Valentino had fucked up spectacularly, and the silent treatment radiating from Velvet's direction proved it.
He stood at the edge of his personal studio, gesturing dramatically to the dozen sinners he'd summoned for this emergency groveling session. They swarmed around Velvet like devoted acolytes—one massaging her delicate shoulders, another filing her nails to perfection.
"More champagne for la principessa," Valentino purred, snapping his fingers. "The 1847 vintage, not that swill from the 1920s."
Velvet didn't even blink. She sat in the plush velvet throne he'd had rushed in—matching her name, wasn't that thoughtful?—with her spine rigid and her expression carved from ice. Her eyes stared straight down at her phone, not acknowledging his existence.
He should have listened.
"Cariño," Valentino tried again, gliding closer with his most winning smile. The one that had sealed a thousand contracts and melted a thousand resolves. "You know I didn't mean for things to go that way. Business is business, but you—you're special."
Nothing.
A sinner applied a gold-flecked face mask to Velvet's smooth cheeks while another massaged scented oil into her feet. Valentino had spared no expense—bergamot and jasmine, her favorites, imported from Lust at considerable cost.
He directed two more sinners forward with an imperious wave. "You—yes, you with the trembling hands—paint her toenails. That shade of crimson I had custom-mixed to match her aesthetic." To another: "Fetch the silk robe from Greed's premium collection. The one with the real diamond threading."
The sinners scrambled to obey, terrified of disappointing him. Good. At least someone showed him proper respect today.
Valentino circled the throne, his heels clicking against the marble floor. He could see Velvet's jaw was set, that delicate muscle twitching beneath her skin. She was furious. Absolutely livid.
"The masseuse with the warm stones," he called out, desperation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts to sound magnanimous. "Get those heated immediately. And you—" He jabbed a finger at a trembling imp near the door. "Fresh strawberries dipped in gold leaf. Now."
Still nothing. Velvet's thumb scrolled across her phone screen with deliberate slowness, each movement a calculated dismissal of his existence.
The silence pressed against Valentino's skull like a physical weight. He'd faced down rival Overlords, negotiated contracts with Hell's most ruthless demons, built an empire on manipulation and control—but this? This quiet fury radiating from the woman on the throne made his wings twitch with genuine unease.
Valentino cleared his throat, forcing brightness into his tone that he didn't feel. "The new production with Nemuri—Midnight—it's performing beyond projections." He gestured expansively with two hands while the other two pulled out his phone to display analytics. "Pre-orders alone have already recouped production costs twice over."
Velvet's thumb continued its slow scroll. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
The rejection stung worse than he'd expected. Valentino's wings twitched, and he pushed forward with mounting desperation. "And the perfume—cariño, the perfume made from her sweat is moving units faster than our suppliers can bottle it. We're talking about a three-week backlog already. Demons are paying premium prices for a single vial."
He moved closer to the throne, his voice dropping to something almost pleading. "The profit margins are insane. Sixty percent markup and they're still throwing money at us. I've had to hire additional security just to handle the demand at our retail locations."
The numbers felt good leaving his mouth—concrete proof of his vision, his genius. Surely Velvet understood that business was about taking risks, making bold moves. The temporary embarrassment of sharing a name with a porn actress would fade once she saw the empire they were building together.
"We're looking at a potential expansion into five new product lines based on the Midnight shoot alone," Valentino continued, his words tumbling faster now. "Body oils, lotions, designer lingerie inspired by her costume pieces.
Valentino watched Velvet's face for any sign of softening, any crack in that icy composure.
Nothing.
His hands clenched into fists—all four of them—before he forced them to relax. The cocaine buzz was starting to curdle in his veins, transforming from electric confidence into jittery anxiety. How long had she been sitting there? An hour? Two? Time felt slippery when she refused to acknowledge him.
"Cariño, please." The word came out softer than he'd intended. Vulnerable. He hated the sound of it. "Tell me what you want. Anything. Name your price and it's yours."
Velvet's eyes finally lifted from her phone. They locked onto his face with an intensity that made his stomach drop. For one brief, foolish moment, Valentino thought he'd broken through.
Then her hand closed around the champagne bottle.
The glass sailed past his head close enough that he felt the displaced air ruffle his antennae. It exploded against the wall behind him in a shower of vintage alcohol and crystal shards.
