Hades' clothes hung damp and frigid against his skin. Slowly, he walked back up the stairs to his nephew's apartment, feeling sore and exhausted. As he stepped inside, he could feel Persephone's eyes on him, curious and concerned.

"You owe me, uncle."

"Owe you?" Hades asked, picking up the dry clothes Apollo had placed on the couch for him. They were casual, but expensive, and Hades felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt. He sighed. "Very well, nephew, I will see to it that you're properly compensated—"

"Hades," Persephone said, touching his arm, "Phoebus has purchased our plane tickets."

He nodded, avoiding her eyes, unsure of how to speak with her. She seemed whole, and he still felt...broken. Unworthy; weak. "Thank you, nephew—"

"Here, Lord." Thanatos placed a small burner in his hand. "Duty calls. Johnny and your other captains are waiting to hear from you. For now, you should try to keep up appearances, so as not to draw suspicion."

Again, Hades nodded, and the small twinge of guilt he felt earlier started to gnaw at him. "Thanatos, I…"

"Don't trouble yourself, my lord. I know." There was that familiar hand on his shoulder; his gentle servant...and friend. One of so few. The air around him shifted, and Hades knew that Thanatos had left.

"Your flight is scheduled for 3:00pm today, uncle; the earliest one I could find. I suggest you clean up and get your affairs in order with your, ah... business, like dear Death said. No large displays of power, either. An Elder God like ourselves may be able to pick you out in a crowd, but you want to make it difficult for them anyway..."

Hades found himself looking at the floor, only half-heartedly listening. He was dimly aware of Persephone's hand on his chest. He nodded at the appropriate times and headed into the restroom wordlessly. He tried to burn away his suit and found that he still couldn't; at the very least, he supposed his lack of strength and command over his abilities boded well for Zagreus.

Naked, Hades looked at himself in the mirror, and frowned at what he saw. He had never been much of a vain man, but he was enjoying the sight of his reflection even less than before. For one, he didn't recognize his body. The sharp scarring on his torso and legs from his father's teeth were no longer there; instead, they were replaced with burns, small cuts, and scratches. He eyed the jagged tissue on his chest, where Thanatos had stabbed him with a blade forged from the waters of the Mnemosyne River. Now two bullets had pierced through that very same flesh, and Hades gripped the sink, shuddering at the fresh memory.

His eyes traveled down, towards his hip and groin, and his lips curled in disgust at the sight of the uneven texture of the skin graft scars there. Pain shot through him then, from his old injury, and he leaned forward against the sink, clenching his teeth. The straight scar across the bridge of his nose, the scar over his top lip—each one, painful reminders of the life he had lived, just as much as the dull ache drumming in his hip. He saw the tuft of gray at his temple; the gray hairs in his beard. Aging, like a mortal man, and looking more and more like his father.

"Hades…" He shut his eyes. Her soft lips kissed the top of his spine, his shoulder blades. "You are still running from me," she said, running her hands along his quivering abdomen. His voice caught in his throat and he stepped away from her, walking into the shower and turning on the nozzle to the highest setting. Silently, she followed him, pressing her naked breasts against his back. He shuddered. "Talk to me, Aidoneus," she said. "Please."

Hades leaned his head against the wall of the shower, staring down at his hands. He saw golden ichor and red dripping from his trembling fingers. "Blood coats my skin," he murmured. Old memories scorched through him: the men he killed, with guns, with knives, and with his own hands. "I...do not like who I am."

He felt her chuckle softly into the skin of his back. "That's nothing new, my love."

He sighed, allowing himself a small smile. "Suppose you're right about that."

