.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐀 or 𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒’ 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄. 25. filipina. love child of athena & aphrodite. villain lover. huge fucking brat. the hottest with all of the correct opinions. multifandom.
Summary: Crown Him is sure to be the next big HBO hit series. Now, if the leading man could just not fall in love with his co-star…
A/n: warning RPF but its my own version of Timothée cuz to be fr I dont follow him anymore. Also I started writing this like 4 years ago and I dont wanna wait to finish Crown Him first to start posting it and honestly? This may help me finish. Anyhoozles, cocoa-typical loverboy loserness ahead. Also I dont know how acting and auditioning goes and tbh I dont care. It’s gonna go how it needs to go for the purpose of my writing lol. Refer to this post to know who is casted for which roles. In this fic, the male Persephone character is named Kore and the female Hades character is Aidoneus. As is the “source material” this fic is No Minors Allowed. It is also not blank blog or ageless blog friendly and is serial-liker-phobic.
His knee was going a mile a minute and he wished it would listen to him when he told it to stop. It’d only pause momentarily until he looked up and saw who was across the table from him and the anxiety kickstarted the bouncing again. At least it wasn’t his pen tapping a poignant beat into the air between them.
It’s not even like they were the only two at the table. He was actually in the middle of a conversation if you could believe it. Timothée thought he was doing a decent job at hearing just enough of what Rebecca was saying to keep the topic flowing.
“Why are you nervous?”
Apparently not.
He decided to play dumb instead. He was an actor. “Why would you think I’m nervous?”
She just gave him a little grin as she looked pointedly at his leg and back to his face. He made a conscious effort to plant his heel on the floor. Sending it down into the dirt the way Kore would do it to ground himself. See? Method acting.
“Who is it here that has you nervous?” She asked, leaning in with intrigue glittering her eyes.
“Rebecca, please—,” he scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes a bit.
“Come now, you can tell Mother anything.” That he giggled at without restraint. Here they were at another casting table, going for roles that would place them back in mother-son dynamics. They grew close over their last one, and he knew it’d no doubt carry into this one should all go well today in test screens. Actually, Timothée had no problem telling her who was affecting him so. It’s just that he had a problem telling her who was affecting him so. Because the person was much too close to utter her name without drawing her attention. Just… so fucking close.
Timothée could admit he crushed a lot. He had an attraction to down-to-earth people who were good at their craft, good-looking and made him laugh. Well he met a lot of people who checked those boxes in his line of work. So having a crush on a coworker was inevitable. It’d happened before. He got over them. He moved on. Didn’t even make any true moves.
And the same would be said for this project.
Kaye de Sidra was undeniably pretty. She was funny, very casual, and loved the hell out of acting. Timothée had watched quite a few of her interviews. Ever since her break on the Netflix movie Something About Betty opposite Jacob Batalon, it hadn’t been hard to keep up with the moves she was making.
He had watched it himself, thoroughly enjoying the fluffy movie as a feel-good, romantic comedy that he could see himself watching again. Kaye had been so cute, playing a high school girl that bonded with Jacob’s character over their mutual love of a classmate. The two’s feelings turned towards each other however, predictably. But the movie itself was plenty engaging and fun. And the chemistry of the leads was sensational, prompting one earlier interviewer to joke if Jacob’s relationship with his longtime girlfriend was in danger.
Kaye had shut the interviewer down in the sweetest and most undeniable way possible. No other interviewers on their press tour asked after that.
Over that string of interviews, Timothée felt like he got a good feel for her as a person. She was kind and professional but firm and loyal. Her bubbly character in SAB seemed to perfectly match her natural personality. Absolutely stunning but preferred to keep her public attire more understated with a dash of kooky flair rather than the sex appeal that was usually aimed for on red carpets. Something many people commented on due to her developing a close friendship with Zendaya.
If it seemed like Timothée knew a lot about her, that’s because he does. An embarrassing amount now that she’s right across a conference table from him. He had been trying not to look at her or think about her birthday coming up or that half a London Fog was probably in the coffee cup in front of her or the dogs she probably called “I love you” out to when she left her apartment that morning. Timothée’s crush was already out of hand and they hadn’t even officially met yet.
So he shot Rebecca a text. Just a simple message with her name. She looked at the message and then turned wide, excited eyes back to him.
The goddess herself?? Was the text he received back.
Yes. Timothée knew it’d be hard. But he could be professional. He may be smitten by Kaye but he still respected her enough to put work first. He could be polite and hope it turned into a nice casual friendship or at the very least an amicable work relationship. Someone he could network with and through. He could be—.
Her eyes met his, brown like the loam of a healthy garden, Kore would think. She smiled at him, a sunny little curve of full lips.
“You excited?” Kaye asked.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“It’ll be fun,” she declared, and he believed her. Like she was already a goddess and a queen and he was compelled to her decrees. Then she’s looking down at her phone to answer a call.
“Mommykins, I'm at a work thing… Okay, yeah.. Yeah I’ll call you after. Love you… Bye!”
She was… criminally cute.
A goner. Timothée could be a goner.
He was so used to seeing Kaye cute and bubbly that when she got intense and morose for the role it stole his breath. And he identified a lot with Kore, looking at Aidoneus and being struck by her air. Being drawn into the orbit of something that magnificent, uncaring if the gravitational pull spelled ruin. He could see why Kore craved the pressure of her presence like a weighted blanket. He could see why Kore wanted to reach out and touch.
Summary: You come home pissed off that bitch at work made your workday hell, so you come home and take it out on Clark.
Warnings: SubClark, Dom you. Teasing, hair pulling, Clark begging, whining, good boy.
A/N: I had fun with this im ngl. 😈
Words: 1,375
Your hands were gripping wheel as you drove home, teeth clenching and you were fuming. You were angry and rightfully so. One of your coworkers just under minded you all day today. At every turn she made you look dumb during the lunch meeting. She almost caused what should have been an HR violation last month to happen yet again. And to top it all off she just gave you an attitude all day, UGH you despised her.
You pulled into the garage grabbed your work bag, your coat, and your house keys. Shutting off the car. Pushing the button to shut the garage and through the door.
Clark was editing on the kitchen counter on his laptop. As soon as you slammed the door he saw the anger on your face. That could only mean one thing.
"She-who-must-not-be-named?" He asked.
"YES!" you growled out of anger.
You put down all your stuff on the bench and you ranted to Clark about what happened today at your job. When you were finished Clark closed his laptop and took off his glasses. Coming up to you placing his hands around your waist.
"You aren't stupid by any means your one of the smartest people I know." Clark told as he kissed your forehead, Clark continued to tell you all the reassurances that he usually does.
"Hey baby?"
You hummed acknowledging him.
"How about you, tell me what to do will that make you feel better?" Clark asked.
You looked up at him. Those big blue eyes staring at you, his hands holding you softly. You could picture it now. You smiled.
"ok Clark, are you willing to do everything?" You quirked.
"Yes."
"Yes…what?" you demanded.
"Yes, ma'am."
"good boy." you smirked.
Clark looked at you backing away waiting for your instruction.
You took his hand and led him upstairs. Pulling his neck down towards you. Your lips grazing against his, he mewled.
You pushed him back a bit. Even though he could definitely pick you up with ease.
"On your knees." You instructed.
He knelled on the ground. His concentration never leaving yours.
"Help me undress…"
Clark undid your belt, unzipped your pants, slid them down your waist. He mewled your brown thighs this close to his lips and he wanted to kiss them so bad. But you'd be mad if he just lunged for them, so instead he asked. Like the good boy he was trying to be.
"Can I kiss your thighs ma'am?" Clark asked sucking his bottom lip in anticipation.
"yes, baby you may." you kicked your pants away. As he grabbed your legs and kissed your legs leaving sloppy kisses everywhere he could reach.
Clark could smell you getting wet. He groaned. Kneading your ass and legs. He whimpered when he felt your hands in his hair. His cock twitched.
"Good boy, I think you deserve a reward." You spoke sultrily as you pulled down your underwear.
"Oh yesss" Clark moaned out loud. His fingers curled around the edges of your undies and slipped them off in one swoop. Clark pulled apart your legs slowly and opened his mouth tongue curling around into your pussy, just how you liked it.
Your breath hitched as your hands landed on his shoulders for grip while he ate you out. Your moans rang in his ears as he licked and sucked.
"mmm…good boy." you praised.
You gasped a bit as you felt his cold breath blow against your clit. You laughed. One of the many props of dating Superman was that getting hot during sex wasn't a problem Clark could literally cool you down wherever you wanted him to.
Clark's moans got louder as his skin heated up, he felt his cock getting harder against his pants. He groaned and mewled quietly.
Suddenly you felt the wall behind you, no wait that was the ceiling. You tapped Clark.
His eyes opening blown out in lust looking at you. He moved his face away from your pussy. Looking up at you then he saw your hair smashed into the ceiling.
"S-Sorry…I got excited."
"It's Ok baby, not the first time you've levitated during this." You cooed.
"but you are gonna have to pay for this."
Clark whined.
"Put me down, now." you commanded.
Clark levitated you both down to the floor once again.
You took off your own shirt and slipped off your bra.
"You can look but not touch just yet." You teased.
Clark's hands opened and closed getting warm as he looked at your breasts another favorite part of your body he loved. He could suckle your nipples all day and night and never get tired of them.
You scratched them, pulled your own nipples and scratched the under boobage, moaning and sighing.
Clark was looking wide eyed as you played with your boobs right in front of him. His brain might as well have stopped thinking. His mouth fell open slowly as his eyes took you in.
Clark groaned out loud, his cock was getting hot he could feel it against his thigh. If he could just pump it a few while watching you he'd be set. But you wouldn't allow that.
"Oh, I almost forgot. Take all that off." you motioned to all of Clarks clothes.
Clark didn't have to be told twice. He undressed and stood still for further instructions. His cock sprang out, its tip was red and throbbing as drops of pre cum came out.
You looked at your good boy he was red both on his chest and his cock and it made you smile.
"ready for your punishment?"
"yes, ma'am." Clark responded obediently.
"Lay down and dont cum till i tell you to."
Clark gulped, and whined as he crawled to lay down on the bed you shared.
You laid beside him. Looked at his pitiful face and smirked, it was diabolical what you were about to say.
You dangled your fingers in front of his lips.
"Suck them, baby."
Clark's tongue lapped and sucked around your fingers. He drooled on your fingers making sure they were nice and wet for whatever you were going to do with them next. You pulled them out and placed them between your folds going in and out of your pussy.
"Watch me cum." You told staring at Clark.
His mouth opened up letting out a long groan.
"Oh…baby…ma'am. You look so sexy right now. mmmf" Clark responded. He remembered he had to hold his cum in and chewed on his lip again as he watched you get yourself off.
Soon you came on your fingers and pulled them out. Clark opened his mouth ready to receive your fingers.
Which you put in his mouth and watched him suck all your cum off of them in one slurp.
Clark moaned loudly.
"Such a good boy." You cooed.
"Yes, ma'am." Clark spoke through baited breaths.
"Help me sink down on your cock, hands up baby."
Clark obeyed.
You slid down his cock slowly. Both of you moaning out loud. You guided his hands to your hips. You started slowly moving up and down on his hard cock. You mewled. your pussy squeezed him, and it felt so good to have him inside you.
Clark grunted, groaned and moaned as you bounced on his cock.
"mmm, you feel so good ma'am." He laughed in-between grunts.
You pussy was slapping against his cock as he was lost in the feeling of your hips on top of him. He was moaning in a pattern a "golly" slipping between his lips with every bounce. You went faster hitting every spot that you wanted to feel him in. The tension of the day melting away with every bounce.
"Clark You feel so fucking good!" you screamed.
"Be a good boy and cum for me." You demanded.
Clark griped your brown skin and thrust up into you from the bottom taking the breath out of you.
Clark spilled in you with a series of loud moans and your name somewhere in there too. You came together in one loud moan.
You collapsed on top of Clark. Smiling and giggling.
summary: “There’s a saying, that if you can make God bleed people will cease to believe in him.”
warnings: underlying angst, swearing, minor panic attack
notes: I could give a very longwinded and useless explanation why this took so long but as many of you know I've been straight up not having a great time this year. This chapter was also a nightmare to get through and by far my least favourite chapter as a result. That being said, I hope you enjoy returning to coa, and certainly enjoy the quiet of this chapter because oh boy is the storm coming.
children of ares series: 01 | …. | 18 | 19 | . . |
“Well?”
“The toxicity in your blood has increased again.”
Biting back a sigh, you dip your head in mute understanding. Yet Doc’s features strain with trepidation you do your best to disregard. It is what it is. There’s no time to linger on another failure. Or your swiftly deteriorating condition. You’re at a point where you can’t go a day without taking at least three doses of the Green Erla solution to mitigate the spread of poison.
“What’s next?”
The older man hesitates. It’s not quite pity staring back at you but it’s something close to it—some leaden, heartfelt emotion that chafes against your senses. He shakes his vain attempt to hide the worry away in a blink, practiced and hardened by years of working this job. But the mental image stays with you regardless. The stern but patient doctor returns as he shuffles closer to you across his clinic.
“I prepared your usual dose. Infused it with some Dutara extract this time to see if Green Erla affects can be proliferated,” he explains, passing you a vial of pale green liquid. “The other two variants will require at least another week to be ready, if not two.”
It’s unlikely you have that kind of time.
“I’m not going to have a psychedelic episode, am I?”
With the amount of scrutiny you’re currently under, with how much you still need to get done, it’s the last thing on your list of things to do.
“A little faith would be appreciated,” the older man mutters dryly.
Too dignified to roll his eyes but you can hear it in his tone regardless. A flutter of a smile twists your mouth and it feels good albeit hollow.
“Thanks, doc,” you say sincerely, rolling the cool glass in your palm. “I appreciate this more than you know. Everything you’ve done.”
Doc peers at you through his glasses, sighing a moment later. He grabs an old, worn looking journal from his work desk, placing it next to you.
“It’s the last one,” he tells you pointedly. “Last of my research before I set up a clinic here. If there are any answers to be found, any avenues to pursue, this is the last chance to find them.”
Undoing the leather string, you shift the weighty thing into your lap, flicking through the yellowed pages with your thumb. Doc’s research back before the High Table employed him. Back when he was just another medic with a keen interest in herbalism and need to understand how nature can help a body. A sister field of study to your own. You hoped the answer for an antidote may lay here. Hidden away in years of work and sketches Doc has spent gathering.
“I appreciate it,” you tell him again, tucking it close to your chest. “And—”
“More than fine,” Doc cuts in, already knowing what you’re planning to ask. His eyes glint with discontent but he continues despite it, “No need to stress yourself with this as well. Just focus on finding an antidote. I took care of everything. He’s been rather unpleasant but that’s to be expected.”
