Dmitri knew he wasn't attracted to men; he'd identified as a heterosexual male, the moment puberty hit. He grew an erection when he saw a pair of tits and a nice round ass belonging to a woman. But all this didn’t explain why he had gotten a rock-hard erection just by standing next to a specific guy.

The answer to the question is not forthcoming, especially when Nikolai slides a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls, sharply, startling him into a low, strangled gasp. Suddenly he’s straddling him, pinning him down while keeping that pressure in his hair as he sets his teeth to the hard cord of muscle that runs from his jaw to shoulder, a searing line of heat that makes Dmitri groan aloud. He's trying to press up against him, but Nikolai holds him down, one hand fisted in his hair, while the other scratches long, deliberate lines down his chest as he pants and struggles uselessly. He’s bound hand and foot, a helpless captive that can’t touch him, can’t resist as he arches his back and slides a cold hand along Dmitri's erection, and he’s so hard and he wants Nikolai so much and he’s close, he’s so close, he can’t—

Dmitri forced himself awake with a strangled gasp, catching himself just before release, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He turned to stare at the clock beside him and scrubbed a hand down his face when he saw it's two a.m. Fuck! That dream was so vivid.

He had come back from the cells, earlier, turned on, had a cold shower, done pushups and tried to tame his giant erection. Keyword being tried, by eleven p.m, he had woken up to run a lap, gone back to bed, by midnight, he had shot somebody, gone back to bed; by one a.m he had found out the name of the brigada, and he was once more awake.

Slowly, cautiously, like he could explode from the slightest touch, Dmitri got up from the bed on his way to the bathroom, when he paused. He was in his bedroom, no one would be here to watch him jerk off to his fantasies of a man.

Loosening the drawstrings of his pants, he carefully pulled the waistband down, hissing as it grazed against sensitive flesh. He’s trembling now, he’s so hard and maybe he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn't be jerking off at the thought of Nikolai, but it feels too late to stop, so he wraps a hand around himself and has to bite down hard on the heel of his other hand to stifle a moan. Dmitri is so keyed up and frustrated after the dream, and it feels so good when he moves his hand.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, giving his shaft one violent stroke. “Nikolai.”

He wished it was him. He wished it was him stroking Dmitri with rough hands, pulling harshly on his cock, telling him not to come, and wished he was Nikolai’s to take.

His vision was going black as he pumped into my hand. Hard, vicious strokes. He wouldn’t last. He couldn’t. Not when he imagined crawling to Nikolai, pleas in his eyes and a gag in his mouth.

Dmitri’s thighs are shaking and he’s huffing hard little gasps through his nose as he tries to stay quiet and fails, every muscle in his body clenching up, his balls ached as they drew up against him, and he feels it build at the base of his spine. it’s—it’s—it’s—Dmitri snaps like a bowstring, stars behind his eyes. He hunches forward, his hips thrusting into his hand, a high-pitched whine muffled in his throat and in seconds, he's coming so hard it hurts, his release rushing through him.

“Nikolai.” He groans, loud and long, the name scorching his throat. “Nikolai.”

He shudders through the aftershocks, hand still moving as he clenches and spasms, watching in bitter, deviant fascination as he keeps coming in huge wrenching spurts. It takes a while, but he's come down from the high and is trying to catch his breath in silence. He feels wrung out, exhausted, and at the same time he’s floating, warm and carefree. It feels amazing, he realizes as he takes his hand away from his mouth and squints at the bite marks he left there.

An hour later, showered and dressed in a fresh suit. Dmitri walked into the mahogany-paneled war room. The men that constituted his inner circle, his brigada, were already seated, a dozen hardened faces waiting for his command. He was back in his world, king in his castle, and he pushed the images of Nikolai’s cold eyes and dominant hands to the deepest corners of his mind.

“Someone tell me why there's an increasing number of men thinking they can dupe me?”

A tense silence fell over the room. The mumblings that had been going on, ceased. The question hung in the air, a demand. Maksim, the head enforcer, stepped forward. “There have been whispers, Godfather. The Sicilians are restless. Their new leadership is young, ambitious. They’re looking to make a name for themselves, and our territory, while not the quickest is the best way to do it.”

Dmitri’s gaze shifted, settling on Maksim. “Whispers are for gossiping fools. I want proof. Or are you that eager that they label me insane for shooting anything and everyone.” The huge man shifted uneasily, under the force of his words.

A voice called out from the back, “These are just small fish starting out in a bigger pond. We're supposed to be the bigger fish. Are you scared of small fish, Tsar?” The room fell completely silent. All eyes were on Dmitri. Dmitri walked forward until he had a clear view of the person who had spoken, Anton. His face, one of concern couldn't hide the bitterness relayed in his eyes.

He stared Anton down, watching the old man fidget in silence for a few minutes before finally speaking, his voice low and deliberate. “The predator fears not the beast in the forest, but the serpent in his own den.” Anton's face remained impassive, but his eyes held a flicker of something sharp and dangerous. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken threats.

It was another man, Sergei, that broke it, clearing his throat, he said. “We have proof of activity, not of direct orders. These men… they’re freelancers. Hired guns looking to cause chaos for a price.” Without taking his eyes off Anton, Dmitri’s mouth curled into a thin, humorless line. “Chaos for a price. A simple solution for a complicated problem.”

He turned and walked to the wall, where a large map of the Republic of Sakha was pinned, marked with various symbols. He ran a finger along the riverfront. “Torturing these pawns will get us nowhere. We go after the queen.”

He turned to face his men, his eyes holding a cold, chilling brilliance. “We create a situation. A bait that only a king would dare to bite.” He walked to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a small black box. “I will have a rumor leaked. A very specific rumor about a new, incredibly lucrative shipment coming in from Moscow, of uncut diamonds and rare antiquities. No guards, no heavy security, just a small crew on a private yacht. The rumor will be passed through a channel we know is compromised. A channel Anton uses.” He turned to stare at the man in particular who scowled at him.

A murmur went through the room. It was a risky move, one that could expose a massive vulnerability and cost them millions if the leak was discovered. It was a king's gambit, a sacrifice of one's own pieces to win the entire game.

Dmitri silenced them with a single look. “The Sicilians will see this as an opportunity too good to pass up. They will send their top people. Not some hired gun, but someone they trust. And when they do,” his eyes hardened, “we will be waiting for them.”

He took a moment, his gaze sweeping over each of the men in the room, his eyes held the promise of violence. They had seen this side of him before—the man who would risk everything to prove a point, the man who was both brilliant and utterly ruthless.

Dmitri dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. One by one, they filed out, their faces grim, their shoulders tense. Dmitri watched them go, but he held up a hand as his personal enforcer, a hulking brute named Maksim, turned to follow. “Maksim,” He called, his voice quiet but sharp. The man paused, his massive frame filling the doorway.

Dmitri took a slow, deep breath and turned back to his desk, picked up a pen and absently toyed with it. He looked at Maksim, his chest burning, and gave the order that would bring the source of his torment directly to him.

“Maksim,” he said, his voice quiet, his eyes dark with a need he couldn't deny. “ There's a brigada named Nikolai.” He paused, the final words a fire in his lungs, and mustered the courage to say the words. “Bring him to me.”