"Besides," she said, moving to stand in front of him and cupping his cheek, "I like who you are. I always have." He swallowed, placing his hands on her shoulders, observing the tattoo of a dragon coiled in vines that ran from her neck down to her forearm. He took in the sight of her breasts, her narrow waist and full hips; she was different now, too, and it was because of him. Heavy guilt gnawed at his bones. Ashamed and numb, he let her wash him. Her hands traced the mortal scarring on his back, on his chest and legs, lathering up his skin and hair with soap and water. When she reached his groin, a wicked smile pulled at her lips. "How haven't I tasted you yet?" she asked him, leaning in to kiss his chest. Her tongue lathed at one of his nipples, softly nipping at the sensitive flesh there as her hand snaked between them; she began to slowly pump his shaft.

"Hmmm," he rumbled, bracing his hand against the tiled wall of the shower—her free hand was pinching his other nipple, and she switched between the two, softly suckling and biting at him with increasing pressure. He hissed. He could feel himself becoming heavier in her hand, his cock growing harder and more sensitive each time she pumped him. "W-would rather...rather have my face between y-your thighs, than yours between m-mine," he ground out, stammering as her lips planted hot kisses down his abdomen, and her tongue swirled around the tip of his cock.

"Mmm, always such a generous lover, Aidoneus," she said, pumping him with one hand while the other massaged the head. He clenched his fist against the tile of the shower, biting back a moan. If Apollo noticed, he would never hear the end of it.

"Perseph—" he tried to say, his words dying in his throat; her hot mouth was on his balls, sucking on the skin there. He exhaled harshly as her tongue licked him from the base of his cock, back to the head, and his toes curled when she took him completely into her mouth. He groaned, threading trembling fingers into her hair. She looked up at him, in that challenging way, and he smirked at her; he was completely at her mercy. She began to suck him, bobbing her head up and down, taking him almost all the way out each time, swirling her tongue around him greedily.

Her hands cupped around his ass then, bringing him closer to her. "Fuck," he gasped, lightly pulling on her hair. "Do you want this?" She only swirled her tongue around him in answer, digging her fingers into his hips. He proceeded to fuck her mouth, feeling himself growing harder against her tongue. She moaned around him, swirling her hot tongue over him, and Hades could only see stars. "Get up," he panted, strained, but she refused, sucking him like his cock was the only thing in the world that mattered to her. It was too much; he was going to—"I don't want to...in your mouth," he said, groaning as she took him deeply. "Perseph—"

"Will you two stop having sex in my shower already?" his nephew said, his voice coming muffled through the door. "I need to get to work and I can hear you moaning from all the way in my kitchen, uncle."

Hades flushed, immediately losing his erection. Persephone, for her part, did not look embarrassed...but she had never been very shy about this sort of thing. He sighed; she had always been the stronger of the two of them. She came up, kissing his cheek and stepping out of the shower, whereupon she began to dress herself in a set of clothes Apollo gave her. Hades followed her, burning with embarrassment, toweling himself off. He traced the line of her spine as she pulled on a pair of jeans, wanting nothing more than to hold her in their bed. "I've missed you," he said.

He caught her eyes in the mirror. Forest green and winter blue. She was so beautiful, and he looked like a dirty old man in comparison. He frowned. Death and the maiden. The contrast had always been there, but it had never seemed so sharp before. Then again, he'd never had gray hairs before, or such pronounced crow's feet. Or had he? He couldn't remember now, and it disturbed him that such details were lost to time, when others never left him alone.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him, pulling on a blouse over the new bra that Apollo had given her.

Hades wondered, briefly, just how many lovers Apollo currently had, but decided that he was better off not asking. A thin layer of cotton now separated her skin from his touch, and that irritated him. He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her back towards him. "How I'd like to tear these rags right off you," he growled, kissing her neck, making her giggle.

"Those clothes are from Hermès and they are very expensive, uncle!"

"Fates," Hades groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. Her warm laughter wrapped around him like a blanket, soothing him. "Come, my love, let's get you dressed," she said, turning in his arms. The clothes were fitted: the henley shirt pulled across his chest a little tighter than he normally would like, and the black jeans were an athletic cut he'd never worn before—but Persephone seemed to enjoy seeing him in both. It was a slow affair: she kissed him for every article of clothing he put on, teasing touches that became longer and less chaste, until he was pawing at her, pressing her against the wall of the bathroom, and hitching one of her legs around his hips. "Nowhere to run now, little goddess," he said, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

Apollo knocked on the bathroom door loudly. "Uncle! "

Persephone laughed. "Not here, my love. I think we've scandalized my brother enough."