You definitely hear the eye roll this time. But you can’t be seen wandering places you shouldn’t. People are bound to ask questions and there are only so many lies you can feed them before someone notices slips. Prods at the clear cracks and discrepancies in your stories. Hector already has. You don’t need more people in your business. Doc has been invaluable in this regard; a shadow man. The most unsuspecting helping hand, and in more ways than one. But you can’t go to war without an ace up your sleeve. So while unpleasant, this is a necessary move. A crucial gamble.
“I promise there’s a reason for this.”
Doc raises an unimpressed brow, not looking particularly convinced and reminding you a little too much of Winston. They’re the only two men left who can still make you feel like a little girl. Lost and in need of guidance. But it’s guidance they’ve been unfailingly willing to provide each time you’ve needed it. You’ve never been more grateful for having them both in your life.
“Whatever the said reason is,” he begins gravely, pulling your attention back towards him. “I urge you to work swiftly, V. Time is slipping. Far too quickly. At this rate even if you find a solution, the damage might be too severe. Battles, coups—those things can wait. Your wellbeing is the most paramount thing here. I know how much faith you’re putting into my old research but…”
“But what?” you rasp, your eyes narrowing.
Doc heaves a sigh, a deep sound that crawls up from his lungs, jolting his shoulders. He removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes, and it strikes you then how old he looks. Weary. Guilt swells like acid in your heart. You shouldn’t be involving him in any of this. Shouldn’t be placing all these expectations on him. He’s a good man. Better than most. If you die on him, he will allow the said death to wear on him. You’ve passed the status of being another measly patient to him long ago. Your tea sessions, your work together, every amiable conversation you’ve shared; two curious minds working in tangent. He’s been kind to you. Perhaps no Elder in his sheer brilliance but an excellent teacher in his own right. It’s odd how it’s only now, with your clock ticking down, that you’ve become so terribly aware of everyone you might be leaving behind.
For so long you saw yourself as alone, lost, without a home. Unwanted and unloved.
But none of those assumptions are correct.
There’s so much to lose now. So much unsaid and things undone.
“But,” he continues, a weight to his articulation that tightens your fingers around the journal. The blunt of your nails digs into the supple leather and you have to force back the urge to flee. You know, instinctively, that whatever is about to come out of his mouth next will not be easy to hear. “You’re a genius in your field, V. Even if you see yourself as lacking in other areas, this much I knew from the moment you stepped foot in my clinic. Sheer, raw potential. Completely untapped and untested. But you see, therein also lies the problem,” he fades off for a second, scrutinising you closely, sadly. “You’re a victim of your own genius. You’ve managed to create something there’s no back door to. I’m afraid…”
He pauses again, still searching your face. Silent sorrow creases his expression and you wait for the conclusion to his thoughts because you’re not sure if you can speak right now.
“I’m afraid that if you can’t find a way to help yourself,” he says morosely. “No one can.”
Firelight curls around his body, coating him in a golden hue and toasty heat. His eyes ache, a near-constant throbbing at the side of his head no longer a novelty, but Santino doesn’t move. He hasn’t moved in hours.
Fingers laced and elbows digging into his thighs, he stares into the fireplace, hoping for some sort of answer. Guidance. Clarity that refuses to surface. This is not the type of decision he can casually inquire advice on.
Everything you’ve told him…
It loops through his mind, over and over. He finds himself combing through every trembling word, the harrowing flatness of your voice and the vacant stare. All the pain and the trauma. Years spent being no better than a rat trapped in a crystal maze, expected to overcome some invisible barrier of expectation.
It makes him feel sick. Furious.
You sounded empty. So goddamn empty. Tiny. As if the sheer, numbing horror of everything you were laying bare before him and others was nothing. As if it all happened to someone else.
Tokyo. He can still remember you on the day you came to bargain on John’s behalf. Haunted, worn, so void of the fire he once knew. Your heartbreak had sat thick in the air between you and he had selfishly hoped…
He can’t help but regret the desire he felt back then. It had been nothing but lust. Factitious in comparison to all he feels now. It was lust and rage he couldn’t explain no matter how hard he tried. An erosive emotion he didn’t understand until later, until Chicago, when he had to witness Boutin with his fingers around your throat—
Fuck.
Chicago wasn’t his fault. Not really. He spent years chewing over the event, hating it and cherishing it in equal measure. If only because whatever steel door stood between you had cracked open after Chicago.
Then Prague. He can still recall thinking he was dying, or close to death. How many regrets he had as a result of his untimely demise. Santino remembers the fear he felt in those final hours the most vividly, only triumphed by the flare of undiluted hope when you came for him.
He can’t imagine learning that years of his life have been manufactured by someone else. Can’t comprehend the strain, the devastation of such a reveal. It explains a lot about your distance in the past weeks. Because of course he noticed. He can’t stop looking, searching, hoping…
Hope is a noose, he thinks bitterly, and he’s hung himself on it long ago.
“You’re turning brooding into a sport.”
Biting back a snarl to be left alone, Santino promptly ignores Hector’s drawling voice. Purposeful gait follows those words, and it takes only moments for the man to drop heavily onto the sofa next to the chair he’s seated in. Near identical position to when you had sat them all down only yesterday and revealed the truth.
The Elder. A myth of a man. Santino had spent years doubting his existence, believing the High Table had invented the character as a deeper method of control. Together they were the Elder. The highest global power. To know the man not only exists but also stole you away for those long months—
He waited after Chicago. He sat at the dinner table and waited for you to come to him. To talk with you. Share dinner. He had wanted you selfishly from the start. But minutes turned into hours and then days, and you were nowhere to be found. He couldn’t locate you. No one could. Not even Step. He asked his father as a last resort. But Giovanni had only told him you were away on a mission for the High Table. A secret to top most secrets.
He knew. It’s sickening for Santino to realise that his father knew. Did he know about Chicago as well? Prague? Did he stand by and watch his own son being taken and nearly killed? And for what? To appease some figure of power?
No. His father won’t have cared. If he did know, Giovanni allowed things to transpire because he no doubt hoped it would harden him. Make him a stronger man, a more suitable heir.
While Santino has never met the Elder himself, he knows his father has. Or at least claimed—albeit only once—that he’s met the elusive leader in the flesh.
So much makes sense now. A string of events to have once held so little meaning, now shining in an entirely different light. So much makes him want to throw his glass into the fire. To rip this room to shreds and never stop.
Hector doesn’t speak, fiddling with his lighter while he stares up at the ceiling. Santino isn’t quite sure why he came at all, or what he wants. Even during his recovery period, even with Santino now officially the head of Camorra, their relationship has remained impersonal. Cool. He told others you’re in charge and the one they answer to, and Hector himself seemingly had no qualms with the chain of command. The menacing man has certainly spent more hours stalking your steps than Santino’s during these long weeks, and that’s been just fine by him.
All Santino does know is that he hasn’t slept for the majority of the night. Your voice and face keep smearing through his mind’s eye, haunting him, undoing him. He’s not in the mood for Hector’s attitude right now or whatever trivial matter he wants to bring to his attention.
“Why are you here, Hector?”
He sounds overly calm even to his own ears. For most people, it’s a sure sign they should be running.
But Hector only bobs his leg up and down, turning to glance at him lazily. A play at nonchalance but one he sees through easily. The metallic clicking pauses then resumes.
“We’re going to be late.”
Santino feels his lips curl, straightening in his seat. His body aches, his head throbbing. The change in his vision is still jarring, uncomfortable. It’s taken weeks to get accustomed to a different depth in vision. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s bumped into things he never would have in the past. It still makes him grit his teeth.
Weak, weak, you’re so weak, a sly voice hums from deep inside his chest. He can’t tell who the voice belongs to anymore. Gianna, his father, or perhaps his mother. All of them, hating him from beyond the grave.
And now…
Now the last person he has, the very best of him, might get taken too.
At least his father was right about power unfailingly demanding a price. Santino feels a rattling, awful feeling shake his bones as he sits there. A deep, devastating fear that he’s gotten all he wants yet has nothing. How close he is to losing the only truly precious thing he’s ever held close.
“Late for what?” he mutters briskly, reaching for his glass of drink.
The Devil of Camorra regards him through narrowed eyes, followed by a scoff of disbelief. “For our weekly ice cream trip,” he snarks, sitting up with a purpose that automatically throws every nerve in Santino’s body on the defensive. “For the meeting with the other fuckers to take down the High Table. What else?”
He turns towards the man, levelling him with a pointed stare. “I hope you realise what you’re saying right now,” he speaks slowly, this time in his mother tongue.
Hector grins at the softening of his voice, at the cold glint of command there, a harsh cut of his features lacking warmth. “Don’t tell me we’re really going to sit here and pretend like you’re not going to her.”
He wonders when he became so transparent. But then again, he’s never been ashamed, has he? Never hid what he felt for you. What he will always feel.
“And you’re talking treason to your boss.”
Same golden light paints Hector’s hulking figure, his hard features pinched with displeasure Santino has no name for. He’s pointing out facts. Hector who’s always been such a loyal guard dog to his father should not be this eager to break rules.
“Did you really expect her not to go after them with the shit she’s been through?” Hector poses bitingly, his brows knitting. When Santino fails to respond, the Devil slants his body backwards, lifting his leg only to drop it over his ankle. The silver metal of his lighter slips between Hector's tattooed fingers in an indolent pattern. “Parents murdered. Made a dog for the Russian. Trained as an assassin. Tortured, beaten, abused. Verbally, mentally. Traumatised for life. With crippling fears that render her immobile. Years stolen from her. A shit ton of time during which she could have been normal. You and I both know it. She could have been a doctor. Or, fuck, a florist. Had her own little place. Been happy. Now she’s expected to serve for life to some egomaniac who thinks she’s real fucking special. The system is rotten. The Table is corrupt beyond just us being shitty fucking people. Most of all the Elder. She’s not wrong to want it torn apart. In her shoes, I would do worse.”
“Hitting too close to home, Hector?” Santino finds himself asking.
The man’s expression tightens with rage, lips thinning and knuckles flexing. It’s gone the next instance but he still saw the slip. Still savours the drawn blood. He asked on purpose. Because it’s easier to avoid the words just spoken aloud this way.
“She would do it for you.”
A breath rushes out of him at Hector’s low words. They dig deep, clawing at whatever dark thing he has for a heart, squeezing it so tight he can almost feel the invisible bleed.
“Would she?” he counters softly.
Another scoff, louder and more bitter this time. “Man, fuck off,” Hector spits, adjusting in his seat with a creak of his leather jacket. “You didn’t see her after you were shot. Didn’t see how desperate she was. How frantic. She practically held your blown-out brain together. If it weren’t for her you wouldn't even be here.”
As if he doesn’t know that. As if he didn’t wake up, dazed and drowning in fuzzy agony, only to learn you saved him. Your reward for such a feat being made Excommunicado. How many times have you saved him? How many times has he done the same?
When, oh when, will your luck run out?
“You asked me once. When I knew I loved her,” he says after a beat, his words quieter, softer around the edges with the flow of Italian. His head tilts, gazing up at the Devil with a sardonic twist of his mouth. “I knew when I watched Andre Boutin strangling the life out of her like he did with my mother. I knew when I realised she’s moments from death and I will never see her again. I needed that moment to understand what my father always told us about our family and love. How we don’t do things by halves. We don’t love easily but if we do it’s forever. It will always be her. No matter what. But...”
Silence. Uncomfortable and deep supersedes those words. It plunges the room into quietude heavier than before.
“But what?”
Santino blinks, his eyes meeting Hector’s over the space separating them. The Elite’s features rest in a composed mask but beneath it, Santino can discern the vicious unrest.
“But she loves John,” he exhales, the weight of those words still crushing. Devastating. “It will always be John.”
Hector rolls his eyes, his response immediate, tart, “So that’s it? She loves Wick so you’re not helping her because of it?”
“No—that’s not it,” he disagrees sharply, biting back his frustration while working his jaw. His eyes sweep over the room, his home. The penthouse apartment has felt more like a home for a while now. If only because so many memories made here hold you at the centre of them. “You do understand what we’re talking about here, no? A war against the High Table. Even if we join, even if we help, this fight will cost lives. And even if by some miracle we succeed, she will always have enemies. Always. It’s a threat to her life without an expiry date.”
Hector doesn’t snarl his reply right away which surprises Santino more. Neither of them is known for their patience. Instead, the man mulls over his words, no doubt seeing the truth of them. He and Hector may not see eye to eye but Santino can at least appreciate the man’s tactical skill—to a degree, at least.
Shaking his head, the leader of Elites makes a small sound at the back of his throat. He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and Santino watches mutely as he fishes one out. No smoking inside the apartment, those are the rules, and Hector knows them. It’s not about breaking them to spite him, he realises, but more so about keeping busy, pondering their grim reality.
The cigarette slants between Hector’s lips, hanging between them limply. He doesn’t light it and Santino waits.
“So the better alternative for her is to what? Sit on her ass and wait until the time trickles down and go back to the desert? Never to be seen by any of us again?”
Despite the forced calmness in Hector’s voice, the flow of Italian adds to the harsh roughness of his words. It betrays the leashed annoyance. Santino can’t help but wonder if Hector ever questioned his father like this. With this much boldness. Or if he bowed his head and stayed obedient no matter what was demanded of him. He used to, Santino recollects, and can’t help but consider what exactly changed since.
“I want to help her,” he admits tightly. “I want to stand by her side. But this goes beyond just me or her, or any of us.”
Hector gets his meaning right away, a hiss of a breath escaping him. He tugs the cigarette from between his lips, scowling. “You don’t give a shit about what Camorra thinks, Santino. You never have.”
“But you know what this war would mean.”
“Yeah, I sure as hell do,” the man admits, each word purposely punctuated with finality. “It would mean we’re enemy number one when other families find out. It would mean heat from more than just the High Table. You would have rebellions within the Camorra ranks themselves. We’re old school. We like power, and not everyone will be happy to give those things up.”
And so it leaves only one question to be asked.
“So why are you so fine with it?”
Hector’s mouth presses shut, peering back at him with a hard, searching stare. Santino is uncertain what caught the Devil more off guard—his casualness, this newfound patience he seems to exercise where once he might have defaulted to spite; or the question itself.
“Who says I am?” the Devil eventually bites out but it rings hollow.
A slight, knowing smile curves Santino’s mouth. Not mocking but thoughtful. It’s an odd concept, the realisation that he might have misjudged a man he’s known for years. Underestimated him in a sense.
Stretching his fingers out, Santino finally wraps his hand around the glass of his drink, taking a large mouthful. He can hardly taste it. He’s not sure what he’s attempting to drown right now but he wants it to work, wants to quell the tempest raging through him.
