I donât care how disgusting or fucked up a fic is. NO writer should EVER be harassed for writing taboo fics, especially when the warnings are properly tagged and you choose to go ahead and read them on your own free will.
youâre not morally superior for harassing real people for the sake of fictional characters and fictional stories. youâre just a bully.
be overly edgy . be fucked up . lie to strangers online . be a pervert . stand up about what you believe is right . be proud . be extraordinarily yourself .
Warnings: Typical yandere stuff, dark content, kidnapping, forced labor, implies violence, bad parenting, bank robbery, other illegal activites Dante, insecurity, bad Italian.
A/N: Not my best work, but I don't hate it. I've got a part two and three planned, and these boys are now open for requests. I didn't think to stress this, but this is a period piece for the eighties. This is loosely based off the crime family from goonies, the fratellis. Please let me know what you think in the comments, I'm... iffy on the work.
Loose floorboards creak overhead, casting dust down into the dark basement you've been dwelling in for what feels like years. In actuality, its only been about a week.
It was a simple case of wrong place, wrong time. You were cashing a check from your fathers business at a local bank, when the sound of yelling and a gunshot rang out through the room. Headlines had been made a few weeks ago, about two brothers bring sprung from the local prison by an unknown assistant. They were locked up for all sorts of things, but armed robbery and counterfeiting being the primary one. When they had broken into the bank, alongside a smaller masked figure, you hadn't known what to do.
Unfortunately, with your father running for the mayoral spot, you had been recognized from a local campaign ad and bagged.
That's how you ended uo in the custody of the Bianchi crime family. They were not nearly as impressive as they sounded, given its only a mother and her two sons.
Frankie Bianci was the enforcer, the meathead who originally dragged you towards there getaway vehicle with large, meaty hands and a firm chest. From the brief conversations you've overheard, he's certainly the muscle and not the brains.
Dante, his older brother, lacks the muscle but has the brains. A lanky man with a constant sarcastic sneer and thick coke bottle glasses, you much prefer dealing with Frankie. Dumb as he is, he's not mean, not like Frankie. It's clear he suffers from a bit of a complex, he's definetly not Mama Bianci's favorite. You suspect he enjoys taking his frustration out on you and Frankie.
Lastly, Mama Bianci, the worst of the three. A short, near elderly woman with a wicked soul. She's violent, cruel, and the true puppet master of this operation. You never thought you'd be grateful for the brothers, but you'd make them ocasionally attending to you over her any day.
It's clear from the floorboards that they're home, you don't know or care where they've been. All you know is your momentary peace is shattered.
"Frankie, careful with the bags, you lunk!" Dante's tell-tale high pitched voice squeals upstairs, followed by the sound of a 'smack'. "You'll crush the tomatos-" Another, much harder smack. "Don't hit your brother, you little bastard."
"-Ow! Ma! Shit-" Another smack. "And don't cuss around your mother." The sound of some weak apologies barely make it through the floorboards, before you hear footsteps. Luckily for you, they sound pretty heavy. Frankie.
You don't even look up from where your sat, wrist chained to the radiator. Frankie enters, his head full of taken care of curls bounding with him. He always reminds you he's 'the good looking bianci'.
"Hey, piccolina. We're home." He says, signature big dumb grin on his face. You get the sende despite your hostage situation, he seems to think that you have some sort of camaraderie. "Ma's making her famous gnocchi. It's real good, got a tomato sauce with some riccotta-"
"What do you want?" You ask, hoping your defeated tone might make him realize you don't feel like chatting.
"Hm?" He seems to genuinely pause to think. "Just wanna talk. I'm not really allowed in the kitchen when ma and Dante are cooking. I got butta' fingers." He jokes. You just grimace when he slides down the wall to sit on the dusty floor beside you. "I ever tell you we owned a restaurant? We did when I was little. We weren't clean or nothing, we still did some extortion, but the restaurants was decent to." You get the feeling this will be a long story.
"My dad ran the business back then, my ma was the chef. Frankie was a hostess." He snickers. "He says he was a host, but I always thought his apron made him look molto bella. Means 'very beautiful'." He seems to be cracking himself up, and not really caring that you aren't reacting. "I was the busboy, cause I could hold all the trays and plates." He flexes a bicep, trying to gauge your reaction. When you don't react, he just untenses and glances away awkwardly. "Uh- yeah. When my dad died, we sold the restaurant and went straight to crime. Which kinda sucks. I mean, I like busting heads, but- we were about to make a mint!"
"Like... money?" You can't help but ask. Seems like a really old term for him to use.
