Chapter 2

Anthony

I n the elevator, Anthony kept his hand planted on the chorus twink's ass. It was the perfect balance of squishy and firm, and he had plans for it. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner filled the metal box as they ascended to the twenty-first floor. The chorister, just tipsy enough to really loosen his tongue, was going on about his own career.

"I know that it doesn't happen very often, but people do move from the chorus to principal roles. I tried to get Barry to hire me as your cover, but he said I wasn't ready for it. Said my coloratura wasn't up to snuff. My coloratura is excellent, thank you! He said that he'd consider letting me cover Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni next season, which would be amazing. But not as cool as if I'd been able to cover you ."

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto Anthony's floor.

"We're here." Anthony grabbed the chorister's hand and pulled, hoping the jolt would shock him enough to stop talking about his operatic ambitions. Anthony doubted he was principal role material, and even if he was, didn't he understand it would put them in competition?

"Oh my god, everything's so nice."

The chorister looked around at the hotel hallway, which, in Anthony's opinion, was only okay, a fairly ordinary attempt at an elevated mid-century modern design. The guy's eyes traveled down to the carpet, where he became entranced by the geometric pattern. Anthony pulled again. The chorister would focus once he had Anthony's dick in his mouth.

Anthony waved his key card in front of the lock, flipping the light to green. He pushed the door open and brought the twink inside.

"Holy shit." The chorister stopped in his tracks, his eyes like saucers. "This place is amazing."

It should be. Anthony had fought for it in his contract. It was the hotel's penthouse suite, and it had a full kitchen. Not that he cooked when he was on the road, but it was nice to have the option. One entire side of the suite was a gorgeous view of the lake. To the far right, the gleaming lights of the Chicago coastline jutted out into the waters of Lake Michigan. Views like that were one reason that Anthony loved to sing in different cities.

But this was no time to admire the skyline. Anthony had other things to admire.

He wrapped his arms around the taut, toned body of the blonde twink, embracing him from behind. Anthony's hands traveled up under his shirt and grazed the soft skin of his torso. The twink leaned back against Anthony's body as Anthony kissed his collarbone, making his way up his neck. When Anthony nibbled at his ear, he moaned, soft and deep.

Anthony's cock began to harden, and the twink pushed his perfectly round ass back against Anthony's crotch. Feeling Anthony's rigidity through his pants, he groaned, rubbing up and down against it.

Anthony sucked harder at the chorister's neck, who shivered uncontrollably at the assault.

"Oh god…yes…"

Anthony loved this, loved when his partner lost control at his touch. He always put himself in the driver's seat in these kinds of interactions. Technically, he was versatile, but he couldn't imagine bottoming for some stranger he met on the road. It required a vulnerability that he wasn't willing to give.

It wasn't just about topping and bottoming. He relished the power to make someone fall apart in his hands. Sometimes he imagined letting someone else have that control over him. He wondered if he would feel a sense of freedom, finally giving over everything to another person. Not that it mattered. It couldn't happen. He didn't trust anyone that much.

"Sir?"

The word snapped Anthony into the present moment. The blonde knelt on the floor in front of him, his once-innocent face filled with lust. His hands were on Anthony's waistband.

"Can I?" the twink asked.

Anthony reached down and ran his hand through the man's floppy blonde hair. He moved back a few steps until he was leaning against the kitchen island. "Go ahead."

The twink scooched forward, squeezing Anthony's erection through his pants before tugging at his belt buckle. He was so eager, so willing to please. His soft hands pulled the length of Anthony's cock out into the cold hotel air. Anthony relaxed his head back, letting it fall to the side.

That's when he saw it.

A single, large white peony lay against the black granite, and next to it, a piece of expensive cardstock covered in ornate silver calligraphy.

"Shit." Anthony reached down and removed the twink's hands from his dick. "Stand up."

"What?" The chorister had a sad, hurt look on his face, like a kicked puppy. "What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Anthony answered, waving him off. The twink stood awkwardly as Anthony leaned over the paper. He knew what it would say.

Dear Anthony Lorenzo Bianchi…

The chorister's arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and Anthony tensed. He grabbed the twink's wrists and pried off the body of his would-be lover.

"Listen, uh…" Shit. Anthony couldn't remember his name.

