Butcher and his Baker.
- Writer
