FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FIVE

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

The storm that had been brewing over the Mediterranean finally broke, lashing the penthouse windows with a rhythmic, violent thrum. In the basement storage room, surrounded by crates of expensive vintage wine and spare linens, the air was thick enough to choke on.

I was counting the inventory of the 2012 Bordeaux—the Boss’s favorite—when the door clicked shut.

Julian was standing there, his linen shirt damp from the rain, his tie pulled loose. He looked at me, his eyes traveling from my scuffed work boots to the pen tucked behind my ear.

"You're late for the lesson, Mr. International," he said. His voice was rough, a jagged edge of humor masking a deeper, more desperate hunger.

"The lesson was canceled, Julian," I replied, not looking up from my clipboard. "Your brother is hosting a dinner for the Ministry. I have four dozen crystal glasses to polish before midnight."

Julian moved then, fast and reckless. He swiped the clipboard from my hand, the metal clattering against the concrete floor. He stepped into my space, pinning me against the cold steel of the wine rack.
"Screw the glasses," he whispered. "I can’t breathe in this house anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see those cut brake lines. Every time I hear my brother’s voice, I hear a murderer." He leaned closer, his forehead dropping against my shoulder. "You’re the only thing that feels...real. Even if you are a beautiful, lying genius."

I should have pushed him away. I should have reminded him of the hierarchy, the cameras, the danger. But as his hand found the back of my neck, my resolve shattered.

"In syntax," I whispered, my voice dropping into that low, melodic register that I knew made his heart race, "the most important part of a sentence isn't the subject. It’s the verb. The action."

I reached out, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling his head back until he had to look at me. "You want to play the rebel, Julian? Rebels don't just talk. They take."

Julian let out a low, guttural sound—a name I hadn't taught him yet. He crashed his lips against mine, a messy, frantic collision of teeth and salt and gin. It wasn't a "posh" kiss. It was the desperate act of a man who was drowning and had finally found a lifeline.

I kissed him back with a ferocity that surprised us both. I tasted the rebellion on his tongue, the bitterness of his grief, and the sudden, explosive heat of our proximity. My hands slid down his back, pulling him flush against me, feeling the hard line of his body beneath the expensive fabric.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air, his eyes searching mine. "What's the word for this?" he breathed. "In any of your languages, Mikael... what do you call this?"

I trailed my fingers down his jaw, my thumb pressing into the center of his lower lip.

"Incendio," I whispered in Italian. "Fire."

Julian gripped my waist, his knuckles white. "Then let it burn. If we’re going to ruin my brother, let’s start by burning his house down from the inside."

He pushed me back against the racks, his hands wandering with a new, frantic authority. The "servant" and the "master" were gone. In the dark of the storage room, we were just two men speaking a language that didn't need a single word.

"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."