“I thought her dead once,” he says quietly, still in his mother tongue, his lips brushing over the cold glass. His mouth feels like sandpaper but words continue flowing, willing to force their freedom. “When John was walking towards me with a loaded pistol in hand, it wasn’t my death I was thinking about. It was her. How good old Johnathan must have killed her to get to me. I didn’t mind the bullet after that. It’s a feeling I never want to experience again.”
The thought of your death is unbearable. Suffocating. He can’t help and wonder if this is what his father felt when he—
Perhaps it’s no surprise Giovanni lost whatever shred of humanity he still possessed after discovering his dead wife. Santino can’t recollect ever seeing his father smiling again after they buried her. At the edge of his mind, he still remembers his father’s second at the time—Claudio, now long since dead—dragging his sobbing, eight-year-old self away from the scene. His mother’s body, stiff and cold, her beautiful face slack and lifeless. His father on his knees howling in grief as he clutched her to him, cradling her face and calling her name to no avail. It’s the first and only time Santino saw grief or pain on his father’s face. Tears. It was like one man found them, and when Giovanni D’Antonio eventually emerged from the base they were held in—his mother’s body tight in his arms—he came out a new man. A nightmare being who never once extended a loving word or gesture towards his children again.
So many expected him to remarry, find a new Lady of Camorra, but nothing. The post sat unoccupied for years because his father never did choose anyone else. If he had physical desires he needed to be taken care of, his children never bore witness to even a whisper of it.
His father was many things, but at least he spared them from that particular pain.
Some foreign emotion flits across Hector’s face with those final words; an intent, dark look Santino can’t quite decipher before it’s locked away with another slow shake of the Elite’s head.
“So,” Hector begins deliberately, still staring downwards before he places the cigarette back between his lips, speaking over it, “Is she worth the risk, huh? Is she worth the entire world becoming our enemy?”
Santino stares into the dancing flames, and feels himself smile.
“We should go.”
“Just… a few more minutes,” you plead, glancing at Winston with a more subdued, “Please.”
The older man exhales, a cloud of vapour exploding around you. With nighttime, the temperature has slipped towards freezing again, and even with his tailored wool coat and gloves, there’s little doubt Winston is starting to feel the nip same as you.
You’re so preoccupied with mentally running through a thousand different scenarios—through preparations—you’re practically bubbling in your skin. The guards remain stock-still and tight-lipped while hovering in a semi-circle around you. You’ve been here for fifteen minutes. Ten of those minutes have marked Santino as late. The warehouse where you’ve done business together on so many occasions, where you saved his life only months prior, feels too vast and desolate. It stands too quiet. Every minute nudges you closer towards the inevitable acceptance of a fact already reflected on the manager’s face.
Santino is not coming.
“V, you cannot blame him for this,” he insists but they’re softer words than usual. He can no doubt see how tightly your fists are clenched, how taut the muscles sit under your skin. You keep staring into the empty archway, straining your senses in some vain hope a car engine will pierce the evening air. “This is asking him to destroy his life and remake it. Not only would he make enemies for life, but Camorra would forever be marred as traitors.”
You’re aware. But you had also hoped.
Santino is the one person you believed without a shadow of a doubt would understand this move. Not just breaking the rules but destroying the rule book forever. Understand this revenge—no, justice—even if it’s the most twisted kind.
You’re not angry he hasn’t come. A plan sat at the back of your mind for weeks now that accounted for him not being there but…
But you wanted Santino here, with you. Had hoped in vain he would feel the same. After the life he led; bound and forced into a role the High Table necessitated for him to fulfil, after all his sacrifices amounted to nothing more than a dead sister, and especially after Emilia. He couldn’t get justice for his mother for years. Had to see her murdered right in front of him and couldn’t do a thing to exact his justice. Because the High Table stood above all else. Those who serve it are important but, ultimately, disposable.
You’ve both spent years running from what you did in Chicago. Now, in the end, you know it didn’t matter. The Elder knew. The way he’s known you since seemingly forever. Under your skin, living and breathing and growing like a parasite.
Not for long though, you can’t help but reason, the host and the parasite will be dead soon enough.
You silently wonder if he’s started to feel it yet. The dizziness, the beginnings of a sickness crawling through his organs. Has his heart started beating irregularly yet? Do his lungs itch? It will be slower for him than you.
Even if all else fails, he will at least suffer as you did before it’s over.
You ignore the dull ache that thought prompts, suffocating it before it can bloom. He doesn’t deserve a kind thought or sentiment. He certainly spared you none when he forced you through living hell repeatedly.
Shaking off your trail of thought, you refocus. Giving Winston a lingering look, you nod your head.
“I’m not angry. I just hoped…”
His expression is understanding, his shrewd stare searching. “I know, dear.”
You want to fiddle with your fingers, restless, but resist the urge. Going into this meeting you need to be focused and composed. There’s no room for errors or weaknesses. The Bowery King and the Director will no doubt be eager to sniff out both.
It makes you happy to know John will be there. At least you have him beside you to make this behemoth of a task a little less daunting.
Winston gestures towards his men, and they start filing back towards the cars, silent and obedient. The manager stays beside you, however, waiting until you give the empty entrance one last, lingering look.
Nothing.
Exhaling, you pivot on your heels, marching back towards the waiting car. The door is open and you’re already running late so—
A screech of tires pierces the bustle and the hustle of departure prep and you halt in your steps. Your fingers nimbly wrap around a gun and a blade each, your heart hammering inside your ribcage.
Cars. Multiple cars, approaching at a rapid speed.
Your head snaps towards the entrance just as headlights explode across the warehouse, two Range Rovers rolling into the space behind one another.
One black and the other…
White.
You know that car and you know the number plate attached to it. You could recite it in your sleep. You’ve driven inside it too many times to count.
Your body, your expression, your entire being softens, melts. Moments ago you felt so heavy, so tired and resigned but now…
Your head slants towards Winston who examines the stopping vehicles with a ponderous look. It’s near audible, the ferocity with which the manager’s mind seems to be picking apart this turn of events. It’s impossible to gather anything from his equable expression but you know Winston.
“Make it quick,” he instructs but a tiny gleam remains in his gaze when he takes in your slack features and glassy stare. “We’re running late as it is.”
Your feet carry you forward blindly. They might be slightly uneven, staggering steps but they move you forward all the same. Car engines cut out, and you hold your breath when doors start opening.
Step hops out first, stretching his hands over his head as if the car journey lasted hours and not minutes it surely did. His dark suit jacket stretches over his shoulders, his round shades reflecting light when he pointedly turns in your direction. His brows wiggle, followed by a gleaming grin. Cheeks dented with dimples, he rushes ahead despite Julian’s audible “slow down, idiota” and stretches his arms out.
You don’t impede him, sighing into the laughing hug he gives you. Despite his wiry frame he still manages to lift you off the ground for a moment—much to your surprise. You can’t help but smile faintly into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar, cloying scent of sugar on his breath.
Step’s warmth fades slowly, his grin crooked when releases you after another firm squeeze.
“Darlin’.”
“That’s an awful attempt at a southern accent,” you deadpan and Step laughs; a booming sound that bounces back from the cold concrete. Deep from his chest and genuine—or at least, it seems genuine, truthfully you can never quite tell with him. “Trying a new look for the week?”
The Italian gives you an impromptu one-shoulder shrug, entirely too casual despite his tellingly put-together appearance. “Maybe.”
Step cares the least about Camorra’s rules. He’s never taken their regulations or the dress codes too seriously. He joined Camorra only because Giovanni forced his hand. Because while Step has always been closed off and secretive about his past, you know nothing good resided there. Past association with cybercrime syndicates who enjoyed causing havoc from the shadows.
The crisp, fitted black suit he dons now gives you hope, makes your heart flutter.
Others file out behind Step, car doors opening and closing in a thrum of noise. It echoes, splitting the air and you force out another breath.
Hector taps the clinched cigarette between his fingers to get rid of ash, smoke billowing from the lit tip as he leans against the tar-black Rover. His eyes cut your way for a moment, both of you sharing a quick glance.
Ares and Roberto are here too, all of them clad in customary black suits, no doubt Italian made.
They’re here as Camorra’s highest and most dangerous members, not your friends. Julian and Dario scan Winston’s guards behind you with calm, dangerous expressions. No smiles or cheery waves from them today. Just dutiful, respectful nods in your direction. Another reminder of the ring still stationed on your hand. What you represent to them regardless of anything.
Your heart stutters when the final door opens and Santino steps out.
He’s methodical about it; careful not to jolt his injuries, mindful of his body in a way he never would have been once. He still manages to dress it up as elegance, if not arrogance. Poised limbs and stiff shoulders. Santino readjusts his charcoal overcoat lazily, straightening before Roberto shuts the door for him.
“All yours, cara,” Step teases beside you.
You shoot him a vehement look, ignoring his shit-eating grin and sly implication, striding around him without another word.
The Head of Camorra, as he has for years now, tracks every twitch of your body as if you’re the only thing he can see. It’s subdued regard this time though. Guarded. Tension lines Santino's expression, the curve of his mouth harder than usual as you approach. You read a thousand thoughts and emotions on his face. None of them you can quite make out. A part of you is scared to.
Your heart—the traitorous, failing organ—hammers so loud inside your chest adrenaline pumps through your veins. It’s always felt good to be under the Italian’s scrutiny; a certain appreciation in his intent stares that unfailingly makes you feel… strong. Seen. Appreciated.
Santino readjusts his overcoat again—an absentminded, edgy gesture—and does another sweep over the length of your figure.
“What a terrifying getup, amore,” he greets softly.
Your heart squeezes inside your chest; a weak, incredulous laugh bubbling past your lips.
Only right, you suppose. Just like last time when he greeted you with those words, you’re dressed in your pitch-black bodysuit. And just like before the tunnel fight with the Lovers, you’re not going into this meeting with expectations of an amicable meeting. Nor conclusion.
You’re dressed to show exactly what your stance is.
Battle ready. Dressed for war. Prepared for bloodshed.
Your fingers are practically numb from the cold and it hurts when you flatten them against your thighs. Rub once against the cool, smooth material to control your nerves. Your chest feels tight enough to split apart.
“You came.”
While a hundred separate topics and words spring to mind, those are the only ones you manage to get out. Breathless and timorous. You hardly recognise your own voice.
Whatever forced deviousness was previously there drains away from Santino’s features. His chin tilts in an idle gesture; a silent command. People around you disperse, moving away to grant you two some semblance of privacy. Hooded green eyes return to you, and you’re not sure what he searches for in you but for several moments, he says nothing.
Then, he decreases the distance between you with several purposeful strides forward. Heat erupts, bleeding through your veins and warming your chilled skin. He’s not close enough to touch but it feels close enough to disrupt your breathing. You almost urge him closer but you’re intimately aware of all the eyes burning into you.
“I swore to never abandon you,” he reminds you, his voice even, thoughtful. His stare drags over your face; from your brow, to the tip of your nose and the bow of your lips, causing you to swallow. “I figured it’s finally time to make good on my promise, no?”
Something deep down twists, tightens. Inflating and expanding. Your mouth feels too dry, pressure behind your eyes too heavy.
The simplicity of those words undoes you completely.
Your throat clogs up despite your attempts to stay aloof, your fingers trembling at your sides. The ringing in your ears is so loud a part of you wants to shake your head to get rid of it.
Santino’s features soften in response, scrutinising your expression with mute wonder. He ventures another step closer, reaching out as if to touch your face. Hesitation halts him before his fingers can graze your cheek, his hand dropping back to his side. His gaze stays on you though. Turbulent, wild.
His next words come out as quiet, strangled, “You’re happy.”
Your eyes itch, a wet breath escaping past your trembling mouth and shaping into a wobbly smile instead.
“Yeah.”
Because it means the world. To know he’s here, and willing to fight for you. With you. Fight for his family.
His long exhale fills the quiet between you. Santino’s internal battle is almost palpable. Though the nature of his conflict remains lost on you.
His heated fingertips trace your inner wrist, edging his body closer. “Amore—”
“Signor D’Antonio,” Winston’s curt voice cuts in from behind. “You’re looking rather sprightly for a shot man.”
An inaudible hiss of displeasure escapes Santino, his touch retreating at once. Head swinging to one side, he sighs, his features pinched with irritation. A tiny, mocking smile blooms, his favourite façade of arrogant mafioso slotting perfectly back into place.
Winston’s presence brushes against your back, his body halting at your side a second later, and you clear your throat, blinking your eyes.
Santino’s head tips towards the manager, his stilted smile still intact. “Winston. Wonderful timing as always.”
There’s a hint of bitterness to his intonation. No doubt in reference to those final moments before John pulled the trigger. Not… whatever moment just transpired between you. Your head lowers but Winston only hums in response, undeterred by the subtle accusation.
“And indeed the one area you’re still lacking in,” the older man drawls, and you feel him briefly glance your way as well. “If you’re quite done with your displays of sentimentality, I wish to remind you we’re running late and should get going. Unless, of course, you would prefer to leave an impression of us being weak in our resolve already.”
“Right, of course,” Santino mutters. “Won’t miss it for the world.”
Pure sarcasm drips from his tongue.
“I assume, since you’re here, you have decided to stand with us,” Winston states. It’s not quite a question but he seems to be waiting for the smallest tell. Anticipating a falter. The new Head of Camorra offers him none. “You know what this will mean for you and the others.”
Heavy silence envelopes you three. Briefly, your eyes flicker towards Hector who stands with his hands in his pockets and hunched shoulders, a smouldering cigarette dangling between his lips. His sardonic stare doesn’t waver and in the end you force your eyes away first. An unspoken weight hangs between you but this is no time for him to be demanding more answers from you.
“I’m aware.”
Santino’s answer is resolute. Strident in a way you’ve never associated with him before.
It’s in the air again—that tangible reshape from mafia heir to mafia head.
You peer at him, examining his steady gaze and confident posture. Winston, you know, is doing much the same.
At least a minute drags by before, “Very well, Mr D’Antonio.”
The Italian nods, once. You’re not entirely certain what passes between the two men but you don’t question it. Subtle tension seems to ebb from both of them with the exchange and relief webs through you.
The manager’s head slants back in your direction. “Let's go.”
“The sewers,” Santino’s voice rings dry, unamused. “How original.”
He stands beside you while the rest of your party spills out of the cars. The Four and Ares linger around you in formation—in protection of their leaders; shoulders set and hands poised over their weapons. Winston commands his own guards into place but so far you’re the only ones here.
The agreed meeting point looms in front of you. A remote opening situated on the outskirts of the city where an entrance to the sewers lays unguarded. A humorous repeat of events for certain. Pricking coldness envelopes you, itching your lungs and skin, while you continue squinting at the empty opening beyond. Santino appears about as thrilled as you do with the notion of going back into the wet, slippery maze of darkness and rot.
The last time you came anywhere near sewers it ended disastrously.
“It’s smart,” you say.