"Velvet—wait—"
The throne's armrest came next. She'd ripped it clean off with her bare hands—when had she gotten that strong?—and hurled it at his chest. Valentino stumbled backward, his wings flaring as the heavy wood caught him in the ribs.
"Mi corazón you don't have to—"
The gold-leaf strawberries followed, pelting him like expensive ammunition. Then the heated massage stones—those actually hurt, searing through his coat where they made contact. The diamond-threaded robe whipped through the air like a silk missile.
Valentino's heels skidded on champagne and crushed fruit as he backpedaled toward the door. His hands came up defensively, all four of them trying to shield his face and chest simultaneously. "Cariño, this is—this is counterproductive—"
The phone hit him square in the forehead.
Pain exploded across his skull, bright and sharp enough to make his vision blur. Valentino tasted blood—had he bitten his tongue? His wings beat frantically as he turned and ran, dignity abandoned entirely in favor of survival.
Behind him, Velvet had risen from her throne. He could hear her footsteps—those delicate heels that somehow sounded like thunder—pursuing him across the marble. More objects crashed against walls and floor around him. A makeup compact. The champagne flute. What felt like an entire tray of cosmetics.
"OUT!" Her voice finally broke its silence, and the single word carried enough venom to make his wings falter mid-beat. "GET THE FUCK OUT AND STAY OUT!"
Valentino's hand fumbled for the grimoire in his coat pocket. His fingers closed around warm leather as something heavy—maybe the entire massage table?—splintered against the doorframe inches from his head. The book pulsed against his palm, eager and ready, sensing his desperation.
He didn't bother with coordinates or careful selection. His mind just screamed anywhere else as power flooded through the grimoire's ancient pages. Reality tore open in front of him—a swirling portal of purple and pink that looked beautiful and chaotic and most importantly not here.
Valentino dove through it.
The portal spat him out thirty feet above asphalt, and Valentino's wings snapped open just in time to catch air before his face met concrete. His stomach lurched as he banked hard, gaining altitude through sheer instinct while his brain struggled to catch up with what had just happened.
The city sprawled beneath him—all sharp angles and gothic architecture that looked vaguely familiar in a way that made his antennae twitch. Tall buildings reached toward a darkening sky, their windows glowing with artificial light as evening settled across the urban landscape. Somewhere below, sirens wailed—police or ambulance, the sound universal across dimensions.
Valentino's wings carried him higher until he found a rooftop that looked deserted. He landed hard, his heels clicking against concrete as momentum nearly sent him sprawling. His hands—all four of them—braced against his knees while he fought to catch his breath.
"Puta madre," he muttered, straightening slowly. His ribs ached where the armrest had caught him, and his forehead throbbed where Velvet's phone had made contact. When he touched the spot, his fingers came away sticky with blood.
The grimoire had brought him back here. To this dimension with the three girls he'd acquired for the superhero shoot. Of all the infinite realities the book could have chosen, it had dumped him back in this one.
Valentino moved to the edge of the rooftop and looked down at the street below. Humans moved through their evening routines—walking dogs, hailing taxis, arguing on street corners. Normal. Boring. Safe in their ignorance of what existed beyond their pathetic little dimension.
His wings folded around him as he turned away from the edge. The roof stretched behind him—empty except for some ventilation equipment and what looked like an old water tower. Good. He needed space to think without Velvet's rage following him through doors and windows.
"She'll calm down," Valentino said to the empty air, his voice lacking the conviction he wanted to project. "Give her a few hours, maybe a day. The numbers don't lie. Once she sees the profit margins, she'll—"
The memory of her face as she'd hurled that phone surfaced unbidden. The absolute fury burning in her eyes, the way her entire body had vibrated with rage so pure it seemed to warp the air around her.
Maybe not a day. Maybe longer.
Valentino's hand moved to his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the warm leather of the grimoire. He could go anywhere. Any dimension, any reality where Velvet's anger couldn't reach him. Find new talent, shoot new content, build his empire somewhere she'd never—
No. That was stupid. VVV was the foundation of everything. Without the partnership, without Vox's technology and Velvet's marketing genius, he was just another Overlord scrambling for scraps. The tower, the resources, the distribution networks—all of it depended on the three of them staying together.
