The KGB teaches its agents how to drink without growing drunk. It is the foundation of a good spy; so much of their work was done in situations like these, if not mingling amongst the parties Napoleon attended then within the walls of offices like Moretti's.
"Whiskey or vodka?" Moretti asks, standing over a short cabinet set between two large bookshelves, red mahogany. The office is more classic in style; rich wood floor and high domed ceiling, renaissance paintings on walls not facing the open balcony, looking out onto dark ocean. "Do make yourself comfortable, please. My business partners are like family."
"Vodka," he answers, because it is expected of him. A typical businessman would drink tea, desiring his faculties, but Moretti wants him drunk, and Illya is merely a businessman's son, who cares only for his own desires and not concerned with conducting good business. He sits and barely remembers to let his back relax, to not sit ramrod straight like the hunter he is pretending not to be.
Moretti sits close, deliberately close, just enough space that it would be prudish to take offense. Illya takes his drink.
"Tell me, how is dear Napoleon these days?"
Vodka sloshes in Illya's glass, nearly propelled over the edge by the sudden halt in momentum on the way to his lips. He masks his brief fumble by nearly spilling a second time, affecting the drunken side of tipsy. He is not made for this half of spy work. Napoleon plays the part of socialite; Illya is best suited for the parts that came after, the raw fist, the hard jawbone, the thrum of violence. Here his cover is nearly blown and Illya can only focus on stilling his hand.
Beside him, Moretti shakes with laughter. "Forgive me!" His hand on Illya's arm, steadying, undercurrent of lust, implication resting in the tips of his fingers, "I didn't mean to make you startle. I've been terribly distracted all night, trying to place that scent." He leans in, just shy of unnoticable, breathing through his nose, "I know his father. It almost smells like him… But not quite. Lacks a certain," he rolls his free hand in the air, filling the space with implication, "The setting must have jogged my memory."
Illya's stomach unfurls something heavy and cold. Mouth stalling, his mind falls back on what he knows. Oleg's voice like rote memory: Cover is not blown until you're certain. Learn what target knows. Adapt.
"I'm not wearing cologne," anger wrangled and forced to pitch his voice low, aiming for something sultry. Amusing, how close rage and lust sat in the hollow of his throat.
"Not that sort of smell, I'm afraid. Though you smell lovely."
Illya elects to ignore that comment, lest his hands begin to shake again. He needs to leave, to collect himself. But there is no leeway here. Illya pushes forward, "You know Napoleon?" Napoleon claimed he only knew of Moretti, no personal connection. But Moretti knows his scent, knows it even mingled with him, tang of gunpowder and metal, harsh scents. Moretti's familiarity implies an intimacy. Illya stores this information away, a mental lockbox labeled Napoleon: inconvenient truths. The knowledge fits beside the tale of how Napoleon came to this life, and Illya does not want to consider how these things overlap. Forces himself to ignore how the edges fit perfectly together.
Napoleon lied. This lie almost blows his cover. Almost cost the mission. Yet Illya's anger turns not on Solo but Moretti and his predator's grin.
Vodka drips over his fingers and only now does Illya realize the attempts to still his hand have failed. Moretti places a palm over the rim and discards his glass on the table. "You're shaking." Moretti's touch burns his vodka-flush skin; Illya's shoulders jump, and if he still held the drink his lap would be soaked with it.
His stomach stirs, revulsion thick in his throat. Moretti laughs again, "Nervous?"
Cover isn't blown. Continue with the mission. Contemplate these things later, when Moretti's blood coats his hands, when Moretti lay dead. "Eager." Illya bites, decided he's had enough of this. He turns sharply, facing Moretti again for the first time since drinks were poured. Ilya continues shaking, fingers trembling at Moretti's lapel and he pretends his imprecise grip is a result of passion and not an urge to punch out teeth. Batter Moretti's skull until his fists pull back bloody. He wants to, wants violence so badly he would throw the mission right here for a chance at momentary revenge.
Patience, he repeats, a mantra, fist loosening infinitesimally. You will kill him soon. Purpose of mission has not changed. Motivations, changed. Result, still the same. "Would like to get on with this," Illya lets his words slur into each other, makes himself appear an easy target. The knife rests snug against his wrist.
A grin splits Moretti's face, unconcerned by flash of fang, "My, you are a dangerous man." He licks his lips, shiny like twin slugs. Illya could not fake attraction much longer than this. "I enjoy dangerous things," his limbs move as though rusted but Illya forces himself closer, tilts his head enough to show neck: an invitation, coy, "I enjoy men like you."
Illya cannot help but hold his breath. It helps still the shaking, and when Moretti digs into his neck Illya does not so much as gasp. He exhales through his nose and begins the ten count, readying his weapon in anticipation of the moment Moretti loses himself. He waits.
Desiat'. Blood rushes in his ears.
Deviat'. Strange, really, how little Moretti feels like Napoleon. Spark of pain, muscles full of pins and needles, and numbness. But his chest is tight, uncomfortable, repeating danger danger danger.
Vosim. Or maybe not so strange. Napoleon, he trusts.
Sem'. Nothing's ever felt so reassuring as the handle of his knife.
Shest'. His skin shimmers, shivers, vibrates like he's hovering just an inch above his skin. Pins and needles soften into felt, rough enough to itch but soft all the same.
Piat'. His fingers slip on the handle, numb but not. His consciousness stretches down into his fingers uninterrupted. The knife's handle is solid inside his palm, and yet muscles ignore him. Panic, growing distant; there is only the nagging sensation that all is not according to plan.
Chityri. Exhaustion washes through his body, eyes sliding half-shut, muffled chorus of waves fading in and out of consciousness. The ocean is in the thrum beneath his skin, in the rush of blood, in his heavy breath.
Tri. A hand strokes down the length of his arm, gentle even as it tugs the knife from his slackened grip. It thumps dully against the carpet.
Dva. Illya cannot remember why he's counting.
Adin.