"Connor!" the chorister replied, his voice cracking with indignation.

"You need to go, Connor."

"But, I thought…" Connor's bottom lip trembled.

"Me too, kid, but I'm just not feeling it." Anthony pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. "My car service can send someone over to bring you home."

"Oh. Okay." Anthony didn't have time to take care of Connor's feelings. He had to handle the problem in front of him. Besides, Connor would be jumping into bed with some new tenor-of-the-week soon enough.

"Sorry, caro ."

Connor turned, walking towards the door with painfully slow steps, as if he expected Anthony to change his mind. When his hand touched the doorknob, he looked back. Anthony crossed his arms.

"Tell the driver where you want to go. It's on me."

Connor shook his head and left. Too bad. They might have had fun. Oh well. He turned back to deal with the offending letter.

Dear Anthony Lorenzo Bianchi,

This is your final warning. If your uncle doesn't give us what we want, we will deliver the next message in person, and you won't like what comes with it. Tell him we wait for what is owed us.

Regards,

The Azarian Coven

These people were insane. This was the third letter in a month. One in Vienna, one in Houston, and now here in Chicago. If he was home in New York, he'd be worried, but they had only left the messages in hotels. He assumed his stalker had been bribing the cleaning crews.

It was beautiful handwriting, Anthony had to give them that, but that didn't make the letters less concerning. He hated to get the police involved, but what were his other options? Hire a private investigator?

It didn't make any sense. What did his Uncle Daniel have to do with anything? Maybe the stalker read an article where Anthony had talked about their relationship, about how Daniel had raised Anthony after his parents died, and they assumed they could extort money out of him.

If they wanted money, why didn't they ask him for it directly? His uncle was recently married. His new husband seemed well-off, but if you were going to break into the hotel of a rising opera star to leave an extortion letter, why wouldn't you go for the biggest fish?

Damn. He'd have to call London.

Anthony sat in the too-cushy armchair and took out his cell phone. It had been a few months since he'd spoken to his uncle. He hadn't meant to ignore his uncle's messages. His schedule had been packed. He loved Uncle Danny! He'd just been busy, that's all, and sometimes faraway family didn't feel as important as the opera he was currently performing.

Daniel picked up on the first ring.

"Anthony! It's about time!"

Anthony smiled at the excitement in his voice. Daniel somehow even made guilting him sound loving. He was sweet and kind. Anthony was sure it had been a big adjustment, but Daniel had been the perfect person to take in a grieving seven-year-old. He'd never let Anthony feel like a burden.

"Hey Uncle Daniel." Anthony hung his head sheepishly, even though there was no one there to see it. "Sorry I didn't call sooner."

"No problem, sweetie." Anthony heard the sound of a mug being set on a countertop. Daniel must be having one of his daily five cups of coffee. "It's three a.m. in Chicago! What are you doing up?"

"How did you know I was in Chicago?"

"Oh, sweetie, I always keep track of your schedule. You never know when Oliver and I might show up for an opening night."

"Don't surprise me, Uncle Daniel. You know I can get you tickets." They'd had this conversation before, and despite Anthony's best efforts, it always went the same way.

"We can afford them. Use your free tickets for your friends."

"I have plenty of comps." Anthony shook his head in frustration. Daniel never let Anthony take care of anything. "But that's not why I called."

"Do you need money, honey?"

"No. I'm doing very well. I promise."

"Sure, but things change, and you know, capitalism. I know how health insurance is as an artist, one broken bone and you're thousands of dollars in debt."

"I don't need money. Please don't worry about me breaking a bone."

"Well, I know you break a leg every night!"

Anthony heard a deep chuckle in the background. "Is that Oliver laughing at your terrible dad joke?"

"When I tell it, it's an uncle joke."

Anthony smiled. He really did miss his uncle. Daniel was his only family, and it had been too long since they'd seen each other.

He'd have to book more gigs in London. He couldn't take time off to visit. At least, he wasn't willing to take time off. Every empty week in his calendar was a week closer to being forgotten by audiences and by the companies that hired him.

"Is something wrong, hon?"

Anthony wasn't sure how he'd managed to let himself get sidetracked. It was just nicer catching up with his uncle than thinking about his stalker problem.