He just needed to give her space. Let the rage burn itself out while he stayed out of sight. A few hours, maybe overnight. Then he'd go back with a proper apology and a plan to rebrand the bunny shoot into something that wouldn't embarrass her further.
Valentino moved toward the center of the roof, away from the edges where someone might spot him from below. The concrete felt solid beneath his heels, and he let himself sink down to sit with his back against the water tower. His wings folded uncomfortably behind him, but he was too tired to care.
The cocaine had fully crashed now. Exhaustion pressed against his skull from the inside, making his eyelids heavy and his thoughts sluggish. When was the last time he'd actually slept? Before the bunny shoot. Before Velvet had forced him into that humiliating nap. Days ago.
His head tilted back against the metal of the water tower, and he stared up at the darkening sky. No stars—too much light pollution from the city below. Just an empty expanse of purple-grey that reminded him uncomfortably of Velvet's eyes when she'd looked at him with that icy fury.
"Fucking drama queen," Valentino muttered, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears. He'd earned her rage. He knew that, even if admitting it made his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to shame.
The sound cut through the air—sharp and metallic, like a blade cutting through silk. Valentino's head snapped up just as something dark sailed toward his face.
His wings flared automatically, throwing him sideways. The projectile whistled past where his head had been a split second earlier and embedded itself in the water tower with a heavy thunk. Valentino's shoulder hit concrete, and he rolled to his feet with his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs.
The thing stuck in the metal looked like a bat. A stylized, sharp-edged bat made of some kind of dark material that gleamed dully in the failing light. What the fuck kind of weapon—
Movement above made his antennae twitch. Valentino's eyes snapped upward just as a figure dropped from somewhere higher—cape billowing behind him, dark shape cutting through the air with predatory grace.
The man landed in a crouch twenty feet away. He rose slowly, and Valentino's brain struggled to process what he was seeing.
A costume. The bastard wore a full costume—all black and grey, with pointed ears rising from a cowl that covered most of his face. A cape hung from his shoulders, and his chest bore some kind of symbol. The bat thing from the weapon, Valentino realized. Everything about him screamed "theatrical" in a way that would have been laughable if not for the way he moved—fluid and controlled, like violence waiting to happen.
Valentino's lungs filled with air—automatic, defensive—but before he could exhale the hypnotic smoke, the question burst from his throat instead.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The man in the costume didn't answer immediately. He stood there with his cape settling around his shoulders, completely still except for the slight movement of his chest with each breath. The cowl hid most of his face, but Valentino could see his jaw—set hard, the muscles tight beneath the skin. And his eyes. Even in the dying light, those eyes burned with something cold and focused.
The silence stretched. Valentino's wings twitched, his body coiled tight and ready to launch himself into the air if this freak made another move. The cocaine crash made everything feel sluggish and wrong, but adrenaline was doing its best to compensate.
When the man finally spoke, his voice came out low and rough—controlled in a way that made the hairs on Valentino's antennae stand up.
"A while back, three of my colleagues went missing." Each word dropped like a stone into still water. "All I could find was a unique energy signature. One that I couldn't track. Couldn't locate." His head tilted slightly, and the cape shifted with the movement. "Until today."
The words hit Valentino's brain and took a moment to connect. Energy signature. Missing colleagues. His mind flashed back to the superhero shoot—the three women he'd pulled from this dimension, the ones currently under contract in Hell's entertainment district.
Fuck.
The man took a step forward, and Valentino's wings flared wider. Every muscle in the stranger's body moved with precision—deliberate, practiced, like he'd spent years learning exactly how to make violence efficient. But underneath that control, Valentino could see it. The tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw clenched just slightly tighter. The rigid set of his spine.
This bastard was furious.
"Where are they." The statement came out flat, it was not question and Valentino heard the edge underneath. Heard the threat that didn't need to be spoken.
His mind raced through options. Lie? This freak clearly had some way of tracking dimensional energy—he'd found Valentino on a random rooftop in a city of millions. Run? The cape-wearing psycho had already demonstrated he could move fast enough to nearly take Valentino's head off with that throwing weapon.
Tell the truth? That would go over well. "Oh, your missing friends? Yeah, I drugged them, dragged them to Hell, and filmed them fucking each other for profit. They're under soul contracts now. Want their autographs?"