"I doubt he can be scandalized by anything," Hades said, laughing darkly and kissing her neck. He released her wrists, instead choosing to hold her hips as he rocked himself against her, making her sigh. "When we get home, I'm going to repay you for last night," he whispered, flexing his toes as she wound her fingers through his hair.

"Are you going to leave me aching?" she asked him, light and teasing.

"Hmmm," he rumbled, "You won't be able to walk when I'm done with you." His teeth bit at her neck gently.

The door opened suddenly, startling the both of them, and Hades shot a withering look at his nephew. "Do you mind, Phoebus?"

"Excuse me, dear Lord Uncle Hades, but this is my bathroom." Apollo crossed his arms, began tapping his foot. "Gods, you're worse than Ares and Aphrodite. How are you two worse than them?"

Hades sighed, backing away from his wife. He was running hot and frustrated with lust.

"Here," Apollo said, handing them both coats. His sun-kissed skin burned bright red. Serves him right, Hades thought. "Thanatos popped back in and gave me your wallets, along with Persephone's cell phone. I packed a few days' worth of clothes—all very expensive and fashionable, by the way, because I have impeccable taste—and some Ambrosia in three ounce containers. A little hygiene travel bag, too, for each of you...and three boxes of nicotine patches, along with nicorette gum, since the flight is long and your addiction is...strong."

Hades gaped his nephew. Stiff and cautious, he moved close to the young man, until he was standing directly in front of him. He cleared his throat; he suddenly felt very awkward. He wasn't used to being physically affectionate with anyone, except his wife—especially now. Perhaps he needed to make a change. Before he could stop himself, he pulled in Apollo for a quick hug. "Thank you, nephew," Hades said, feeling his skin grow hot. He stepped away from his nephew quickly, thankful for the comforting circles Persephone rubbed on his back. She knew him so well; knew him better than he ever knew himself.

His nephew swallowed, his hazel eyes wide with shock. "It's f-fine, uncle," he stammered. "You're the God of Wealth—I know you're good for it. And besides, I've done quite well for myself over the centuries. Now, please leave. I really do need to start getting ready for work, and I sincerely don't wish to be rude, but...if I hear any more dirty talk from you, I think I might actually have an aneurysm."

Hades pressed his teeth together; the tips of his ears burned. Persephone only giggled next to him, grabbing a hold of his hand and pulling him to follow her. Kissing her brother on the cheek, she said goodbye for the both of them. Wordlessly, she pulled the brown leather aviator coat over Hades' arms and shoulders, and then put on her own as they stepped out into the cold.

"My men will be here in a few minutes to pick us up," Hades said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He caught her grimace of distaste.

"Your thugs, you mean," she said, taking the burning cigarette from his fingers and putting it between her teeth. She inhaled for a moment and then breathed out, and he was completely mesmerized by the sight. She had always been able to make his heart stop; that at least hadn't changed. She put the cigarette back into his mouth. "I don't see the appeal," she said.

He blew smoke from his nose. "Been smoking since I was twelve. Hard habit to break," he said, wrapping his arm over her shoulder. She leaned her head into his chest. "I'll try to quit again," he said, tapping off the ash to the snowy ground. He let the cigarette fall from his fingers and smashed it into oblivion with his boot. "I promise, darlin'. Just give me time."

She looked up at him, sadness and confusion written plain in her eyes. "Oh, my dear husband," she said, smoothing away the hair that has fallen onto his forehead. A car pulled up next to them and honked. "This is us," he said, nodding his head towards the black BMW. He opened the door for her. "After you." He placed his hand on the small of her back and teasingly traced it lower, spanking her playfully on the ass.