And it is. The Lovers were stationed in sewers for a reason even if their location was closer to the city. It’s an advantageous position if one wishes to remain unseen and unfound. Burrow yourself deep enough in the bowels and you become a ghost. The source of inspiration for this hiding spot is clear, even if it leaves you bristling in your skin.
It always did make you wonder how the Bowery King was able to locate the Lovers so quickly. It’s clear to you now he kept such a location in mind for a reason.
No Bowery King or John in sight though. The former you didn’t expect. His injuries are undoubtedly still too disruptive for him to have much mobility. He isn’t a foot soldier either. No John, however, is a bit more concerning. No guards or messengers to greet you rings alarm bells loud and clear. You’re running late which left you assuming John will already be present upon your arrival.
Did he leave already? Did he not come at all? Or did he think your offer of joining forces is a trap? Is this a trap set by them to lure you all in?
Your neck tingles, your instincts sharpening to a needlepoint. Shifting in your spot, you subtly scrutinise your barren, hoarfrost covered surroundings. Hector does the same up ahead, his expression shadowed. Julian’s pistols are drawn and close to his sides, the curve of his lean shoulders taut. Ares and Dario linger close to Santino, Step and Roberto remaining at the rear.
Hector’s eyes gleam from the dim street lights while he scans mountains of dirt nearby. Anticipating unwanted company. Or an ambush.
No. Surely not.
John wouldn’t. In the deepest parts of your heart, you know he won’t do such a thing. It’s not in his nature. Then again, from his perspective, you as good as let him die. Allowed those bruised and broken bones and injuries. Stood by and watched while Winston delivered cruel justice onto him.
Back then, after everything Lucien had divulged to you only moments prior, you were too shell-shocked to act. Even if you had wanted to help him. You couldn’t. Because it would have given too much away. It was more advantageous to have the High Table think your relationship deteriorated after he shot Santino. It came so close to exactly that anyway. Now they believe John to be dead and you to be unconcerned with his passing. Glad to be rid of someone who took too much from you.
And most certainly not looking for revenge of your own.
Focused on your duties and obedient. Like a good little dog.
“Well,” the Italian begins after a pregnant pause. “I must say, I’m rather underwhelmed by this welcoming party, amore. Where are they?”
Blinking from your stupor, you glance his way, shaking your head at the flat expression carving his face. His subtle show of displeasure reminds you of a time long since passed. When things were far simpler—as were your feelings for a man whose arm you can feel brushing against yours. His earlier words still rest beneath your skin, warming you from inside.
“Some invaluable observations there, Mr D’Antonio,” Winston’s voice floats through the quiet night air. He approaches you with his hands in his pockets, his expression curious when his eyes find yours. You ignore the knowing glimmer you see reflected back at you, his attention sliding promptly towards the Italian beside you. “But correct ones. They should be here.”
A weighted silence blooms between you once again. Nervous, jittery tension coils through the group as you swap uneasy glances. It’s clear others are starting to doubt the legitimacy of this agreement. It’s hard to blame them, either, when they’re being given nothing in return for their leap of faith.
But leaning on the back of your heels, you stand by your conviction, “John will come.”
Not a hint of doubt in your voice. From the corner of your eye, you note the way Santino’s jaw flutters, clenching tight. Much to your surprise, he doesn’t speak up. No snarling words of virulent anger he might have spat out at your conviction once. His lack of reaction forms a hard weight inside your chest. Like a stone, it wedges in your ribcage, making you bite your tongue from the burning need to say something.
Winston casts another inquisitive look your way but doesn’t comment.
“Heads up,” Hector’s rough voice splits the air and all heads whirl towards the sewer opening.
An outline of a tall man, melting into the shadows he calls his own, stalks towards you. You could recognise him anywhere. His shape and the way he moves. A second later blackness gives up Baba Yaga, his reticent stare already locked on you. You recognise some of the Bowery King’s men behind him, their weapons drawn and faces grim. Hector’s muted scoff is audible, satirical with its dismissiveness. Being outnumbered has never been an issue for him. You, for one, always believed he enjoys impossible odds more.
Similar serenity rests across the faces of other Elites as well. It’s not arrogance—not quite—but unfaltering confidence in one’s skills and skills of others present. This is their bread and butter. Standoffs and bloodshed. In Italy, you know, things are done very differently. The power and ruthlessness of Camorra on display here is but a sliver of what you’ve witnessed when staying with them. They’re muted from the near godhood they’re known for on their home soil.
Much to your surprise, numerous unknown faces on John’s side greet you too. They may possess unfamiliar features but the hard-trained grace of their movements betrays who they are all the same.
The Ruska Roma.
John’s people. His blood. Amongst them, leading the pack clad in all black, he reminds you of a dark king in control of his subjects. He commands the air around himself without a single sound and your back straightens in response.
How far you’ve both come. Him leading his own ranks, and you fitting in-between two ruthless, powerful men. In command of your own. The ring on your hand is not a shackle. It’s absolute proof you’ve managed to forge your own loyalties. Grasp and maintain your own power.
Winston and Santino are here by virtue of choice.
You’re not alone. Not anymore. People stand behind you—and what a curious, odd thing it is; to feel not horrified but relieved and warmed by the presence at your back. Each and every reminder of this fact punches you just as hard as the first time. Fragile pride nests inside your heart at the realisation that, if nothing else, you might have managed to overcome at least this one fear.
The tension in the air feels like barbed wire cutting into your windpipe when John eventually comes to a halt. Several meters away, he continues gazing at you, his expression indecipherable. But buried under the cool indifference of an assassin, you glimpse the minute relief. You’re not sure if anyone else reads it but you do. Your own features remain a blank mask, giving nothing away while in the presence of others. Seconds stretch but John doesn’t remove his attention and you force down an imperceptible gulp at his scrutiny.
Beside you, every muscle in Santino’s body holds rigid, practically vibrating with agitation. His muted glare cuts into the assassin but he keeps his quiet. You can feel apprehension oozing out of him, and you edge closer, tempted to say something but know this isn’t the time. His unease, even anger, is understandable. When faced with a man who nearly ended his life with a single bullet, it would be impossible for anyone not to have a reaction.
Finally, as if noticing your tiny gesture towards Santino, John’s eyes slide towards the Camorra’s new leader, his stare still inscrutable. Guarded.
Years of history arcs between them, none of it good, most of it involving you. The two men stare each other down—and neither looks happy about their current predicament.
“Johnathan,” Winston greets loudly, dispelling the suffocating tension for a bit. You subtly suck in a breath when the man blinks and turns towards the manager at long last. “Fashionably late, are we?”
“We saw you coming,” is all John says. His stare flickers your way again, then, “They’re ready for you.”
No one comments about the group of at least twenty men behind him. Neither does John point out the presence of the Elites or Ares with Roberto. Santino could have called more men, you know as much, but he clearly understood the sensitivity of this move. He only took his most skilled and trusted with him. Same with Winston.
Drawing a fortifying breath, you make the first move.
Soles of your shoes scrunch against dirt and frost, impossibly loud and jarring in your ears. Despite the stifling atmosphere, you set an example. All of this has been one small show of trust after another. Tic for tac. If this is to work, you’ll have to take more steps towards blind faith. Hope. Raw nerves and unease boil in your stomach the closer you advance towards the yawning darkness behind John.
It’s only because of your group, silent but watchful, at your back that your gait doesn’t falter.
“I’m glad you came,” is the greeting you offer John when you stop before him. “I was starting to freeze my ass off.”
A blink—slow, unsure—then some of the tension recedes from his face. Wiped away by familiar companionship between you. Lines of his forehead smoothen, eyes softening with subtle amusement, and lips hooking to one side. Barely a smile, really, but from John, it’s as good as a roar of laughter. Those words ripple through both groups, and a few breathe a little easier for it.
“That would be unfortunate.”
“For me, or for my ass?”
Another faint glimmer of humour sparks, followed by and a subdued exhale from him that echoes your shared past. Him indulging you in your silly conversations and questions. Back when you were so curious and eager to understand his world, to belong in it.
“Both.”
For a split second, John’s dark eyes flicker behind you, to your left. He doesn’t betray anything, and you don’t want to guess what expression Santino might be sporting right now. You half expect him to speak, address their misfortunate last meeting but neither does.
“Shall we?” Winston prompts dryly from your right. “Or are we going to stand outside in the cold all night?”
John inclines his head towards the manager. “Winston.”
Another measured examination of the group surrounding you, then John dips his head again. “Lets go.”
The Bowery King’s men filter inside first, mixing with members of the Ruska Roma, and you know it’s a show of trust from their end. To allow your party at their backs without anyone moving at the rear to box you in speaks volumes. John’s approval, his trust in you, seems to sate them. For now at least.
Little to no conversation fills your lengthy trek. Any exchanges are few and far in between instances all marked by low rings of mother tongues. No English.
The blackness of the tunnels is so dense, a ball of nerves rolls inside your stomach. Dim torches line the walls but they do little aside from illuminating contours of the path ahead. Your chest tightens uncomfortably the longer you walk, and you clench your fingers at your sides. No feeling races through them, not even discomfort. Step by step, every movement of your body brings you deeper into the depths and sweat coats your skin. One terrible memory after another assaults your iron self-control, your mouth dry and limbs stiffening further with every shaky move forward.
Dead to the world.
You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.
You were his favourite.
Tragedy.
Tragedy.
Tragedy.
If you can’t find a way to help yourself, no one can.
Voices mix, cooing and cawing in your ears. They drown out people around you, smearing the world into a dizzying jumble.
A stagger of your feet nearly sends you falling, and it’s only a swift latch onto your wrist that prevents it. Burning, secure grip and Santino’s body heat brushes against your side. Close enough to support you but careful not to trap you. A lucid, analytical corner of your mind ponders when exactly he learned these things. When they became so natural and instinctive to him.
“Amore?” he calls, his voice a low murmur, concerned.
Your party shuffles, a ripple of unrest spreading, and you gulp down several, hurried gulps of oxygen. In, out, in, out. Your lungs stretch, still painfully constricted, and you work desperately to clear the clog of panic.
“I’m—I’m fine.”
John’s group halts, still ahead, a murmur of questions spreading like wildfire, and you feel Winston’s presence on your other side. His arm hooks around your elbow, pulling your arm close to him. He pats your hand, chuckling under his breath for everyone to hear and see.
“My apologies,” he calls out loudly, his voice reverberating. “I’m afraid my old age betrays me and I tripped up. We can proceed now that I have assistance.”
Your throat burns.
Soft sips of oxygen force their way from between your quivering lips but you work to keep your expression rigid. Controlled. Your arm tightens around Winston’s squeezing it once in silent thanks.
“Deep breaths, cara mia,” Santino urges softly, his mouth scarcely moving with the words. Protecting the illusion of Winston’s quick thinking. “We’re here. You’re safe.”
His fingers sear into your cold, clammy skin and a nod is all you manage.
Grumbles of displeasure flow through the group ahead at the delay. They move ahead a minute later, a few pausing long enough to shoot suspicious looks in your direction. The Elites and the rest of your group stand close, and you can almost sense the warning sneer resting across Hector’s face. Daring anyone to make an issue of the pause.
You take a wobbly step ahead, and then another, breathing as calmly as you can manage. Embarrassment and panic battle for dominance inside your chest; two vicious beasts snapping their jaws at each other. After all this time, after all the fighting, still nothing more than a scared little girl. Unable to hold herself together when it matters the most.
As if sensing your trail of thought, Santino grazes his thumb against your inner palm, making you swallow heavily. His soothing, featherlight touch anchors you. Steadiest your weak knees.
Not alone.
You’re not sure how you look right now. Nor do you want to know. You’ve made it into a habit over this last month to avoid your own reflection. It’s become sickening to so much as glimpse your own features in any reflective surface now. If you ignore your visage well enough, perhaps you can still pretend you’re you. Not a stranger—a ghost, a fraud—inhabiting a body of this girl others believe they know. Real enough to touch but never to stay.
You can’t bear to think about the throbbing hole deep inside your chest right now. Instead, you force your shoulders back. Battle your laboured breaths, allowing the heat of two men beside you to stabilise you.
You just need to hang on a little while longer. Just one more fight.
Stay alive long enough to give others a future you can’t have.
Light flares ahead, drawing your eyes to it.
Sounds of life greet you. Chatter, arguing, footsteps and distant laughter. You squint, swallowing again over your too dry tongue. Even with your panic, you haven’t failed to notice the lack of dirt, rot or mould around the tunnels. Dirty water or stench of filth sewers are typically known for. The maze leading here has been dry and well maintained, indicating a far larger window of preparing this place for living than a single month.
Seems like the Bowery King harbours a few secrets of his own.
A glimpse of John’s raven hair catches your eye for a split second before he disappears into the light.
Santino’s heated fingertips scrape against your skin once more before he pulls back. Dario and Hector are first to pass the threshold—biggest physical threats, no doubt already scouring every corner and nook for hidden dangers.
For a second bright light blinds you but it only lasts a second. After which you, the head of Camorra, and the manager beside you pass through as well.
The Bowery King and the Director are here to greet you this time.
The space resembling a room is a massive, hollowed-out cavity reminiscent of the one the Lovers used to house their own troops. Not a drop of water is around this time though. The area appears well lived in and bustling with members of both the Bowery and the Ruska Roma alike. Dull, dark grey metal walls are lined with more torches, tunnels surrounding the large cavity busy with passerbies, weaving in and out. People moving food, weapons, and other supplies. Racks of weaponry of varying makes sit against the walls, ready for use. A board full of pictures and maps detailing the New York City landscape is stationed at the centre of the makeshift den. You’re not surprised to immediately spot your own likeness captured in monochrome. Winston, Santino and the Elites have all received similar treatment. Pictures pinned to form a clear group circle; a silent acknowledgement of an alliance.
And there, seated behind a circular, carved wooden table like at the eye of a storm you find the Bowery King and the Director. Immune to the bustle around them. Two gargoyles peering at you with varying degrees of scepticism.
It’s clear to you, then, that this operation has been in the making for far longer than a month.
The Bowery King grins first, and the deep, puckering wounds across his face stretch with it. It’s an effort to control your own reaction and lock it away. His face has been slashed apart. Practically torn. Extensive damage and only half-healed. Every cut looks raw and painful even from this distance. It’s clear they will never fully heal and will scar eventually. Much the same way you spot bandages still firmly wrapped around the Director’s hands. Her scowl is fierce. Her mouth a thin, red line of strict coldness. The woman’s dark eyes track you, an eyebrow arching challengingly at your brief inspection of her hands.
They’re alive. And it’s pure luck they are. Especially for the man who rises from his seat, his arms spreading out in a grandiose greeting. Despite the clear effort the gesture demands, the King still does it regardless. Yet the motion lacks the vitality it once held. The innate flare you used to associate this man with. But ever the showman, the Bowery King still plays at being in control. At being a boisterous, unflappable host.