Valentino's tongue darted out to wet his lips, tasting blood from where he'd bitten it during Velvet's assault. The man watched the movement with those burning eyes, waiting with a patience that felt more dangerous than any immediate violence.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Valentino tried, forcing his voice into something resembling confusion. "I just got here. Wrong dimension, wrong time—"
The man moved.
Not toward Valentino—just a shift in stance, a slight lean forward that made every instinct in Valentino's body scream danger. The cape billowed slightly with the motion, and Valentino caught a glimpse of what hung from his belt. More of those bat-shaped weapons. Something that looked like small explosives. Other devices he couldn't identify but knew instinctively he didn't want to experience.
"Don't." The single word carried absolute certainty. "Don't lie to me."
Valentino's wings beat once—a nervous flutter he couldn't suppress. This was bad. This was worse than Velvet's rage because at least with Velvet he understood the rules. He knew how to navigate her anger, knew what buttons to push and which to avoid.
"Look," Valentino started, his hands spreading in what he hoped looked like a placating gesture. "I'm sure we can work something out. Whatever you think happened—"
"I know what happened." The man's voice dropped even lower, and somehow that made it worse. "I know you took them. I know your energy signature matches the residue left at their last known locations." He took another step forward, and Valentino's heels scraped against concrete as he backed up.
Valentino's hands slid into his coat, fingers closing around the grips of all four pistols holstered there. The weight felt good. Familiar. The metal warmed against his palms as he kept his expression warm, his wings still spread in what probably looked like defensive posturing.
"Listen, amigo," Valentino purred, letting his accent thicken the way it did when he wanted to sound charming instead of threatening. His fingers tightened around the triggers while his face arranged itself into something apologetic. "I think there's been a misunderstanding here. These colleagues of yours—maybe they just needed a career change, sí? Sometimes people want to disappear, start fresh somewhere new—"
The caped man took another step forward, closing the distance with that same controlled precision.
Valentino pulled all four guns and fired.
The muzzle flashes lit up the rooftop in rapid strobes. The sound cracked through the air—sharp reports that echoed off surrounding buildings. Valentino's arms absorbed the recoil automatically, his aim tracking across the man's center mass as he emptied half his clips in the space between heartbeats.
The bastard moved.
Not away—toward. His cape snapped up in front of his body, and Valentino heard the distinctive ping of bullets ricocheting off something underneath the fabric. Some kind of armor. The cape-wearing psycho was already closing the gap, his boots eating up concrete faster than should have been possible.
"Mierda—" Valentino's wings beat hard, launching him backward and up.
Something hit his ankle mid-flight—sharp and precise. Pain exploded up his leg and his trajectory faltered. He crashed back onto the rooftop hard enough to make his teeth crack together, one of his guns skittering across concrete as his hands flew out to catch himself.
The man was on him before he could recover. A boot caught Valentino in the ribs—the same spot where Velvet's armrest had landed earlier. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent him rolling across rough concrete that scraped through his coat and into skin underneath.
Valentino's wings beat frantically as he tried to get his feet under him. His hand closed around the fallen pistols and he came up firing blind, his vision still swimming from the kick.
A fist caught him in the jaw—precise, brutal—and Valentino's head snapped back hard enough to make stars explode behind his eyes. Blood sprayed from his mouth, spattering across his wings and the concrete beneath his feet. His knees buckled, but his wings beat hard enough to keep him upright.
Valentino fired wildly with two guns still clutched in his lower hands. The muzzle flashes lit up the darkening rooftop, but the cape-wearing freak moved like smoke himself—flowing around the bullets with movements that shouldn't have been possible for something human-shaped.
Another impact—this one to his stomach—folded Valentino in half. Bile rose in his throat, mixing with blood and the lingering taste of his own hypnotic smoke. His wings beat frantically, carrying him up and away, but a hand closed around his ankle before he could gain altitude.
The world inverted. Valentino's vision blurred as he was yanked downward, and then concrete rushed up to meet his face. He twisted at the last second, taking the impact on his shoulder instead. Something in his wing joint popped—not broken, but close enough to make white-hot agony shoot through his nervous system.
A hand—gloved, armored—caught his wrist and twisted. The angle went wrong immediately, bones grinding against each other in a way that made white-hot agony shoot up his arm. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers, and Valentino heard himself make a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
His other hands fumbled for the remaining weapons, but the man moved faster. Something hard slammed into Valentino's jaw—a fist, his brain supplied distantly—and his head snapped to the side hard enough to make his vision blur. Blood filled his mouth, hot and copper-tasting.