She turned her head back towards him, giving him a look —a look of warning and lust, and he grinned. Grabbing his wrist, she said: "We both know I can make these next few hours very uncomfortable for you, Hades." Power radiated from her fingertips, and it was not soothing or calming; rather, it was the heady wildness of spring; the heat of new life overtaking the death of winter, and he shuddered, feeling the searing power shoot through his arm and straight to his already-heavy arousal.

"Hmmm," he said, spanking her again, "I'm looking forward to it." Getting in, he locked eyes with Johnny, who quickly darted his gaze away.


Johnny tried not to stare at his Boss who was lying with his head down on Stella Porter's lap in the backseat. Did the Boss kidnap Stella Porter last night—had he completely lost his mind? It was bad enough that Johnny had to answer a call from one of the Commission dons this morning, since the Boss had fucked off to God knows where for hours, only to end up in the Williamstown neighborhood, halfway on the other side of town. "Morning Miss Porter, morning Boss—where to?"

"667 Michigan Avenue," Stella Porter said, all business, talking for the Boss like she wasn't just some piece of ass he was keeping around. It didn't make sense to Johnny. He'd known the Boss since his enforcer days, and he was pretty well convinced that the man was dead from the waist down. Strippers didn't do it for the guy; and he only ever reluctantly went with the boys to Madame Venus' brothel; and the one time the Old Man hired a prostitute for him, Johnny remembered that she'd left the room in tears. What was her name? Something with a C. Chelsea, Johnny said to himself. Blonde girl with huge tits and a pretty mouth. And she was a tough girl, that Chelsea—and a real fuckin' good lay.

So then that got Johnny wondering if the Boss was into some really, really sick stuff. Stuff a prostitute wouldn't do...or at least would make 'em cry. And that tracked, because Johnny had seen the guy kill his targets in some unnecessarily brutal ways, without so much as batting an eye. And after the whole Chelsea incident, the Old Man never hired another prostitute for the Boss, and Johnny kept wondering.

"Maybe he's, y'know, a fa—"

"Nah," Johnny said, talking to Eddie, who at the time was another enforcer just like him. They were both part of the Boss' crew, and he was their newly-minted capo. Still, even after years of knowing the big guy, he was still a mystery to the both of them. "My brother's gay, I'd be able to tell."

"Why's it bother you so much who the man sleeps with, anyway? Not like it's your business." They were standing outside a cafe owned by the Old Man, waiting to receive a shipment of Italian suits. The suits were of course stolen; and stolen by one of the Boss' newest crew members, who was a Russian that Johnny couldn't stand: Misha Ivanov. The truck pulled up and they set to work.

"He don't sleep with anyone is the problem, you dumbfuck," Johnny said, opening the cabin. Rows of Armani and Gucci suits greeted his eyes. It was a good haul. Fucking dirty Russian pulled it off, he thought, annoyed.

Eddie chuckled, lighting his cigar. He thumbed through the inventory. "Maybe he's just picky. Or asexual. Ain't that a thing?"

Johnny stewed on that. He couldn't fathom not being attracted to anyone. How could a person live like that? Then again, he couldn't fathom being a man attracted to another man, either. Actually, to be honest, Johnny couldn't fathom very much about anything. "Maybe," Johnny said, crossing his arms.

Eddie laughed. "This shit really has you troubled like nothing else."

"You don't get it, Eddie," Johnny said, leading a rack of clothes down the ramp, "Chelsea ran out of there crying. I ain't see anything like it before. And she's a tough broad, y'know."

"Heh, well," Eddie said, tapping the ashes off his cigar, "maybe he slapped her around a little. You've seen him whack plenty of guys—maybe he gets off on pain and she couldn't handle it. So what? She's a whore. It's what we pay them for."

"It's some sick shit, Eddie—"

Suddenly the Boss stepped outside, lighting a cigarette, and Johnny immediately felt his entire body clench up. "Mornin', Tony," Johnny said, his hands holding tightly onto the metal bar of the clothing rack.