"Huh? No, a mint. Like one of the butta ones, little imprint with the restaurant name on it. Would've put em at the front, with all day toothpicks-"
You return to tuning him out, but despite yourself, his excitement at the idea of a diner mint is sort of amusing. Soon, an especially sour and slightly bruised Dante comes down, raise a brow.
"What's wrong with you?" He sneers, narrowing his eyes. "You getting friendly with the payday?"
"We're just talking, Dante. I was telling Piccolina here about the restaurant. Remember, we was gonna make a-"
"A mint, oh my god, I know. You and the fucking mint, Jesus christ!" Dante throws his hands up in exasperation, silencing the larger man. "Ugh, ma wants you, dinners almost ready, and she needs something from the high shelf."
"Can't you get it?" Frankie asks; just genuinely confused. His brothers pretty tall, despite his other more awkward features.
"Of course I can, you know how she gets. Mama wants her big, strong, baby boy. Go make yerself useful." Dante spits. Frankie just shrugs and gets up, back cracking a bit from sitting on such uncomfortable concrete. Part of him wonders if ma wouldn't let him move you.
"Alright, I'm going." He turns to you, brushing thick fingers over your locks. "Bye bye, piccolina. I'll bring you some dinner, huh? S' real good..." he coos, that same dumb grin. Dante makes a sound which emanates disgust.
You've begun to realize escape is hopeless. Frankie is the only one whose remotely kind to you, and despite yourself, you speak. "Bye, Frankie."
He lights up like a boy on christmas, looking at his brother to see if he heard too. Dante has already buried himself in his work, but Frankie just waves it off, bounding happily up the stairs. "Coming, ma!"
Dante isn't much for conversation, and for that you're glad. He just slinks back upstairs after getting the printer, the one they use for counterfeiting, working.
It's not long before you hear another argument break out. "Ma, there's no gnocchi left, s' all sauce. I barely got any, Frankie ate the whole pot."
"He needs it!" Her crackly voice makes you shiver. The few times you've been injured since you got here were all because of her. Though, you should consider yourself lucky, Frankie is her enforcer. You can't imagine being hit with his brick like fists. "He's a growing boy."
"Growing boy-" Dante gapes. "He's six two, ma! He grows anymore he won't fit in the van- ah!" The telltale, slightly wet sound of a sauce covered wooden spoon hitting flesh. You smile a bit. "Don't argue with your mutha!"
"Yeah, Dante. I gotta eat big to stay big." Frankie coos, and the gobbling sounds that follows emphasize his point. "Whatever, I'm eating downstairs, I'll take my sauce-soup to go." A chair skids and slams, as Dante slinks downstairs.
"Ey' meal ticket. Dinner." He drops a small saucer with about three gnocchi and some sauce at your feet. "Go on, eat it."
"Not hungry." You mumble. "I-I don't want anything from you." He pauses, then snatches the food back up.
"Fine, you uppity bitch. More for me, God knows I need it with that pig upstairs." He dumps your bowl into his. "That whiny nonsense may work with my brother, but I'm not here to make friends with you. You're lucky we feed you at all." He flops onto the worn couch, not even eating his hard earned food. Instead, he takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and starts to light up. The tv plays some sort of fishing show; maybe a documentary.
After a few minutes, he notices you looking. "Neva seen a guy smoke before?" He asks, jolting his head forward, then back, like a snake.
"It's gross. And it smells." You mumble. He rolls his eyes. "God, its not a hotel, sweetheart, you're chained to a radiator. Smoking should be the least of your worries. Takes the edge off. You think I'm bad now, you don't wanna see me without my nic." He pauses, then rolls his head over to you. The look in his eyes makes you shiver.
"In fact-" he takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "A few drags might make you less of a bitch." You try to press back against the radiator as he flips the cancer-stick around, nearing your lips. "Cmon, open up."
"Stop it- I don't wanna." You sniffle, trying to dodge the cigarette. "Knock it off, please."
"No- you wanted to comment, you gotta try it. 'Don't judge lest ye be judged'. Catholics, we take that seriously, you know?" He's like a cat whose finally caught a single mouse, cornered it. His free hand grabs your wrist, tight enough that you let out a hiss of pain. Unfortunately for you, he takes this opportunity to slide the foul tasting stick between your lips.
You gag, breathing in the smoke and immediately coughing, hacking. "Okay, that's your own fault, don't inhale." He laughs. The tears welling in your eyes remain, as you try to take another drag, hoping to get it over with. "T-there-" You cough. "Happy?"
He pauses, thinking, then shakes his head. "Nah. Smoke it all, don't be a baby. You might get a taste for it." Your lips barely clamp around the cigarette, weak and trying to inhale as little as possible. It never gets less unpleasant, but the slow inhales and exhales become more steady. It's not long till it's down to a butt, and he takes it away from your lips. "See? Now you can judge." He strolls back to the couch.