"Where—" The man's voice came from somewhere very close, rough with barely contained fury. "Are—" Another impact, this one to Valentino's solar plexus. "They."
Valentino's knees hit concrete. When had he fallen? His hands pressed against the rooftop, trying to push himself up, but his arms shook with the effort. The cocaine crash had left him weak and slow, and this armored freak fought like someone who'd spent years perfecting the art of dismantling opponents efficiently.
A hand fisted in his coat collar and hauled him upward. Valentino's feet left the ground, his wings flapping uselessly as he dangled in the man's grip. Those burning eyes bored into his from inches away, and Valentino could see his own reflection in the dark lenses of whatever was protecting the bastard's face.
"I can do this all night," the man growled. His free hand pulled something from his belt—looked like brass knuckles, except they were shaped like those fucking bat symbols. "And I will. Until you tell me what I need to know."
Valentino's tongue worked around the blood pooling in his mouth. His ribs screamed with each breath, his wrist throbbed where it had been twisted, and his jaw felt like it might be cracked. This was bad. This was so much worse than he'd anticipated.
Valentino's lungs filled automatically—pure instinct overriding conscious thought. Pink smoke poured from between his bloodied teeth in thick, desperate streams. It exploded outward in a cloud that engulfed both their faces, and Valentino felt the man's grip on his collar loosen just slightly.
Not much. But enough.
His wings beat hard, and Valentino twisted in the man's grasp. The smoke bought him seconds—maybe three, maybe five—before this armored psycho figured out how to fight through it. Valentino used every one of them. His body wrenched free, fur tearing as his coat ripped in the man's grip, and he shot upward on wings that screamed protest with each beat.
Twenty feet. Thirty. The smoke dissipated below him, and Valentino could see the caped figure already moving—not stumbling, not confused like humans should be when breathing his hypnotic haze. Just tracking Valentino's ascent with those burning eyes like the smoke had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
"Fuck." The word burst from Valentino's throat as he banked hard left. His damaged wing joint sent agony shooting through his shoulder blade, but he pushed through it. Distance. He needed distance and time to—
Something whistled through the air beside his head. One of those bat-shaped weapons embedded itself in his good wing, punching through membrane and muscle. The pain hit a split second later—white-hot and immediate—and Valentino's altitude dropped as his wing spasmed.
"Mierda! Fucking—" He spiraled, trying to compensate with his injured wing while the good one betrayed him. The rooftop rushed up, and Valentino barely managed to get his legs under him before impact. His heels hit concrete, his knees buckled, and he rolled sideways to bleed off momentum.
Valentino's hands fumbled at his coat for weapons that weren't there anymore. When had he dropped all the guns? His brain felt sluggish, thoughts moving through tar while his body tried to process too many sources of pain simultaneously. The man grabbed his wing—the injured one—and twisted.
Valentino screamed. The sound tore from his throat raw and animal, echoing across the empty rooftop. His vision went white at the edges, and when it cleared he was on his knees with the man's hand still gripping his wing in a position that made every nerve ending shriek.
"I can keep breaking pieces until you talk." The voice came from directly behind him now, rough and controlled and absolutely certain. "Or you can tell me where they are."
Valentino's mouth worked, trying to form words around the pain radiating from his wing. His hands braced against concrete slick with his own blood, and smoke continued pouring from between his teeth in weak, useless streams. The man didn't even seem to notice it anymore.
The smoke thickened around them, no longer just pouring from his mouth but came from the pimp own form. His hands pressed harder against the concrete and the smoke surged backward in a solid wave.
The pressure on his wing released. The man stumbled back several feet, boots scraping against concrete as the smoke construct hit him like a physical blow. Not enough to knock him down—nothing seemed capable of that—but enough to break his grip and give Valentino space to breathe.
"¡Chinga tu madre!" Valentino spat blood and smoke as he forced himself upright. His wing hung at a sickening angle, membrane torn where that bat-weapon had punched through. Every movement sent fresh agony radiating through his shoulder, but staying down meant dying and he wasn't ready for that again.