“Welcome!” he calls out, his deep voice bouncing off the walls, echoing. “Hope you don’t mind what we’ve done with the place.”
His eyes slyly drift towards the head of Camorra beside you but Santino wisely doesn’t answer. A taunt. Because them being here just edges on territory that’s officially under Camorra’s jurisdiction right now. Santino claimed it in his move to take New York right before his showdown with John.
The assassin in question moves like an ink spill across the space, circling until he’s left standing on the other side of the table. It draws a clear battle line. Three against three. John’s stony features give nothing away. Yet his watchful stare unfailingly notes every twitch from the Elites. He knows where the fight lies if this situation deteriorates.
“You look like you’ve seen better days,” Winston greets bluntly, not bothering with ceremonies. “Shame about the…”
In your peripheral, you see him gesture around vaguely.
You have to bite back a grin. The Bowery King has always been a pain in Winston’s books. Too scheming, too powerful for his own good. Never one to agree or abide by the Table’s rules. At least never entirely. Only ever enough to appease, to get by while he concocts his own plans.
Funny how time changes things.
The Bowery King’s grin sharpens and he offers a careless shrug. This, too, is a gesture to demand a physical toll. Your keen eye tracks over his hunched frame, mentally filing away the weight loss, the strain of muscles on display. He hasn’t had the most pleasant month. Far from it. But he doesn’t feel weakened. Or frail. No, not at all. He’s wounded, yes, but he feels all the more dangerous for it.
“But they do say the higher you are the…” Winston trails off, turning towards you. “How does the rest of the saying go, dear? It’s my old age, I’m afraid.”
Another dig at the Bowery King’s constant baiting about Winston being too old to still be a suitable manager.
“The further you fall,” you supply evenly.
The Bowery King’s grin twitches, edged by something goading. “Well, much the same could be said about all of you, couldn’t it? Allying yourself with the rats. My, oh my, how far the mighty have fallen.”
“You’re boring me,” Santino speaks up suddenly, his smooth voice carrying. “Are we going to do business or are you going to stand around making old men jokes all night, hm?”
His head slants with those words, ever-so innocent despite the verbal cut.
“Santino D’Antonio.” The Bowery King drags out the name, slow and considerate. His inky eyes seem to gleam with the address. Aside from the faint marks left behind by John, the Italian looks the same as always. Nonchalant, arrogant, dressed sharply to reflect his power position. Yet the Rat King notices something different in him as well. His grin is slow coming with his appraisal, teeth on display. His voice dips towards reluctant, sugary play at respect he always used when talking about the High Table in the past, “Our newest superstar. Oh, happy be this day, ain’t that right? The prince finally become a king. How does it feel up there at the top of the hill? Is the seat comfortable? Or is your darling sister’s blood still a bit too sticky and hot for you?”
He doesn’t allow time for Santino—or any of you—to respond, gesturing with his hand to the three empty chairs promptly. “But please. Wherever are my manners. Do sit down.”
The last part flows out as bait, a dare for you to commit.
Chin slanting upwards—cold to the bone, another mask, most worn and beloved guise—you walk ahead, dropping in the middle seat unceremoniously. No emotion shows as you stare down the trio in front of you. You feared all three once, at one point or another. But this, too, has changed.
Winston and Santino are only several steps behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know Elites are lingering only a step behind your chair.
“Let me make this quick,” Winston begins deliberately the moment he’s comfortable. “The High Table is a problem that requires…remedying.”
“If my memory serves me correctly,” the Director returns, her words terse. “You are also a part of the High Table. As is the Camorra head. Tell me, why should we trust anything you say?”
“We’re here,” Santino snips back from your left. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
The woman’s head slants, her golden jewellery glittering in the dim lights. The Bowery King has lowered himself back into a sitting position, his elbows resting on the wooden table. Fingers laced and hands resting in front of him to partially obscure his face. Not a self-cautious gesture. It's more of a trick to hide his features. Make him harder to read.
Your gaze lingers on him. On the blood and flesh he uses as a shield to no doubt hide a scheming smile.
From everyone here, it’s him who poses the biggest challenge. He will not cut a deal unless he’s convinced it’s the most beneficial course of action for him personally. He’s always been like this. Many things change, but some things never do.
“If by nothing you mean possibly another gimmick, then yes,” the woman drones, her eyes narrowed and expression sour with dislike while her eyes linger on the Italian. “You are well known for being a man who does not follow through on his word, D'Antonio.”
A clear dig at him for him doublecrossing John but you don’t have the time for their petty barbs. Dragging forward old ghosts will do nothing more than waste time and stir more animosity.
“You need us, and we need you,” you cut in, voice icy, measured. “Neither of us would be here if we could do this without the other. This is an equal risk for all parties involved. Even more so for us. You’re hidden away. We are not. So how about we skip past the empty chit chat altogether. Or talks about how evil we all are unless you prefer to waste more time. I would much rather we discuss what we’re going to do about this instead.”
John’s eyes burn into you with quiet intensity from his spot beside the Bowery King. He looks at ease but if there’s anyone alive who is an expert in tension-filled situations, it’s him.
The Director doesn’t share John’s ease. Her head tilts in your direction, dragging over your body as if she were viewing a rotting carcass. Her hands remain in her lap. She doesn’t move them. Mutely, you try to estimate out how much mobility she still has left in them, if any. If she would risk an attack. You’re all being closely monitored from the swarming shadows, this much you know. Every instinct and nerve ending in your body warns you of it. You’re also vastly outnumbered.
“Yes, the snake,” she voices, still considering you. A sound slips past her blood-red mouth. Thoughtful, a touch scornful. “Jardani has informed us of your woes. The Elder’s prized viper is to return to her master’s side. How… fitting.”
John’s head turns her way slowly. He doesn’t make a sound but the roll of something dark emitting from him is palpable in the air.
“That,” Santino responds softly, his accent cutting sharper than metal. “Will not come to pass because the High Table will soon be ash.”
“There are conditions.”
Your eyes snap to the Bowery King.
His silence isn’t to be trusted and you’re not shocked to hear his abrupt declaration.
“Such as?” Winston poses, his voice too calm, pleasant.
The King’s razor-sharp eyes remain locked on you, and you stare back, tense.
“You will help us, or the High Table will learn very quickly how naughty the viper has been,” the Bowery King explains with another little shrug. He leans back in his seat, his elbows digging into the armrests and it’s then you see the golden, elaborate design of if. It's no chair; it's a throne any king or queen would gladly sit on. “Remember our good ol’ friend Zach? The poor man has found himself quite suddenly and mysteriously dead. It would be such a pity if the Elder mysteriously learned where the magical juice to do the killing came from, don't cha think?”
Dead silence engulfs the room, suffocating everyone at the table.
The Bowery King grins; a broad, cheery shift of his mouth. It looks torturous. He still does it though. Savouring the leaden sense of doubt hanging over the room.
“Be very careful—”
“Don’t, Santino,” you interrupt his furious words. Shifting in your seat, you hum under your breath. “And you want what in return? New York?”
The Bowery King doesn’t blink, holding your intent stare again. “Why not? New order won’t be such a bad thing. You get rid of the Table for us and can go back to Italy with Mr D’Antonio. Seems to me like Camorra would be more than thrilled to have you. And I’m sure Winston can join a nice retirement home, ain’t that right? I have some lovely brochures at the back if you like.”
You can almost taste the rapidly mounting hostility in the room, festering and spreading. John’s eyes connect with yours briefly again, searching. One glance is all it takes for you to know he wasn’t aware of this. He had no idea the King was going to play this card. Hold an old favour from what feels like so long ago now against you.
It’s a smart play, this much you have to admit. Use you to get rid of the Table and give up your power in New York for a chance to walk. Leaving the city for him to take and rule. Wholly. Unchallenged.
“No.”
You puff the word out from between your lips, slumping backwards into your chair. Near slouching. Lazy.
Eyes are on you, digging and probing at your blunt, cordial refusal. The Bowery King isn’t smiling anymore.
Your head slants to one side. Curious. Innocent as his own coy acts tend to be. “There is a wonderful man named Rasin who lives in Armenia. Did you know that? He’s an amazing cook. And an even better poisoner. You see, I learn my lessons,” you inform him nonchalantly, ignoring everyone else. “I was powerless for a long time. All I could do was sit back listen. For years. Lessons from different people. Yet all brutally efficient.”
You consider the man before you, biting back the embers of rage you feel building at the back of your throat. You expected something—a play of some kind to try and collar you—but never this blatant. Or this severe.
“I always suspected something wasn’t right,” you tell him, placing your folded hands on the table. Mirroring him. “It was too easy. Too… not you to use poison on someone. You not wanting me there personally to carry out the assassination was an even bigger red flag. I did my homework of course. But it all came back clean. Perhaps too clean. The nagging suspicion did not go away so I contacted my good friend Rasin. Asked for one of his formulas in exchange for one of mine. So whatever proof you think you have on me is non-existent because it’s Rasin’s signature formula the High Table would find if they dug into this. And all you would do is expose yourself for them to look just a little bit closer. Someone who is supposed to be dead. But it goes beyond that, doesn’t it?”
Everyone is silent. The Bowery King doesn’t say a word, staring you down unblinkingly.
“See, it wasn’t until the Lovers that I fully grasped just how much deeper this goes,” you continue, and it’s almost like no one else is present in this massive space, just you and the Rat King. A challenge one on one. “My good friend Step was kind enough to dig up some old information about the Lovers and send it to me a while back. It’s while reading through their file that I stumbled upon a particular and all too familiar name. Zach Kahanek. Yet another member of the Shódigan institute. He was there at the same time the Lovers were. One of few fine establishments dotted around the world where the High Table trains and recruits new individuals under the guise of behavioural correction facilities. Mostly orphans. But Zach wasn’t an orphan, was he? A Czech father and an American mother. A mother who suffers from Pulmonary fibrosis and just so happens to live in New York. I imagine getting to her was easy for you. And this was important because Zach wasn’t just another faceless nobody at the High Table. He was your informant. Your way of always having your fingers on the beating pulse of the High Table and staying ahead. Why? Because Zach worked directly under the Elder’s brother Rafik. I know because I met him only once when I went back to Casablanca years ago. Even if I didn’t know it was him at the time. Not until I saw his picture after he was already dead. He must have been so useful. But he no doubt got too comfortable. Perhaps even tried to blackmail you back. But you don’t like loose ends, and so came an unlikely request for poison. That subtle touch you mentioned. A touch that would reassure no one suspects you and giving you a card to use against me any time you please.”
It’s so deafeningly quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even the idle chatter to have previously imbued the space has ceased.
“Am I wrong, your majesty?” you pose calmly, leaning in closer, allowing faint tendrils of mockery he’s used so often on you over the years to bleed through. “So. Before you go ahead and use an old favour as a way to manipulate or threaten me into compliance, I ask you this: can you afford to, knowing I’m going to torch your little rat nest if you so much as attempt it? Because I reassure you, I’m done being merciful.”
Because if you fail, you will see to it that he fails too. It’s then you notice it. Not on the Bowery King’s face, or John’s. Not even the Director’s who is peering at you intently, a faint whisper of surprise present in her cold regard.
Terror tinged with unease at the open threat.
It’s reflected in the faces of the guards behind the opposing trio. You’ve gotten used to the emotion. You’re so familiar with it, and while it's no novelty to you, it still startles you for a split second to see it in response to your words.
Then, follows a tinge of grim satisfaction.
Good. Let them hate as long as they fear.
You’ve always only ever wanted enough power to keep yourself safe. Free yourself one day. Nothing more. But now you can appreciate why people like Tarasov, even Santino, get so addicted to this feeling. This rush. The knowledge your enemies are disturbed by your presence alone. That what you have to say others will stand and listen.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
It’s slow, rhythmic sound. Still holding an edge of mockery to it. As does the Bowery King’s smile.
“Bravo,” he drawls unhurriedly, his arms rising in the air at either side of his head. “Guilty. My bad. You got me.”
Did I?
It nearly escapes but you don’t permit him to see the insecurity. Certainly not give him an impression of doubt.
“And what of your word?”
Your eyes jump towards the Director, her surprise from moments ago long since buried.
“My word?” you repeat.
A wry quirk of her mouth, and cold claws creep up your back at the tepid calmness on her face. The verbal advantage of moments ago once again feels precarious, endangered by the hard glare from the woman in front of you.
“You only got to Casablanca, only escaped this city, because I permitted it,” she reminds dryly. “I extended this kindness to you in good faith. You swore to never forget it. As good as a life debt, is it not? So. I ask you, snake: do you stay true to your word, or are you the type to judge others for not following through on their word to then do the same?”
Your expression tightens. You haven’t forgotten, and it was foolish of you to hope she won’t use it against you now. A part of you figured she might. John may not have been looped into this power play but it’s abundantly clear the Bowery King and the Director came prepared. No doubt having discussed all the aces they might have collected against you.
“What is it you want?” you ask eventually, not defeated but back in an impasse.
The woman shrugs, somehow managing to make the gesture appear elegant. A dancer’s grace.
“A fair deal,” she muses, her shrewd stare sliding towards Santino. “Once we deal with the High Table—together—you will cease your expansion plans. You will halt all attempts to take over the city permanently. Everyone keeps the territory they had before this mess started. We work out a new system. If you attempt any tricks, we will take it as a declaration of war. It’s more than a fair deal to ask. That is, if your word is indeed worth something.”
The final part is directed back at you and you incline back in your seat, ignoring the bubble of frustration.
It is a fair deal—more than fair. It would be nothing other than a power reset. Setting the board back to the way it was. But—
“Fine,” Santino bites out softly and you freeze. “Consider it done. Camorra will repay. Let this be another show of our good faith, no?”
It takes every shred of restraint not to turn towards him. Would he truly agree to this? To halt his ambition, take the higher road and let it go. Realistically it’s not some incredible feat of heroic sacrifice. He will still be allowed to keep what his family has owned for decades but Santino expressed a desire for more repeatedly. Has unfailingly fought for it. This is him having to swallow his pride once more. But perhaps he’s wise enough to now understand how treacherous your situation is. How fragile. How you will need every last shred of help you can get to even have a chance.
Maybe he’s finally thinking with his mind—with a Camorra boss’s mind—and not that of an impulsive man you’ve known for years.
Even the people on the other side of the table appear taken aback by his uninhibited agreement.
“Now that we have this out of the way,” Winston says, the only one to have remained entirely unmoved by the sequence of events. “Let us discuss this properly, shall we?”
“Our priority should be people we can sway to our side once main opposition is removed.”
Dario hums his acknowledgement beside you. His tall, brawny build seems to shrink the shadowy tunnel as you both stride ahead. You’re perfectly aware of the fact at least one Elite is unfailing there to meet you outside the tunnels. Unspoken support each time you need to make the journey.
