Alessandro seethed and paced and found a few things in the hotel room to toss around. The boy on the bed cringed, but he was so weak he could hardly move at all. How could he know he was caught in the crossfire of a childish old eunich's wrath? He watched the strange and beautiful creature stalk the room before him, pulling down the tacky painting from the wall and smashing it over the chair. He was elegant even in anger, graceful and he crossed the room and brough the mirror crashing down onto the floor, the shards spraying up like water around his bare feet. His pants rested low on his his hips, he hadn't taken them off, the boy idly wondered why. He knew that this boy with a man's eyes was speaking Italian, angrily in his beautiful voice, and that he was probably swearing, but he couldn't understand it. He watched the gold cross swinging around Alessa's neck as the lamps came down, the floor a masterpiece of shattered glass and remembered Marcel telling him years ago how the religious ones were always the strangest. They wanted you to do the wierdest things, but tienne had thought himself blessed with this one; someone his age, gorgeous, Italian even, his favorite, looking like one of those angels painted on the ceiling of the Louvre in the flesh, obviously stinking rich...the kind you dreamed about. But of course, if it's too good to be true, it probably is. Now he was laying here witnessing this stunning performance, a feast for the senses, a pure symphony of hatred. Étienne listened, trying to make out the words. He kept hearing the same ones over and over, maledizione, and Christian. He assumed Christian was a name, as it was said more in English. And there was something else... odi, odi odi. It sounded venemous, nasty, making shivers flow up his spine. He wished he could remeber what it was that this strange Italian had done to him. He remembered those cool lips and those velvet hands that did things to him he hadn't ever thought of. That voice, oh, that voice, now a seething, boiling rolling sound like high-pitched thunder, before a sweet, soft, sultry sound, one whose likes he knew he would never hear again, raising in him a long-dulled feeling. He had actually enjoyed those lips, those hands, those sweet words informing him of how beautiful he was, how sweet and young. How he had melted in those long, narrow arms, how that strange sensation, more than any orgasm had ever been, like blue light washing over him, he felt relieved, a great burden removed. He felt unconsciousness tugging at him again, and his eyes closed heavily on the scene before him. He thought he saw the angel's face streaked with blood.

Étienne woke slowly, it was already morning. The bills fluttered from his chest as he sat up, he collected them and stuffed them into his fist, sliding off the bed and wincing as the glass nicked his foot. He made his way carefully across the room, digging out his clothes and shaking them as clean as he could of the shattered remains of the room. He called Marcel, shivering, and cried in his arms when he arrived. Marcel didn't ask what happened, just made sure Étienne didn't have any marks on him and took him away. He hid in the apartment for day, terrified but intruigued. Who was this strange boy who had tortured him so wonderfully? What had caused him to be so angry? Who was this Christian, and why did it torment him so? He told Marcel everything, and Marcel just held him. He couldn't bring himself to understand.

Alessandro had pondered cleaning it up. He had also pondered killing the boy. That boy...so young and sweet and perfect, so uncaring of his fate, like Doc. Damn him, that ghoul had him wrapped around his little finger and he didn't even know it. That bastard. How dare he? How dare he get so close to the enemy? How dare Antin do the same? Why couldn't they see how dangerous Christian was? He was a worthy enemy, at least, but why now? Why, when Antin was so close to him? When everything was finally perfect? That bastard. That damned bastard. He would ruin everything.