The man recovered faster than should have been possible. He charged through the dissipating smoke construct, cape billowing behind him, and Valentino barely got his good wing up in time. The impact drove him backward, heels skidding across concrete slick with his own blood.
A fist caught him in the ribs—again—and something cracked—AGAIN! Valentino's breath left his lungs in a wheeze, but his lower hands were already moving. Smoke poured from his mouth again, this time forming into tendrils that wrapped around the man's arms and torso. Not to hypnotize—that clearly didn't work on this freak—but to restrain, to slow him down even for a second.
The man tore through them like they were cobwebs. His armored forearm caught Valentino across the jaw, snapping his head sideways hard enough to make his vision blur. More blood filled his mouth, and Valentino spat it at the dark lenses protecting those burning eyes.
"Fuck you!" The words came out garbled around his split lip. "Fuck your missing friends! Fuck this entire—"
A knee drove into his stomach, folding him in half. Bile rose hot and acidic in his throat, mixing with blood and the lingering taste of cocaine from hours ago. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the man's armor, trying to push away, but the material was too smooth and his fingers too slick with his own blood.
Valentino's good wing beat hard, lifting them both off the ground. Maybe ten feet, maybe fifteen—high enough that the fall would hurt them both. The man's hand closed around his throat, cutting off air, but Valentino twisted in his grip. His heel connected with armored ribs, once, twice, and on the third impact he felt the grip loosen just enough.
He dropped them both.
The concrete rushed up, and Valentino twisted mid-fall—using his body weight to flip their positions. The man hit first, Valentino landing on top of him, and the impact jarred through both their bodies with a sickening crunch. The grip on his throat released completely.
Valentino rolled away, gasping for air through his damaged windpipe. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the concrete, and his injured wing dragged uselessly behind him. His ribs screamed with each breath, but breathing meant living and he'd take pain over death again any day.
The man was already moving. Already pushing himself up like the fall had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Smoke poured from Valentino's mouth—thick and purposeful. It coalesced into something solid, something with weight and mass. The construct took shape—a massive hand that slammed into the man's chest and drove him backward across the rooftop. The cape billowed as he skidded, boots scraping concrete.
Valentino forced himself upright, using his good wing for balance. His vision blurred at the edges, but he pushed more smoke out. Another construct formed—this one a wall between them, giving him precious seconds to—
The wall exploded.
Something small and round had punched through it—one of those devices from the man's belt. The explosion scattered his smoke construct into useless wisps, and through the dissipating haze Valentino saw him charging forward again.
"¡Puta madre!" Valentino threw his hands up, smoke forming into spears that launched toward the advancing figure. The man dodged left, right, his movements economical and precise. One spear grazed his shoulder—not enough to slow him, barely enough to mark the armor.
A metal object whistled through the air. Valentino jerked his head aside, felt it graze his cheek hot enough to burn. The thing embedded itself in the water tower behind him and started sparking—some kind of electrical device that made the metal hum and crackle.
"Fuck!" The word burst from his throat as he dove sideways. His damaged wing caught on concrete, tearing membrane further, and white-hot agony shot through his shoulder.
Another projectile—this one trailing wire—wrapped around his ankle mid-roll. Valentino's momentum yanked him to a stop, and the man was there. Right there. Fist already moving toward his face.
Valentino's upper hands caught the wrist. His lower hands formed smoke constructs—small, sharp, driving toward exposed joints in the armor. The man twisted, avoiding two, but the third caught him in the side. Not deep. Not enough. But it made him grunt, made him shift his weight.
Valentino used the opening. His non injured wing did all it could to lift him despite the wire still tangled around his ankle. The sudden upward momentum jerked the man off balance, and Valentino's heel caught him in the jaw—satisfying impact that snapped the bastard's head back.
The wire released. Some kind of quick-disconnect mechanism that Valentino didn't question. He gained altitude—twenty feet, thirty—his bloody wing screaming protest with each beat but functioning enough to keep him airborne.
Something hit his back. Hard. Small explosion that felt like being kicked by a mule. Valentino's flight pattern wobbled, smoke trailing from the impact point where his coat had caught fire. He beat the flames out with his lower hands while trying to maintain altitude with wings that no longer wanted to cooperate.
The man stood below, another device already in hand. His chest heaved with exertion—finally, finally showing some sign that this fight was costing him something. But those eyes. Those fucking eyes still burned with that same cold fury.