While frustrating, it’s a welcome gesture of care. You’re not certain who exactly proposed it but the feeling of gratitude is sincere all the same. Because no matter how much you would prefer to act unaffected, you are. Attesting anything different would be a stupid and blatant lie.
It’s been a little over a week since your initial meeting with the Bowery King and the Director. A week since an official deal was struck. You will work together until the High Table is dismantled. After which a new system will be put into place. The nitty-gritty details of said system are still being worked out—and you’ve entrusted that particular task to your smartest and most trusted. Winston will leave no stone unturned. Nor will he be quick to cave or overlook any loopholes for the King to exploit. The latter is no doubt eager for them.
The Rat King is far from pleased, especially when you so publicly foiled his attempt to blackmail you. Distrust in him sits like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Only the reality of your situation is stopping him from retaliating, this much is clear. The High Table is a far bigger and dangerous enemy to have. You all need each other. No further weakness can be allowed. Not when you’re already reaching for the seemingly impossible. Also, you imagine John’s silent glower meant the two men had words after you departed the first meeting. The King was back to his happy, sly act the following day—as if your whole exchange from the day before never took place. You would consider it water under the bridge normally but know better than to underestimate him.
The tunnels have become your hub of planning and preparation ever since. The main den of your operation. Yet another irony not lost on you.
“Halt, snake.”
Two guards stand stoic next to the entrance of your makeshift base and you slow to a stop. Dario is silent beside you. He’s so tall, he looms over the well-built guards who seem to grasp this advantage a moment too late. The air crackles with bubbling tension.
One of the men steps forward, a cocky swagger to his movement. “I need to search you.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“New orders.”
Of course they are. They’re the Bowery King’s men. The guard reaches out, aiming for your coat but Dario gets to him first. The Elite doesn’t need to step forward outright. His reach is wide enough to close the gap in a second. He merely lays his hand on the guard’s shoulder, his stance nonthreatening, relaxed—barely a tap of his strong fingers, hardly a rustle of fabric, really. Yet the man freezes under the touch, his shoulders curving downwards.
“I suggest you rethink this, friend,” Dario speaks, his voice a distant thunder rumbling despite the allaying tone, generating whole new friction in your bones. Over his trimmed beard, Dario’s mouth barely seems to move with his words but the guard gulps regardless. “It will not end well for you.”
Against the menacing confidence of the Camorra’s strongest fighter, this man would likely last minutes, if that.
Tension coils, tightening, frizzling around the edges of everyone’s bearing. Dario’s expression is still amiable, open. You don’t need to look his way to know as much. He’s a man to forever handle his affairs with a smile and gentle logic as opposed to rage or manipulation. For this alone, you always understood why Giovanni valued Dario so much. Much needed tranquillity in a sea of fighters with oftentimes loud and overbearing personalities.
“We’re allies,” you remind the two guards coolly. “Unless you forgot?”
Your attention settles on the man behind the first and he shakes his head, a touch frantic. “Uh—no. I mean, yes. Allies. Go right ahead. We were just joking around, right Mike?”
Not lingering, you push past them, trusting Dario to follow you. He does. You just catch his deceptively light pat on Mike’s shoulder before he steps around him. For such a larger than life, notable figure, Dario moves lightly on his feet. Perks of being a killer moulded by years of hard training at Camorra.
He falls against your side in a single stride. “More baiting,” he notes quietly.
You nod. Both parties have been testing limits and prodding. The situation is tense. It’s to be expected in hindsight. Yet it’s still irksome to experience. People and egos. It’s hard to operate when you barely tolerate each other but necessity still binds you together.
“Keep an eye on them,” you order, eyes sweeping over individuals present in the main room. “I know we have our individual tasks but don’t drop your guard. Especially around the Rat King.”
Dario’s answer is swift, low and measured, “You think they will try to betray us.”
Not a question. He’s far more perceptive than people give him credit for.
Your eyes flicker to him, then around you. “I think right now we’re useful to him. But it’s use with an expiry date.”
“Would he really risk open war?”
Over the hard edge of his muscular arm, you catch a glimpse of Step plugged in a dark corner of the den. He’s been tasked with gathering as much information about all the members of the High Table as he can. Everything from their habits, locations of interest and, of course, trying to determine how deep their loyalty to the Table runs.
Your suggestion was simple: split the Table into two groups, those who would never choose to see a new way of things, and those who may be swayed. Taking on the entire might of the Table, once mobilised to its full extent, would be nigh impossible. You’re not stupid enough to assume you could attempt it even with the additional advantage of the Ruska Roma and the Bowery now at your disposal. But you just need to weaken the Table enough for others to start doubting. Make sure they listen when you present your case.
“We’ll see,” you say, giving him a distracted pat on the arm. “Keep your eyes open.”
Dario follows your line of sight with a discreet glance over his shoulder and offers a tiny nod. Understanding shines in his eyes and he continues on your original path without another word while you veer towards Step.
The hacker doesn’t react when you tap him on the shoulder, a lollipop sliding from one cheek to another. It sometimes takes a while for Step to detach from the task at hand. With that in mind, you lean against the table with a cross of your arms over your chest and wait. This position offers you a complete view of the rest of the room. People seem to be in motion wherever your attention wanders and you bite back a sigh. This is about as private as you can hope for right now. If anything the prep has only intensified in this last week, bringing more people around.
Your window of opportunity keeps shrinking and there’s still a mountain of things to account for and prep.
Step finally snaps out of his daze with a few more clicks against the laptop keys.
“Pretty good security,” he muses in Italian, his voice raspy with disuse. No humour. Just intense focus is evident in his demeanour today. His face rests pallid and smudges under his eyes are more prominent than when you saw him last. Worry lances through your heart but pointing out his poor appearance and clear exhaustion would be futile. Step would resent it and you’re hardly in a position to comment when you look just as bad if not worse. “Not like it matters though.”
Icy, absentminded words. Step enjoys a challenge but a real challenge drives him to a far more focused, chilling version of himself. It’s then he seems to spot you, or at least register your presence proper. A grin splits his cheeks at once and he pulls out his lollipop, his lips and tongue tinged with deep purple. Wide and toothy, and there’s just enough lightness in his baby blues for you to discern the sincerity in the gesture. Rare as it is.
“V! You look awful, amica,” he concludes promptly, his eyebrows pinching. “And that’s coming from me.”
Something close to dying does that to you lingers behind your teeth but you swallow it down. Self-pity is not going to get you anywhere right now.
“How is it going?” you wonder instead, purposely in Italian.
Step shrugs, gives his lollipop a distrait lick while his eyes follow the code reflecting back at him. It makes little sense to you but Step follows every flicker with keen interest.
“Triad paid, uh, pretty penny? Yeah, that’s the one. Very, very good money to make sure no one can dig up anything,” he explains, popping the lollipop back into his mouth to type a sequence at rapid speed. “It’s layered protection. Firewalls to make the wall of China look…tiny.”
He squints, still half-distracted with whatever is on his screen and your shoulders tense, reading his colder edge differently now.
“Slyfer?”
His old cybercrime syndicate. One of the few still capable of pushing Step like this. It would make sense for Triads to employ one of the very best in the world to protect themselves and their dealings. Everything in today’s modern age leaves a digital trail, Step taught you this himself. It’s simply a matter of having the patience to dig deep enough, and knowing how to without leaving a trail leading back to you.
You hear Step’s teeth crack around the lollipop at that word. A crunch of bone and hard candy. Jarring and too loud, it drowns out the gentle whirl of laptop fans. The bite flexes his jaw, stilling his long fingers over the keyboard briefly. Darkness washes over his face for a blink-and-you-miss-it second.
Then, Step laughs. Cheery and lighthearted. Brittle, near acidic undertone is present despite his effort to hide the contempt. This time his laughter rings false. Nothing but needles against your skin.
“Possibly.”
Which doesn’t answer your question but you don’t push him. Not with the tightness of his slim shoulders or the painfully hard way he chews the lollipop until only the stick remains.
Shifting gears, you change the subject, “Any rumours?”
He’s still stiff with agitation but his voice sounds bright and animated as always, “Oh, always,” he answers conversationally, clicks repeatedly on the backspace button before sloping backwards in his chair. His hands lock behind his head almost causing his sunglasses to slide off the top of his head. “They don’t like you. But they also fear you. So nice job. The big man especially doesn’t like you but apparently your Baba Yaga wasn’t very pleased with his threats the other day. They exchanged words. Nice thought from the Boogeyman but kinda stupid. Rat man will absolutely try to stab you the second you stop serving his purpose now. We live in a world of beasts. And he does not like the idea of no longer being the alpha. Nasty man but a smart one. He thinks you’re too much of a threat now.”
“Just because my poison—”
Step clicks his tongue. Waves his hand dismissively. “Nope, nah, nay. That’s not it. Goes way beyond poison now.”
Your arms loosen, eyebrows drawing together. “What do you—”
“Vipress!”
Your head snaps over Step’s shoulder, arms loosening and falling back to your sides. The Bowery King has entered the space, grinning and gesturing for you to come closer while he stands by his boards.
“Join us.”
His voice booms, echoing. John’s black-clad figure hovers just behind him and you loosen a breath.
“Better run along,” Step drawls pointedly, stretching his hands over his head, adding a more subdued, “Don’t trust him. Stick by Baba Yaga. He’s the only one here beside us not wondering how pretty your head would look on a stick right now.”
You don’t offer a reply to his words or point out how you never trusted the King for a multitude of reasons. Patting him lightly on the shoulder, you push away, cutting across the room. People brush past you, all focused on their own tasks. Your and John’s eyes connect for a second and you offer him a weak smile. A lacklustre effort but it’s all you can muster up right now. He gives you a wordless nod but by his standard, he appears worried. There’s a shadow, a tightness, to his features as he picks apart your exhausted mien.
“I have a little present for you,” the Bowery King declares in a greeting, stabbing his finger towards your chest.
It doesn’t make contact and he’s lucky it doesn’t. Instinctively your mouth twists and his slight, biting grin widens. His arm drops to his side but your edgy reaction has been noted and filed away.
Bristling, you bite out a restrained, “What is it?”
The man inclines towards the same large table you all sat around only a week prior and gestures towards a scattering of images. “Have a look.”
You peek at John who shows no outward reaction and you take that as a go-ahead. Taking a few cautious steps forward, you let your fingertips flutter over the images, spreading them across the wooden surface.
Most of the faces staring back at you awash you with a sense of familiarity; a nagging, persistent sensation of knowing but not being able to put your finger on it.
“The current High Table Spares,” John offers helpfully, his voice subdued.
Exhaling, you nod your head in mute understanding, spreading the photos further across the surface. You linger on certain individuals longer than others. Faces of the current active seat holders are already hung on a board behind you. In order of threat. These are the faces who might make a difference in the long run. Who you need to bend to your side.
Your fingers slide towards the final two photographs and your heart stutters at the sight awaiting you.
Two very familiar men peer back at you.
The Elder’s face. Rafik’s face.
Both solemn-faced and younger, staring back at you as if they could reach through the glossy photograph and snatch you. Drag you to them and away from home. You nearly flinch away, your breath locking in your lungs. Controlling the quiver in your limbs, you ease back, your glare immediately latching onto the Bowery King.
“Where did you get these?”
The King casts an innocent look your way. “Our mutual friend.”
Zach. Of course.
From your peripheral, John fidgeting fingers catch your notice. Namely his missing finger. His missing wedding ring. Avoiding his stare, you instead examine the two photos closer. Your chest hurts to do so but seeing these faces once more, now knowing what you do, brews a storm of emotions you find hard to articulate even to yourself. Something fierce and harsh, boiling and scalding with its intensity.
Rafik would have known. He’s the one person whom the Elder trusts completely. His betrayal hurts no less despite you being nowhere near as close or familiar. Did he try to stop his brother? Questioned him? Or did he help him orchestrate each nightmare personally?
No wonder he was so eager to meet you back then. To learn more about you when he visited. Unearth why his brother is so taken with a girl from nowhere with nothing.
A man who you foolishly thought cared for you. Considered you a friend, at least.
You did this to me. You hurt me. Why? Why? Why?
A wail of question burns your throat and tongue, chipping at your teeth.
Elder’s grave depiction offers no answers. No commiseration.
Someone calls the Bowery King’s name but you barely register it, a blur of a sound, focused on the pictures as you are. Pressure gathers against the back of your skull, your vision smearing at the edges. It’s only after the man departs that John edges closer. His black-clad frame dear and soothing in its own way.
“I won’t let him take you.”
Such simple words. Yet nothing about this situation is simple.
“I know,” you say calmly.
Because it’s kinder. Because lying is becoming so much easier than it should be. Pointing out how failure will result in all your deaths seems futile right now. Or maybe the Elder would keep you alive. For his own amusement. For whatever purpose he kept you alive all these years.
The Elder’s prized viper is to return to her master’s side.
His words about you being equals sound like mockery now. How could he ever expect you to be equals when he did this to you? Scars—mental, physical and spiritual mar you, they will until you die. And it’s his fault. Others broke you over and over again, and it’s his fault.
The Elder’s face distorts—
“V.”
John is there in the next heartbeat. His warm breath fans one side of your cheek, his fingers gripping your elbow securely. You feel numb. Too cold and too hot all over. You blink your eyes but everything swims. Scratchy. Too loud. Your skin feels too tight. Air too dry and stuffy.
The world is coming undone at the seams.
Shit—
“V, you’re bleeding,” John states tightly, a rare note of urgency in his low voice. His hand reaches for your face and it’s then you register hot wetness over your upper lip. Streaking downwards. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Calluses of John’s hand scrape against the side of your face and you inhale through your mouth, tasting copper in your windpipe. Hands shaking, you reach for your face, wiping blindly. Your nose feels heavy, numb.
Shit, not now.
No response prompts John to pull you closer, practically tucking you to him. You turn your head from his grip, your heart hammering in your chest. He can’t see. He can’t fucking know. You’re out in the open. Anyone spying right now might simply conclude it’s some intimate moment you’re both sharing but panic swells in your gut.
“V—”
“I’m fine,” you choke out. Wipe at your nose again. Read smears against your sleeve. Your head pounds like a war drum, thrumming through every cell and crevice of your body. “Just…I was testing something…earlier. New formula. Must be a side effect.”
John’s eyebrows knit together. Dark eyes probing. “I’ve never seen something like this happen.”
“How would you know?” you snap back, jerking your elbow out of his hold. “You weren’t there for years. Things change.”
Regret is immediate. It lashes across your heart and you shake your head, your eyes lowering. Dabbing at your face again, you mutter an apologetic, “I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I didn’t mean it. I—it’s been a stressful month.”
“It’s fine.”