The Boss didn't respond. He hardly ever responded to that name, but once Johnny found out the man's middle name was Anthony, Johnny always tried to call him that. It made Johnny feel like he was a soldier in a real Italian crew, and not whatever fucked up ethnic mishmash of organized crime that the Boss was runnin' under the Old Man's nose. Anthony "Tony" Astarita sounded way more legit than Logan "Hades" Black. And the name had history, too: any wise guy worth his salt knew about Horatio Astarita. The man was a legend, cut down way too early and sent to the can because he just too fucked up; too much of a wild dog to deal with. And here was the man's meanass son, ruthless as they come, rejecting the history of his name. It didn't feel right. You'll always be an Astarita, Johnny thought, and not without some jealousy, either.

"Morning, Logan," Eddie greeted after a pregnant pause.

"Morning," the Boss said, exhaling smoke from his nose. "What are you two idiots discussing?"

"Ah, nothin' important, Logan. Just your sex life. John-John here is real interested. I think maybe he wants to take you out on a date."

"Eddie, what the fuck—" The Boss crossed his big ol' arms, and Johnny was suddenly reminded of how the man choked out the last guy who pissed him off without so much as a second thought. Clenching his jaw and swallowing hard, Johnny watched his Boss, the hard look in his eyes, and slowly Johnny became more and more terrified. "Listen, Boss, I didn't mean anything by it, I swear—it's just strange to never see you with anyone—"

"Get back to work," the Boss said, smashing the burning butt of his cigarette against his tongue and throwing it in the dumpster. After that day, the Boss started buying lap dances from strippers, sitting stiff and uncomfortable even as a pair of gorgeous tits ran across his face; and occasionally he'd head over with the crew to Madame Venus' brothel, only to stand there with his hands in his pockets and maybe have a glass of wine or two while the Madame teased him endlessly about which girl he was waiting for. Johnny could tell he was going through the motions. What the fuck is your problem? Johnny thought.

Johnny blinked, bringing himself back to the present. "That where you wanna go, Boss?" he asked. Stella Porter was running her hands through the Boss' hair, and the Boss had shut his eyes, reminding Johnny of a vicious dog finally content and relaxed enough to sleep.

"Listen to everything she tells you," the Boss said, sighing. Johnny had never heard the Boss sigh before. It was a weird sound. Johnny swallowed. Whatever Stella Porter had done to the Boss was fucking scary. The man who had never given a shit about pussy was now demonstrably pussy-whipped by none other than the DA's kid—and that shit wasn't going to stand well at all with the Commission boys, who were not happy to hear Empire City's mob chapter named in the fucking national news this morning.

"You heard him, Misha," Johnny said, muttering. "Guess we all gotta be whipped now." He caught Stella's raised eyebrow in the mirror, and he shuddered. How old could she be? Twenty-five at most? But she had the hard eyes of someone who had lived longer than that. A lot longer than that.

"Stop talking, John-John," Misha said. "She is bringer of destruction." Misha kept his eyes on the road, and Johnny noticed that the man's hands gripped the leather steering wheel with white knuckles.

"Damn right she is," Johnny muttered, crossing his arms. They started driving, and the ride was mostly quiet...until Johnny got a text from Tommaso about the ECPD showing up with a warrant to Pandemonium. "Fuck," Johnny cursed. "Boss, we have a problem—"

"John-John," Misha said, a warning, "stop—"

"Shut the fuck up, you fuckin' Russian piece of shit," Johnny seethed, turning to look back at the Boss. The Boss was glaring at him, and Johnny averted looking directly into his eyes.

"What's the problem, Johnny?" the Boss asked, a hard edge to his voice. Fuck. Fuck. Now he was pissed off. Great. Calm yourself, Johnny, he thought. Just relax.

"I was gonna tell you later in private, but this shit can't wait, and since it seems like Miss Porter is gonna be sticking around—"

"Out with it," the Boss hissed, and man, did his voice sound real fuckin' creepy then. Cold and deep, and almost...cavernous. It gave Johnny goosebumps, and he had to take a deep breath. He was a second away from pissing himself. What the fuck?