"You can't run forever," the man called up, voice rough but steady.
Valentino spat blood over the edge of the roof. Watched it fall toward that upturned face. "Watch me, pendejo."
Valentino's hands fumbled in his coat for the grimoire. His fingers closed around warm leather slick with his own blood, and the book pulsed against his palm—eager, ready, sensing his desperation. The pages flipped open on their own, responding to the single thought screaming through his cocaine-crashed, pain-addled brain.
Home.
Reality tore open beside him with that familiar shriek of tortured dimensions. Purple and pink swirled together in a vortex that looked beautiful and chaotic and most importantly away from here. Valentino didn't look back at the caped psycho below. Didn't give him time to throw another one of those fucking bat-weapons.
He dove through the portal.
Hell's sulfur-thick air hit his lungs like coming home, and Valentino's damaged wings gave out completely. He dropped the last five feet and hit marble floor with a bone-jarring impact that sent fresh agony radiating through his cracked ribs. The portal sealed behind him with a wet sound, cutting off any possibility of pursuit.
Valentino lay there for a moment, his cheek pressed against cool marble that was probably white but looked pink through the blood coating his vision. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat sent pulses of pain through his jaw, his ribs, his twisted wrist, his torn wing.
But he was alive. He was home.
Heels clicked against marble—approaching with measured, deliberate steps that made something in Valentino's chest tighten with dread.
"Well, well."
Velvet's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. Valentino managed to lift his head enough to see her standing ten feet away, one perfectly manicured hand on her hip. She looked immaculate—not a hair out of place, her makeup flawless, her designer dress without a single wrinkle.
The complete opposite of how he currently looked, in other words.
Her eyebrow arched as she took in his state. Blood matted his hair and coated his face. One wing bent at an unnatural angle, the membrane shredded. His mouth was split open, his jaw swelling, and he was pretty sure he'd lost at least one tooth.
"What the fuck happened to you?"
The question came out flat. Not concerned. Just mildly curious.
Valentino pushed himself up on trembling arms, tasting copper and sulfur. His split lip throbbed as he formed the words. "I got jumped by a giant bat."
The statement hung in the air between them. Velvet's expression didn't change—still that same detached curiosity.
"A bat," she repeated, her tone completely flat.
"Sí." Valentino managed to get his knees under him, though his ribs screamed protest. Blood dripped from his chin onto the pristine marble, leaving dark splatters that would probably stain. "Big fucking bat. With fists. And weapons. Very aggressive bat."
He forced himself to look up at her through his good eye—the other one was swelling shut rapidly. His jaw ached as he shaped the next words, trying for casual despite the fact that breathing felt like knives in his chest.
"How was your day, cariño?"
The question clearly wasn't what Velvet expected. Her other eyebrow joined the first, both arching toward her hairline. Then her lips twitched.
It started as a small sound—barely a huff of air through her nose. But it grew. Her shoulders shook slightly, and then actual laughter bubbled up from her throat. Not the polite, controlled sound she used in business meetings. Real laughter that made her eyes crinkle at the corners.
Valentino watched her through his haze of pain, confused and wary. Was this good? This felt like it might be good. Unless she was laughing because she planned to finish what the bat-freak had started.
Velvet pulled her phone from somewhere—he hadn't even seen her holding it—and the camera flashed. Once, twice, three times. She was taking pictures of him. Of his bloodied, broken state sprawled on her marble floor like some kind of pathetic art installation.
"Oh my god," she managed between laughs, her thumb swiping across the screen. "You look absolutely fucking pathetic. This is going in my personal collection."
Another flash. Valentino's good eye watered from the brightness, but he didn't move. Didn't protest. Just knelt there bleeding while she documented his humiliation with obvious delight.
"A giant bat," Velvet repeated, shaking her head as fresh laughter overtook her. "That's what you're going with. A giant fucking bat jumped the great Valentino and beat his ass into the ground."
She turned on her heel, still laughing, her phone clutched in one hand. The sound echoed off the marble walls as she walked away—not stormed, not stomped, just walked with her usual measured grace. The clicking of her heels faded down the corridor, punctuated by periodic bursts of laughter that grew more distant.
Valentino remained kneeling on the floor, watching her disappear around a corner. His cracked ribs protested each breath.
"Dose this mean we good?" He called out before passing out.