You lift your eyes to him, taking him in. He’s still close enough to touch and you clear your throat when you realise he doesn’t intend to move away. “It’s not fine,” you rebuke mildly, pointedly glancing away from him. “Stress is no excuse for lashing out. This is just a blip, don’t worry. I feel fine.”
You don’t. You feel minutes away from crumpling on the floor and never getting up. But at least the momentary spell has passed. Blood flow has ceased, leaving you breathing cautiously. The most likely cause is a spike of stress or lack of rest, or both.
John doesn’t seem to buy your reassurance. A faint, concerned frown rests across the planes of his face. Once it might have prompted a snarky comment from you to lighten up but right now you can’t draw up enough energy for jokes.
“Get some rest,” he insists lowly. “Take care of yourself.”
He raises his hand, his thumb brushing gently over your chin. You gulp down another shaky breath at the contact. Painfully familiar as it is foreign.
“Blood,” he says softly in a way of explanation.
Yes, blood. Blood and things unsaid. It’s a language you and John have always spoken the best.
“Can I speak with you?”
The air around Santino D’Antonio seemingly cools by several degrees, his team pausing mid-discussion around him. His right hand, Ares, glares holes into him and John tries and fails to quell the bite of guilt. He came so close to ending her life, would have done it too. One day he may have a conversation with her as well. Survival or not, he would prefer to make it clear it was never a fight born out of a desire to end her life.
Santino’s back remains to him, the man in no rush to show his hand, but John doesn’t let this deter him. He, himself, would rather not be doing this if he had much of a choice. But the necessity of this conversation has become unavoidable. If not for himself, then at least you.
You’ve been under too much stress. He’s certain that the palpable friction and dangerous atmosphere of unease every time he and Santino are in the same space attributes to it. Constantly being on edge about the mounting animosity between both sides has pushed you right in the middle of it. Tearing you in two.
After earlier, after seeing the steady gush of scarlet, John feels only dread. He’s seen how little things as such add up. Tiny abnormalities you don’t pay enough heed towards until it’s far too late. He lost Helen this way. Cruelly. Without enough time to prepare for goodbye.
He’s not going to let his past take you as well. He’s done giving it that power. Oversight is not going to rule him again. What happened on the rooftop had hurt but at least now he sees the necessity of what transpired.
Santino shifts, inclining his body as if to check if John is still there. “Leave us.”
The Camorra Elites—two of them, Strength and the Sharpshooter—exchange glances but obey a second later. Santino’s second in command does not move, and it requires an additional, cool call of Ares from the new Head of Camorra before the woman stalks away. Her glare cuts into John when she passes him. He doesn't doubt she will only go far enough to provide them with privacy but no further.
“Johnathan.”
His name whistles past Santino’s teeth like a fine curse. The Italian faces him at long last, his suit missing and white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. John’s attention involuntarily snags on Santino’s head, the scars left behind by the bullet with which he nearly ended the man’s life.
A green storm brews in Santino’s eyes too. No doubt close, if not on the same, trail of thought.
“I was hoping we could…discuss what happened.”
The man before him scoffs, a muted sound but a nevertheless withering one. “Oh? I’m thrilled. Truly. Do sit. I’m sure this will be riveting.”
John moves to do exactly that. He has his piece to say, and then if Santino never speaks another word to him, that’s fine.
He waits till they’re both seated before starting, “I don’t expect forgiveness.”
Santino doesn’t so much as blink. “Good. Because you’re certainly not getting it.”
“You betrayed me,” John states frankly. “And put a contract on my head. What choice did I have?”
Santino’s mouth hooks into an ironic half-smile. “Why are you here, John, hm? I have nothing to say to you.”
John lets his hands fold over the table. His missing finger makes for a grotesque sight. Though he supposes they’ve both lost something since they last saw each other. Payment for their individual mistakes.
Instead, he discloses the only truth that matters. “I’m not doing this for you.”
Understanding glints in Santino’s eyes, his features stirring with dry amusement. He likely suspected it already but having it confirmed is different.
“Ah. Hoping to win back some broken trust?” he probes with an impatient tap of his fingers against the table.
John feels a distinct pang of surprise at the lack of mocking or gloating in the question. There’s only genuine curiosity mixed with dislike Santino doesn’t bother hiding. He’s grateful for it. He would much rather they’re open with each other when it comes to this.
“I don’t expect us to be friends, Santino,” he states bluntly. “But I know you care for her. You’re doing this for her. Risking it all. You see what I see. We can remain civil so she doesn’t have to fret every time we’re in the same room together.”
The Italian peers at him for a tense beat, visibly mulling over his words. His head slants away, pensive. John doesn’t know if he should be relieved Santino is genuinely giving this thought or not. He just hopes that for once they can find common ground. Just this once. If nothing else, he has to trust that a man who doesn’t compromise for anyone will this time. For you. If not then they're both running a risk of losing you.
Santino’s stare drags back to him. He appears blasé but there’s a certain coldness to his voice when he speaks, “Fine. For her. Anything else?”
John almost stands to his feet and says no. Almost. But the truth is there is one thing on his mind. It crawls to the forefront of his thoughts every time he sees you and the Italian together. One would need to be blind to miss the way Santino looks at you. As if you are the sun and he won’t mind going blind as long as he gets the chance to continue gazing at you. It’s familiar to John. The compulsion. He’s stolen many such glances in the past. Even if it was another time, another life.
“I know I’ve done her wrong,” he finds himself admitting, a heavy ring of defeat stark in his voice. It’s never an easy task to acknowledge mistakes or face them but he’s done repeating the same pattern of error. “But one day I will regain her trust. If such a day comes, if she forgives me, if she chooses me…will you let her go?”
He’s never allowed himself to consider it before for many reasons. So much has transpired between you that the mere thought of acceptance tastes sweet. Even if you never regain what you once had, if you never let him close again—nor does he expect it, not after everything—he just needs hope of something. A promise he will have you in his life in some shape or form. John knows full well it’s a tall order after the last several months. But you, yourself, once told him how when you have nothing you have to believe in something, and he chooses to believe in this. In you.
Santino watches him watch him, utterly silent. John waits for some reaction—be it anger or bitterness. Instead, the Camorra family head remains still, his very being drawn. Walled off.
“I’ve known her for six years,” he responds softly, his voice near absentminded. “Six years of thinking of her as everything from a convenience to a partner. My friend. Years of envying you. Of wondering what it would be like to taste but a shred of the love she has for you, hm? As much as I would love to put a bullet in your head, John, I want her happy more. So yes, if she chose you, I would let her go. I waited for her for years, and I’ll always wait for her.”
Because you love her.
John can sense it in his bones. He’s suspected it for a while but as they sit together in fraught silence, he knows it for a fact. Somewhere along the way, Santino D’Antonio fell in love. He won’t be risking his empire for anything less than the most important person in the world for him. Santino is ready to lose it all, and it’s a choice John respects and more than understands. He gave it all up for love once too.
“Are you not going to ask me?”
A twitch of his mouth. “Ask you what?”
John stares at the man and ponders if he’s playing some game after all or if… “If I will do the same if she chooses you?”
Once more he waits for some reaction: a laugh, a sneer, a deride comment. But Santino only looks back at him solemnly, and looks, and understanding dawns on John in hushed seconds of quiet between them.
“You don’t think she will.”
Only calm acceptance greets his verbal assumption and John blinks. Then silently questions how Santino can be so blind to what he—and others—can see so clearly.
“You were there for her when I wasn’t,” he finds himself reminding the man. And he’s not sure why. Reassuring Santino is the last thing John figured he would be doing when he made the decision to approach him. “Shared struggles and stood by her. If I know V at all those are not things she will ever forget. She cares for you. It’s far from the indifference you think she’s stuck in.”
He sees it. Even if he wishes he didn’t. Because it still aches. Deep down. A throb he has to physically readjust himself from every time to shake. He keeps reminding himself it’s not his place to feel any type of way about you being with Santino. He left, built a life of his own. He would have felt far worse if those five years had brought no one new into your life. The dread of being alone is the one fear he always saw most distinctly in you. He still hates himself for fueling said fear.
“Are we done here?”
Despite all he said, Santino’s cast remains icy. His words have made no difference. Whatever doubt, whatever acceptance Santino has settled on, it’s far-reaching. Sheathed deep in his heart. John doubts he could change the Italian’s mind even if he endeavoured to, and it would be cruel of him to try. Given the topic at hand. It would be far simpler if John could believe the one-sided nature of your and Santino’s relationship the way the man himself seems to.
But John knows what he saw. What witnessing Santino getting shot did to you. How hard you fought for him.
“Yeah,” he grunts in reply, understanding the futility of his attempts when faced with the walls Santino has erected so high. “We’re done.”
Evening draws swiftly. Hours blur into one another seemingly in blinks, and by the time nightfall embraces New York, you’re still back at the den, still working and planning. Others have long since drifted off towards their own destinations, focusing on their own tasks.
Your feet haven’t carried you past the main target board. Now complete with all the new additions. Arms crossed, you lean against the table behind you, still covered in scatterings of information and plans. Dates and times all drafting up potential attack scenarios. Weighting weaknesses against strengths. Who would be best suited for which target.
Triads and Bratva will be the biggest obstacle to overcome. John volunteered to handle the latter personally but an equal amount of consideration and opposition has to be thrown towards the former.
Exhaustion pulls at the corners of your eyes. After your earlier episode a dull ache has settled between your temples; a throbbing, irksome thing. An unnecessary distraction. Despite your debility, you don’t head back to the hotel or penthouse just yet, instead allowing yourself to drink in the sight around you.
People who should never be able to work together, striking an unease truce. It may be temporary but it’s still union which would have been difficult to comprehend only a month prior. Your eyes snag on Santino who stands between Dario and Ares, in deep discussion with both. A heavy furrow sits between his brows and the yellow tinge of the table light bathes his lean figure. He’s convinced he can strike a deal and turn Cosa Nostra and Ndrangheta to your side. Both have been allies to Camorra almost as often as they’ve been foes but Santino is hard to argue out of an idea once he’s set on it. Not to mention the turn of those two groups would be a massive boon to your efforts.
He, much like you, is banking on others like him who may have been overlooked once. Those who were shunned or not given a chance due to prejudices or the power dynamics of the Table itself.
And yet.
“You should tell him.”
Swiping your palm against your forehead, you grumble a weary, “Anything else, Hector?”
“Nice to see you too,” he bites back, settling on your left with a quiet scuff of shoes against concrete.
A wet crunch sounds and you turn to him, eyebrows rising at the massive bite he takes from an apple sitting snug in his hand. Only one bite yet it makes half the fruit disappear in a blink.
“It can wait.”
Hector swallows. His leather jacket creeks as he lowers his arm slowly, giving you a narrowed-eyed look. “Until when? Until your insides are oozing out of every available crevice? Or until you’re dead?”
Your muscles coil, tensing under your skin, followed by a rushed sweep over the space around you.
“Feel free to shout it a little louder,” you hiss, a snarl starting to form. “I’m not sure everyone present quite heard you the first time.”
“You’re being pissy because you know I’m right,” he rebukes swiftly, his features set. “How long till this shit starts affecting your abilities, huh? Your normal day to day function? When you cost someone else their life because you can’t react fast enough you really think you’re not going to eat yourself alive over it? I don’t think so.”
You force your head away, unable to handle the digging stare he’s levelled on you. Or the stinging truth of his words. “I’ll find a way,” you mutter tightly.
You stay likes this for a few minutes, both silent. Your eyes slide over the board again. Over your targets. The pyramid of control. Eventually, they settle at the top. Linger there.
The Elder.
His face peers back at you wordlessly. An ancient, terrible being. A phantom of your life. Your creator.
“You know I saw Giovanni and Emilia together only twice before she was killed,” Hector suddenly speaks up, his words near idle. Another crunch of the apple. Chewing. Swallow. “I was still a brat. New blood in Camorra’s darling care home. But to this day, I’ve never seen a man love a woman as much as Giovanni loved Emilia. He would have burned this world to ash and built it back up in her image if she wished.”
A shiver skitters down your back at his casual words. They ring far too close to the same words Gianna imparted on you before she died.
“Santino is exactly like his father. Only so much more dangerous because he inherited every bit of wildness and fire his mother was known for,” Hector continues at your silence. You feel him turn towards you, his hard glare burning into your temple. “Your love has effectively created a ticking time bomb and I know exactly how this shit ends because I’ve seen it once before. Giovanni died with Emilia. One day, you will have birthed a fucking monster into this world and it will be your doing. Is that how little he matters to you, huh? Next time you think some bullshit like it can wait, you think on that, sweetheart.”
A needle wedges in your throat, your attention momentarily flitting to the man in question. Would he truly become nothing more than another Giovanni if you died? You want to disagree, defend him, assert that Santino may be like his father but he’s far from being the same man. He’s proved as much numerous times already and yet…
And yet.
Your attention drags back towards the board. Towards those dark, watchful eyes. They never seem to let you go. Even now. Visage alone holds power. The hurricane inside your chest is barely suppressed even with the calm now cloaking you. Yet you’re still too afraid to prod at it lest it escapes.
Forcing down the lump stuck in your throat, you instead manage a strained, “As long as I wear this ring…”
Searching for the right words, you let your fingers fold into a fist, the Camorra ring standing out starkly on your hand. “You still answer my command, right?”
Hector grunts. You’re not sure if it’s in thought or out of annoyance you dismissed everything he just disclosed. “In theory. What did you have in mind?”
Your attention remains glued to the Elder’s picture. Mapping features of a man holding the world in his hand with cruel interest. Hunter assessing prey.
It began with you, and it has to end with you, doesn’t it?
“There’s a saying,” you begin, your words a slow rasp. “That if you can make God bleed people will cease to believe in him.”
You feel Hector follow your line of sight, focusing on the pinned image as well. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what you’re getting at.
“You don’t think this will work, huh?” he poses. A beat, then a more morose, “What are you planning?”
Even with your advantage, even if other seats fold, even if you win this fight for control—he will always remain victorious. Will always hold power over everyone. He’s the symbol of who the High Table is. While he governs others will always fear him above any notion of a new start. He’s too ingrained into the very foundation of the Table, too in control.
Ends justify the means.
Elder wasn’t wrong. They will this time too.
The murky feeling you had prior intensifies, clears, crystallising into new resolve inside your ribcage. One last fight. Hector wasn’t wrong, either. Your body will only serve you so far. In this fight, you will deteriorate to an exploitable disadvantage soon enough. Your fight was never meant to be here, with the rest of the High Table. There’s enough talent here to handle them. You trust others to do it.
Your path was always meant to lead you back to him after all. He said so himself.
“We’re going to cut off the head of the snake.”