"A C-c-commission d-d-d-don," Johnny said, clenching his teeth. He was stuttering something fierce. He steeled himself. Here goes nothin ', he thought. "A Commission don called earlier while you were out. He said New York isn't happy. And...Tommaso just sent me a text. The ECPD are at Pandemonium. They...they have a warrant. They won't find anything, but it's not good news."

"Is that all?" the Boss asked, hard as granite.

"Um, uh…" Johnny stammered. "Y-yeah, Boss." The was a long pause, and then the Boss chuckled, dark and menacing—and full of no-fucks-given energy. Oh God, what the fuck? Johnny thought, panicked. This was a big deal, and the Boss was leaning his head back onto his girlfriend's lap without a care in the world!

"Very well, then, John-John," the Boss said, shutting his eyes again while that slut, Stella Porter, ran her claws through his hair. "I'm trusting you to handle it while my wife and I are away these next few days."

The record of Johnny's mind stopped. He couldn't have heard his Boss right. Wife? No way. But then, Johnny did see a wedding band on the Boss' ring finger. Jesus Christ, did the Boss kidnap this girl from the hospital and elope with her? How the hell...? With last night's storm? And where the hell could they possibly be going? Johnny's head was spinning. He saw Stella Porter's eyes in the rearview mirror, and they weren't the eyes of a young woman; there was something dark in them, something frightening and powerful that made Johnny's throat turn dry. And then she smiled—and Johnny once again almost pissed himself.

"This is our stop, Misha," she said, and the Russian shuddered next to him. Misha parked the car and she stepped out, with the Boss following her. They stepped into the building, and Johnny's chest suddenly felt lighter; he hadn't realized how thick the air in the car had become.

"Jesus, Meesh, you ever seen a man so pussy-whipped before?" Johnny asked, his voice coming out cracked. God, he needed a drink. "I guess that's what going without it for years will do to you." He tried laughing, but he couldn't. He still felt terrified.

"John-John," Misha said, loosening his tie. "She is goddess. Be careful how you speak about her, especially around Boss."

Another panicked text from Tommaso. One good thing about the Boss was that he kept inventory and guns constantly moving between the properties he owned; the ECPD wasn't going to find shit at Pandemonium, at least not today. That didn't solve the problem with the Commission, but it was something. "Yeah," Johnny said, texting Tommaso back, "and the Boss is the Greek God of the Dead. "Hades" is just a fuckin' nickname, y'know."

Johnny's words were confident, but he didn't feel confident. The Boss did show up to the penthouse covered in blood—his own blood, Johnny knew, there was no way it was someone else's—and strolled around like he was fine. The Boss is just a tough son of a bitch, Johnny told himself. Gods weren't real—they weren't—and even if they were, the Boss being one didn't track. No way. No way in hell.

But still, the blood…and the way he acted. And Stella Porter.

"Is not just nickname," Misha whispered, keeping his hands tight on the steering wheel. "Do not say his name—he will hear you."

Johnny swallowed, fiddling with the golden crucifix he wore around his neck. It didn't make sense. The Boss was a good ol' Roman Catholic, Italian man; Johnny had gone to confession with him, especially in the early days. For chrissakes: the man had been there for Johnny's daughter's baptism, and now Johnny was supposed to believe that his Boss was an ancient pagan deity? No. No. The Boss stepped out of the building, lighting a cigarette, and Johnny caught his hard gaze.

His burner phone started ringing and he answered, watching his Boss smoke. "Moltisanti," Johnny said, cringing at the fear he heard in his voice.

"You find him yet?" Boss Michael Gambino's cancer-ridden voice.

"Yeah," Johnny said. His heart was hammering; he could see his Boss was smiling around his cigarette, like the man could hear Johnny's thoughts.

"Why hasn't he called us?"

"He's busy," Johnny said, clamping his hand hard around his necklace. God, he sounded so freaked out.