"I heard coughing, did you swallow another cigarette?" Frankie calls, poking his head down into the basement. When he sees your reddish, teary eyes and smudged lipstick; he knows what's happened. "Hey- hey! What's wrong with you, you got a screw loose?" He exclaims, kicking his smug brothers shin as he walks by. "Ma!"
"Here he goes- little snitch-"
"Ma! Dante's making the hostage smoke!" He yells.
"She like it?" His ma calls back. "Well- no-"
"Then good on him, let your brother do what he's gotta do. Being a hostage ain't pleasant, baby." She calls, clearly annoyed. "Now don't botha me, my soaps are on!"
Dante earns a glare from his younger brother, which only serves to fuel his satisfied grin. Frankie kneels down, and sees the empty saucer. "He take your food, piccolina?"
"She didn't want it, threw a fit. Besides, smoking helps with appetite." Dante breaks into a fit of laughter at his own joke. Frankie ignores him.
"S' okay, you gotta try Ma's cooking. Cmon, I saved you some from my plate, open up." He produces a worn Tupperware, and you reluctantly take the fork. The one cigarette has made you nauseous enough to want something, anything to settle your stomach. "There ya go, good huh! Dante actually makes the sauce, he's pretty good at it."
Dante perks up for a moment at the praise; only to frown when and roll his eyes when his brother makes a remark about him 'making a good housewife'.
The food is incredible, but it does little to tamper the fact that you're still chained up in a basement... to a radiator. Dante keeps watching the tv, ocasionally casting a glance over at you and getting annoyed with the way Frankie watches you with puppy dog eyes.
"Good huh?" Frankie asks.
"Yeah, good. Really good."
"See? Not all bad. The food is five star. You won't get this anywhere else. Not since the restaurant closed." You get the sense that's supposed to be a joke, and give him a pity smile.
Eventually, the evening winds down, and you try your best to slumber. Sometime, late in the night, you're awoken from the rough press of concrete against your arm, which you've been using as a pillow, to the sound of stuttering machinery.
"Shit-" a rough kick goes to the base of the printer, with an even more flustered than usual Dante standing to its side. "Damn machine."
"Dante, turn that damn machine down, I'm getting beauty sleep!" MamanBianci is always worse when shes sleepy. "And don't work in the dark, you'll ruin your eyes." Her voice trails off.
"Sorry, ma." Dante calls. The machine clangs as it tries to process a command, letting out a stuttering sound. Dante lights a candle, and then tries to focus on the machine. He chews at his nails, a frequent nervous habit of him. After another loud crash, he flinches, beginning to pace. "Damn machine-" he notices you staring.
"What are you staring at?" He snaps, and you flinch. "Did you break it?" You ask, wanting to prod back a bit for all he's done to you so far. "Can you fix it?"
"Of course I can!" He spits, momentarily enraged, before he clinches his fists, then relaxes them. "Fine. I'm fine. I can fix it." He starts to fiddle with it, mumbling to himself, before it jerks, then begins to print some suspiciously dollar bill looking sheets. He sighs, and stands. "Finally."
"I bet you got lucky." You mumble, and immediately feel an empty can hit your forehead. "Ow- shit, what was that for?" You're to angry to be scared right now, shocked. "Don't be a brat." He snaps, striding over to where you're cuffed. He shoves a slightly ink-stained fingers in your face, making you flinch back.
"You're lucky the only one who has time to deal with you is my bleeding heart brother, if it were me or ma, you wouldn't even have to hands left to cuff." He spits, making you pale. He's so close to you know, same dark curls and eyes as Frankie, but so much colder. Narrowed, angry. Yet, wounded. "You think your tough? Huh? Oh- pick on the skinny one, the little guy? You forget that you're still at our mercy?"
"I'm sorry! Sorry!" You sputter, curling in on yourself. "It's just- the can hurt. I got angry, didn't mean it."
He seems pleased at this, standing back up and nodding. "Yeah, yeah. I'm the one in charge here. I'm smarter than you, better than you. And I'm gonna continue to be till your daddy pays up and we can ship your ass off." He jolts forward again, making you flinch. He chuckles, going back to work.
It's suddenly overwhelming, messing with you. The situation your in, the cold concrete and the tight cuffs. The fear of being hurt more; or worse. Missing your family. Tears well again, as your lip wobbles. You begin to sniffle, trying to hug yourself as best you can with your limited movement.
After a few minutes of soft crying, there's a groan. "God, stop with the sniffling-" he spins in his chair to face you. "It's distracting. Are you that much of a baby? Can't handle being told to stop being a brat?"