"Listen, Uncle Daniel, something a little strange has happened. Someone left a letter in my hotel room."

"A letter?"

"Written in silver ink. It's happened a couple of times before."

Anthony rubbed his eyes. Finding the letter had short-circuited his lust and tamped down his buzz. Now he was just tired. He read the contents out loud, dreading his uncle's response.

"This was the third letter?" A deep, masculine voice rumbled from the phone. It didn't belong to Daniel.

"Oliver, is that you?"

"Answer me. This is the third time this has happened?"

Anthony prickled at the demand. He didn't enjoy being ordered around. Oliver wasn't even a blood relation. Hell, he and Daniel had only been married a couple of years.

"Yes. The third in as many cities. The first time I thought it was a prank. The second, well…I was just too tired to take it seriously. Three seems like…but it's not that big a deal. Opera has its fanatics. It's some old queen with a record player and a lot of free time—"

"And it's signed by the Azarian Coven?" Oliver's sharp tone cut through the long distance between London and Chicago. "All of them have been?"

"Sounds like some kind of homegrown cult, right? Guy's probably a fundie or something."

"You need to come here," Oliver said. Anthony bristled at the command.

"What are you talking about?"

"You need to come to London. We can keep you safe here."

Anthony's forehead tensed up. What the hell was Oliver talking about?

"I don't see how you could keep me any safer there than I am here. And the next few months are nuts. First San Francisco, after that Barcelona, and then I'm making my debut in Naples. I can't disrupt my schedule."

"I'm not giving you a—"

Daniel cut off his husband, saying something that Anthony couldn't hear. He closed his eyes and willed his shoulders to relax. He shouldn't have called in the first place. If the letters hadn't mentioned his uncle, he wouldn't have. They deserved to know, but he wasn't letting them stop him from living his life.

"Anthony, honey?" It was Daniel again.

"Uncle Daniel, I'm not sure what's gotten into Oliver, but—"

"Sweetie, I know that you can't come here. But you are in some danger. Oliver's sending a bodyguard."

"What are you talking about?" This was always the problem with Uncle Daniel, and evidently with Oliver. With the slightest sign of trouble, they turned into huge control freaks.

"I can't have a bodyguard," Anthony continued. "They'd just get in my way."

"Let us help you."

"Absolutely not. I'll go to the police, file a restraining order or something."

The blare of loud argument burst through the phone receiver. Anthony couldn't make out any of it. He breathed in and out slowly, calming his nervous system. How could someone he loved as much as his uncle make him so crazy?

"No police, Anthony."

Anxiety stirred in Anthony's gut. Why shouldn't he get the police involved? Something was weird here. Well, even weirder than the stalking was to begin with.

"What is this all about?" Anthony needed to get to the bottom of this.

"Listen, Oliver sometimes deals with some shady businessmen, and one in particular has turned out to be, uh…deep in the mob. Things have gone south. The guy must have seen one of your articles. He's…not great."

"Azarian? Is it the Armenian mob?"

"...yes?"

None of it added up. Why was Daniel being so evasive?

"This is insane. Nothing is going to happen to me. I'll go down to the station and—"

"No police, Tony!"

This was serious. Uncle Daniel never used Anthony's childhood nickname.

"Why not?"

"They're…they're involved."

Daniel was hiding something important. Anthony was sure of it. Something worse than shady business dealings.

"So the UK cops are in bed with the mob. Shouldn't make any difference in the states."

"No cops."

"Then I'll hire a PI—"

"No."

Anthony sighed, kneading his brow with his fingers. "I shouldn't have called you."

"Honey, I really—"

"No bodyguard, Uncle Daniel."

"But—"

"No. I'll deal with it on my end. I'm going to bed, I have to rest up for opening. Please tell Oliver that I'll be perfectly safe. Love you."

Anthony hung up without waiting for an answer. Stubbornness ran in the family, and he and his uncle were evenly matched in that department. If he didn't quash the whole bodyguard thing, he'd wake up tomorrow with an entire security team outside his door.

He stripped down, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. The hotel dry cleaners could deal with it tomorrow. He got under the covers and willed sleep to come, ignoring the unease fluttering in his stomach.

Tomorrow, he would sleep late, rest his voice, and forget all about the stupid letter.