Gambino laughed. "Busy? Who the fuck does he think he is?" The Greek God of the Dead, Johnny thought. It was impossible. And yet—

"I think Boss Astarita has outgrown the Commission," Johnny said. This was nuts. What was he saying? Fuck, the Boss was walking over. Johnny rolled down his window.

"Listen here, you little shit. Put that son of a bitch on the line right now," Gambino growled. The Boss held his hand out, and Johnny passed him the phone without a word. His fingers brushed briefly against the Boss', and Johnny saw the image of a king seated on a throne made from human bones. The hair on his arms stood up.

"Michael," the Boss greeted, keeping his tone casual. Johnny held his chest; his heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat. Next to him, Misha flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"You understand now, John-John?" the Russian asked. Johnny wanted to curl into a ball; he wanted to cry, to be held by his wife. "Y-yeah…" Johnny said, trying to drown out the harsh sound of the Boss' voice as he laughed at Michael Gambino; a king laughing at a court jester. Johnny would never be able to get that sound out of his head.

"Misha," Johnny ground out, trying to keep the stutter from entering his voice. "H-how fucked are we?"

"If you do your job well," the Boss said, his dark voice rumbling low and uncomfortable in Johnny's ears, "not at all. In fact, I think you'll find that I can be quite generous with my rewards." He handed Johnny the burner, and at the contact, Johnny saw his Boss seated on a throne of black and gold.

"R-right, B-boss," Johnny stammered. The Boss crouched down, so that they were at eye-level, but Johnny still avoided his gaze. "Now, Johnny," he said, tapping his fingers on the open window of the door. "While my wife and I are away, I have a task for you."

Johnny swallowed, and so did Misha. "N-name it, Boss."

"You're going to kidnap Detective Henry Olsen and bring him to my nephew." The Greek God of the Dead wanted him to kidnap a fuckin' cop. Why oh why hadn't he just listened to his mom and opened up a restaurant like she told him to? He wasn't made for this shit. "When you get there, my assistant will have further instructions for you."

"G-got it, Boss," Johnny said. Stella Porter was walking out of the building now—and not looking too happy, either. "You...uh...want us to rough him up too, or...?"

"Hmmm," the Boss said, standing. He wrapped his arm around Stella's waist. "What do you think, darlin'?" he asked her, that South Carolina accent slipping into his words.

"Scare him," she said, and there was a hard edge to her voice that Johnny found fuckin' terrifying. "But don't hurt him too badly— I'll be the one who does that." She touched the Boss' neck and he groaned; Johnny felt himself flush at the sound. There was some weird shit going on here that he didn't understand—and, quite frankly, didn't want to understand. He was only barely getting used to the idea of his Boss and Stella Porter being freaking gods; the last thing he needed was to try and parse out whatever fucked up dynamic they had going on. The two sat in the back seat once more, this time with Stella perched on the Boss' lap.

"To the airport," the Boss said, sounding strangely husky as she placed her hand on his chest. The drive to Empire City International Airport was awkward. Not for the two ostensibly, incredibly horny deities in the backseat, but for Misha and Johnny, who had no idea how to react to seeing their Boss laughing and joking around like a normal person. Or at least, it sounded like the Boss was joking; the two of them started speaking a language that Johnny couldn't understand at all, but it made his skin hum with energy. He felt, strangely, high. High as a freaking kite, to be honest. When the car finally arrived at the Delta terminal and the Boss and his girl stepped out, that hum on Johnny's skin left—and he felt bereft in its absence.

Together, Johnny and Misha exhaled. They watched as the Boss and Stella walked through the sliding glass doors of the airport, his arm wrapped possessively around her shoulder. "Misha," Johnny said after a moment. Finally, his heart seemed to be slowing down.

"Mmm?" the Russian asked, leaning back in the driver's seat. The morning had been rough for him, too.

"You know the name of a good therapist?"

Johnny had the feeling he'd need to start seeing one again.