You're too upset to even respond, rubbing at your eyes. "Sorry."
He winces, looking slightly pained, like a man on a plane with a screaming baby. "Its annoying just- make yourself useful. Come here and help me feed the paper through the machine. If you're gonna be up, you should help out."
To your suprise, he undoes the cuffs, but yanks you up by your collar, dragging you over to the machine. He shows you how to feed sheets through the opening, occasionally commenting on your technique.
Soon, another, pretty convincing sheet of bills is printed. "Impressive, I know." He chuckles.
"I guess." You mumble. "You didn't do it by yourself."
"Right, you held the paper. But I fixed the damn machine, and I usually run it by myself." He leans in. "You think that lunk could do this? He doesn't even like the machine, he's a baby about all the work it takes. All he knows is punching."
Everything is a dick measuring competition between the brothers. It seems like Dante can't make a comment about something he's proud of without trying to tear his brother down. To be fair, you've seen Frankie acting like a bully from a cheesy movie, hoarding his strength over his brother and stealing his glasses. You get the feeling things have always been this way.
"He's your family. You- should at least try and get along." You suggest, feeling awkward. This is the most Dante has ever spoken to you without getting distracted or fighting with Frankie.
"Wha- why do you care? You think I need advice on family matters from someone whose daddy hasn't even tried to get them back?" He sneers, shaking his head. He sets aside the sheet and has you start feeding another through the machine. "He's an idiot. All muscle, and he ain't right in the head. Telling me about morals, you're not the pope." He continues to ramble on, grumbling to himself angrily. You get the sense he's not interested in talking to you anymore.
When a few more sheets have gone through, he drags you back over to the corner, and puts your cuffs back on. "You weren't that bad. I mean- on the machine. Might make you work again, speeds it up." It's an order, but he's phrasing it like an offer. And invitation. "Rest up. I'm sure Frankie will wanna talk your ear off in the morning, and we'll have work to do."
He stands, hands in his pockets, and turns to the door.
"Dante?" You whisper, looking up. You hope, since you've been useful, he'll grant you a request. "Would you please put out the candle. I- i don't like things being lit when I can't put them out-"
"God, stop yapping. I'll do it, jesus." He snuffs the light. "You're as bad as that scaredy cat upstairs. Hush up, lay down." You close your eyes, and don't notice how he lingers at the door momentarily.
Back up in his bedroom, Frankie watching a shitty Italian soap with the captions on. Dante was always better at Italian than he was, but he still likes to watch the movies he grew up with. The chunky tv his ma let him bring upstairs is cheap and low quality, black and white, but he doesn't mind. On the screen, some handsome lothario is wooing a lady, a hand extended with a rose towards her. He smiles, as the man declares his love, for his 'piccolina'.
In his chest, he knows your a hostage, and that he's stood by while his Ma did horrible things to you. But, that's how she is, nothing can be done. What he can do, is act on how you make him feel. Every time he sees you sniffling away, or quiet, he feels like he's gotta check on your. Not to mention, you're so, so pretty. You listen to him, you don't nod along but ignore like ma, or tell him to fuck off like Dante. You sit and hang on his every word. He doesn't like to think about the fact you have no choice. Just... let him live in his delusion.
Across the hall, grunting and flipping onto his mattress, Dante is ready for bed after another long, complicated day with his shitty family. Sliding off his shirt, only his tank remains. When removing his jeans, he empties his pockets. Some change, from when Frankie insisted on using the claw machine at the store. A bottlecap from his soda, and... a cigarette butt. He stares, stares at the light stain of your lipstick around what remains of the scorched paper. His mind wanders back momentarily to the way you looked at him. Eyes full of tears, coughing, but still AT him. Only him, not his ma, or his brother, him.
The way you listened when he snapped at you to run the machine. Obedient. He was in charge, you needed him. Needed him to get your mind off the fear and anxiety, even if he was partly to blame.
He scoffs. He realizes how crazy it is, staring at a piece of trash and fantasizing about the girl chained up in downstairs. A business transaction, all this is. No need to get worked up over nothing. "Stupid." He grunts, tossing away the bottle cap. However... the cigarette butt doesn't go in the trash. As if on instinct, he lays it on his night stand.
Both brothers would rather ignore the feelings being stirred up, but they can't help but wonder if there's anyway you might be feeling the same. Dante has to force himself to stop pondering if Stockholm is real, and Frankie just tries to focus on the way the woman in the movie he acts. He's had girls, plenty. He's a ladies man. So... are you giving him signs? Is he just not noticing.
For once, you do sleep better than the brothers Bianci.
âare you listeningâ no actually iâm currently trying not to get wet at the thought of getting violently pounded into a mattress but feel free to go on
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