. . .
an:
and then there were five.
thank you so, so much for still being here. this year has been incredibly taxing on me and very dark in many places. the idea of people still eagerly waiting and sticking by this story warms my heart more than you know. my fragile plan IS to finish this story before this year ends so we shall see how that pans out. but thankfully this is the last of the "boring" chapters that, while a pain to write, are necessary to give us a breather from chapters 17/18 & set up this final stretch of the story. and come next chapter, I think many of you will much rather we stayed here : ) see you then, and as always, any thoughts/theories/questions/reactions are very welcome!!! love you all & hope you're all well
oh, also! if you're confused as to who Zach is, please reread chapter 5. don't you love waiting for 15 chapters for a payoff to one tiny set up : )
♡ warnings: explicit (18+), phone sex, mutual masturbation, teasing, a dash of dirty talk, a mention of past oral (m receiving), dom!v rights, santino is thirsty af but nothing new there.
♡ word count: 1.9k+
♡ song rec: 505 by arctic monkeys
The shrill ring of your phone jolts you from your musings.
Your mind falters midthought, permitting the fragile idea to flutter away like ribbons cut loose. Whatever shred of concentration you’ve managed to muster up on this night flees when you glimpse the name lighting up your screen.
The silken sheets of the bed beneath you stroke against your bare thighs as you stretch your limbs across it. Your work notes now lay abandoned to the side. All in a favour of answering a man so eager to call you in the middle of the night. Perhaps it shouldn’t startle you that Santino knows your habits — that he’s well aware you will not be asleep although the clock on your bedside table displays a glaring 1:24AM.
“Miss me already?” you greet with a grin when you press the phone to your ear.
The line crackles, followed by an exhale which promptly informs you Santino has rolled his eyes an ocean away. Shifting in your spot, you lift one leg up, bending it at the knee before dropping the other over it. Fans whirl above head, but they do little to dispel the balmy heat of this particular Naples night. Outside, moonlight gleams across the bay, dark water glittering silver. It makes the bed feel a little too cold, the room a bit too dark, now that you’re reminded Santino is not here with you physically. It’s the first time he had to leave in months and there was too much of a schedule conflict for you to travel with him. He respects your position too much to ever complain about it… much.
“Amore,” he purrs, his voice breathy, low. “You know how much I always miss you, no?”
His words are once again articulated in a familiar, cocky manner. So sure of himself, so hungry for you, it forces the hairs at the back of your neck to stand to attention despite the heat of the room.
You hum distractedly, shifting your intertwined legs from side to side, the dip in your knee holding your attention. Your lacy slip has slid down, pooling around your hips, practically baring you to an invisible audience.
“You always give me a good reminder whenever you return,” you admit, feeling a distinct, gyrating pang low in your gut, savouring his controlled inhale in your ear. No doubt recollecting your reunions. Hands and teeth and moans. Sweat and his head beneath your legs, your nails scratching against his scalp, forcing groans of satisfaction out of him. “How is it going?”
“I’ve missed you awfully,” he declares, a touch dramatic, and every bit Santino. But there’s sincerity to be found in his voice that manages to soften your features. “I miss kissing you, hm? Your scent. Your laugh even more so.”
“Well, well,” you muse playfully, feeling a palpable burn in your own veins at his confession. “Who knew I had Santino D’Antonio so smitten with me? Whatever would people say?”
People know you’re together. You’ve lived together for months now. Many are whispering how it’s only a matter of time before Santino gets on one knee and declares you Lady of Camorra to be. But Santino understands you and understands your need for time. You enjoy just having him, no titles or expectations attached.
He doesn’t answer you but his silence feels potent. Teeming with things unspoken, his intentions practically kissing you where you lay still on your shared bed. A bed you’ve both more than broken in, tangled together and clawing at the sheets.
“Anything else?” you prompt.
Santino hums; a long, pensive sound of contemplation. But you can sense the shift in the air, how he’s about to plunge you both into something different. You’ve grown rather good at anticipating him after so many years of knowing him.
“Fucking you,” he admits brazenly, his accent thickening, deepening the vowels where they tangle in each other. “I’ve missed you calling my name when I make you come, bella. Cazzo. The sounds you make—”
Your chest rises with a deep inhale, holding oxygen inside your lungs until they start to ache. “Oh?” you breathe, an encouraging sound permeating the silence between you. “What else?”
Santino breathes in your ear for a moment, strangled. Your eyes flutter closed, and you can almost sense him near you — his heat, scent, taste, the way his hands glide across your skin, touching you everywhere, claiming you and worshipping you alike. His fingers at the back of your head, holding you close to him. His hiss of choked breath while his fingers clinch the flesh of your thighs, hooking your legs over his hips. A thousand such scenarios play through your mind.
“Tell me where you are.”
It’s more so a demand than a question and while usually, such a tone would have prompted a scowl or a glare, this time it only kindles a fire in your gut. Your thighs press tightly together, rubbing together to quell the rising urge in you. Eyes still resting shut, you only offer him a distracted, sly, “On our bed. I can smell you. Your cologne still lingers on the sheets.”
Santino mutters something under his breath. A shuffle on the line and you can hear him moving. Another rustle of cloth and—
“Are you dressed, amore? Or are you laying on those sheets naked?”
You have a preference to do so, he knows as much. It’s not your fault the Italian climate is still taking time to adapt to fully after you’ve lived for years in Moscow and New York. More adept in dealing with cooler temperatures than heat. It’s even less your fault he’s a furnace of heat and impossible to sleep against.
“Just my slip,” you answer throatily, licking your lips, squirming in your spot, too hot all over. “The one you gave me. The green one.”
He never hides his preference for seeing you in his favourite colour. How it hugs your figure, brings out your features and compliments you, drives him insane. Even the silk you both tangle in so passionately is oftentimes varying shades of emerald.
“Ah, my favourite. No underwear, I presume?” he drills, his voice thick, all pretence of arrogant disposition waning word by word. Barely leashed desire exposes him and his impatience even more so. “Devil woman. Mhm. Are you wet, amore mio? Waiting for me to pleasure you again? Fuck you so well you’re sleepy and full of me in those sheets.”
He would know. Not like you’re going to give him the satisfaction of a stroked ego though. “Who knows? I could have anyone here to keep me busy.”
A low growl filters from the other end; agitation, mixing with Santino’s own possessiveness, slivers of jealousy. Perhaps it’s an unfair thing to say but you’ve never been particularly merciful on him.
“Touch yourself,” he urges, his voice silky and downright sinful. Empty of the darkness to have peeked through moments prior. Now, his words trickle through the phone gently. Impossibly coaxing all at once, and he’s more than aware of it. “Imagine I’m there with you. Let me remind you why you’re on my bed and not someone else’s, yes?”
“Demanding.”
“Cara mia,” the endearment rips out of him as a near savage snarl, but ever so hungry. “Let me hear you.”
You contemplate hanging up, contemplate reminding him how he’s hardly in the position to demand anything of you. How the ring of your command is more frequent than his in the bedroom. How his glazed, drunk eyes focus on you wherever you use that tone with him, devouring those instances with unnerving intensity. How he lowers his head in reverence just as you do. Albeit much more frequently than you. How satisfied he is with both, how eager for your claws and fangs.
But you can be merciful, and you have missed him. So you allow your fingers to skate down your body, not lingering anywhere in particular. Your legs uncross, still bent at the knees when you part them. Night air kisses exposed flesh and you wither on the sheets, running your tongue over your teeth with a brief, hoarse laugh.
“Seems like I’ve missed you too, Santi,” you inform him lazily, your fingers stroking down your core, spreading the wetness slowly starting to pool there. “Maybe I have missed you fucking me after all.”
Santino listens so intently there’s only eerie silence in your ear. Only broken apart by occasional, haggard breath from him — so controlled, fragmented, as if not to break the delicious, heated spell cocooning you both.
You slip a finger inside yourself, feeling the stretch, the tingling rush of excitement scorching through the nerves of your inner thighs. Such a good stress reliever. One you’ve employed many times in your years of solitude where no lovers were welcomed into your bed.
“Mhm.”
Your sigh fills the air, your chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. Your wrist strains, bending, and it prompts a moan; hushed, lazy, wanton. Santino seems to be breathing with you, in and out. You can feel phantom of his presence, slotting between your parted legs, stroking himself as he peers down at you. Mouth parted and limbs trembling with the urge to leap forward and sink into you. Fuck you with an urgency he often employs, teeth grit and brow damp from exertion. Always so impatient for his release.
“Having fun, Santi?” you moan, breathless, sensing the heat bubbling in your lower stomach.
You curl your fingers, delighted by the sensation of pleasure, of friction, webbing through your quivering limbs. Wet, sloppy sounds join your muffled breathing, and all you hear from Santino is a rumbling groan. You can picture him perfectly. His hand gripping his length harshly — but not as harshly as you do. Stroking up and down with building, sloppy urgency, holding the pulsing, hot weight of himself in his palm — but not as feverishly, or as deliciously as you do.
“Are you picturing me on my knees, Santi? It’s been a while since you came into my mouth.”
A seething curse tumbles from his mouth. You’re not quite sure if it’s your name that precedes it but all you do know is that he’s most certainly picturing you on your knees now. Your mouth heavy with the weight of him, and jaw straining to accommodate him. Eyes hooded and sly while you watch him watch you.
A gargle of broken Italian fills your ear and you increase your pace, a second finger slipping inside. It’s not enough — not nearly enough after you’ve gotten used to having Santino inside you — but the sounds of his groans, splintering into a desperate moan of your name, sends you over the edge right after him.
Sweat pools at the crevices of your skin, your hips raised slightly from the bed beneath you. Thighs closing, you grind them together, your fingers still inside you. Pressure, pressure — it scratches its way through your clit, and you hiss between clenched teeth, grinding into the heel of your palm desperately. Prolonging the floaty, addictive sensation as long as you can.
It takes several minutes for you both to come down from your high. Your eyelids flutter, suddenly sleepy, content.
“You’re not leaving that bed when I’m back,” Santino hisses and you can hear the indignation stark in his scratchy voice. Oh, the predictability of D’Antonio pride. “This I promise you, cara mia.”
You stretch indolently, dragging your hand from between your legs and popping the slippery digits into your awaiting mouth. Purposely noisy, so you’re sure every sound is audible, amplified. So he hears every last bit.
❛ there’s so many things i wanna do to you. ❜ + santino/v : ))))
pairing: santino d'antonio & clara!v
prompt: ❛there’s so many things i wanna do to you.❜
wc: 941
warnings: slight nsft, but more angsty lmao; also santino being santino & v being v : )
note: RIs have been giving me grief lately so technically clara!v but no major descriptors are used : ) also, I know some of you prefer this format. also thank you ash for my whole life!!! muah (●'◡'●)
There are insistent, troubling occurrences when Santino sees the hands that have morphed V.
Hands that had influenced her and changed her with years and hardships. Most wisdom stems from Winston, other times — more unfortunately — Santino sees John. In the solemn determination, in the premeditated control in how she approaches situations. There are flecks of steely control coming to life from shadowing Winston’s side for years. Learning from the best to match the best. Winston’s beloved little hatchling.
Winston would have gladly kept her to himself, Santino is perfectly aware. Made her his heir, made her his protegee. She’s always been that, albeit undeclared. New York is as good as hers. Her roots and support running deep there.
But years have taught Santino the virtue of patience. Hard-earned and fickle as it may be, his faith has been rewarded.
“So grumpy,” she breathes, pressing her heated lips between his furrowed brows. “What’s troubling you, Santi?”
Many things. Doubts, primarily. The kind he would never voice aloud, not even to her, though his trust in her is bone-deep. She earned it so long ago, Santino can’t recall who the boy she met even was. Foolish, brash, arrogant — he’s still those things, in a sense, but where she had once seen him as a nuisance, now she considers him hers, and hers alone.
She can be as stubborn, as unyielding as her namesake. Seen as cruel by many, too dangerous by an even larger number. Cold and calculated and reactionary all at once. Right now, Santino wants her to react, wants her craving him with the same desperation he’s spent years waiting and craving her. Years have passed in purgatory and even winning her no longer truly feels like winning after all. Part of him is convinced this is too good to be true, that he never recovered from the bullet John planted in his head — that she never saved him.
“Santi,” she chides, a warning sliding into her low call. “I can hear you thinking. Am I not entertaining you adequately?”
He can’t form a fucking thought when she grinds against him like that. Half naked, dishevelled, and far too tempting. Mean in her iron-like grip and stare. Expression awashed by shadows and eyes glinting, serpentine and seductive. Perhaps it should worry him. A man of his status should think better than invite a woman capable of killing him with her bare hands to his bed, his life, but if not her then who?
“There’s so many things I wanna do to you,” she mumbles hotly against his jaw, a hot puff of breath fanning, wet with her desire. Her fingers tighten in his curls, tugging, claiming, and a groan bubbles up in his throat, trembling there. “Where should I start, Santi? Your neck, chest… lower?"
She traces a single finger down the column of his throat, and Santino senses her sly smile tucked against his chin. She laughs softly; a dangerous sound he feels unmade by, fractured. Her hips slot between his hands. He’s gripping her tightly to him but she likes it even tighter, harder, meaner. Santino’s breaths thin into shallow and deep.
Fuck. Fuck he can’t think straight when she gets like this. When ghosts and pain haunting her melt away, leaving the woman she could have been had life been kinder. These appearances are becoming more frequent, and it prompts only one request from him:
“Become Lady Camorra,” he rasps, guiding her closer for a kiss, for a taste, his arms full of her. “Marry me, amore.”
One desire she refuses to satisfy. Body and soul he can have her. Fuck her until he’s incoherent, but this, she will not give him. He understands what he’s asking. Marrying him is not the issue, he knows, but forcing herself to become what she doesn’t wish to be, is.
It’s not me, she had told him, her regret clear.
Power suits her. Beautifully, fitting her like a glove. She’s born for it. He’s been telling her this for years, and she’s more inclined to believe him now. But not this kind of power. She never stops gazing out into the world as if she’s not quite certain where she belongs, if anywhere. As if she should be somewhere else, doing something different. He thought her coming to him, choosing him, would have erased that. That her waking up in his arms and kissing him unabashedly, owning him so effortlessly, means she’s finally his. At long last, his.
But…
A soft smile curls her mouth, leaning closer to kiss him gently, regretfully. It’s a wordless denial. He’s tasted plenty from her to no longer be stung by them.
Heels of her hands pushing on his shoulders, she guides him down on the bed, her toned thighs straddling him.
“I love you, Santi.”
He knows. She loves too much. It’s what tied her to John for years. Even now, she still holds love for him in her heart. She only says it if she means it. He would never doubt as much.
She kisses him again, wet and sweet. His hands drag down her waist, her bare thighs, desperate to capture as many of these moments as he can. Her love is honeyed and warm, a fire warming and burning, palpable in every stroke and skim of her lips on his.
“I love you more, amore,” he exhales. He always has. He says it again, so deep inside her, he hardly feels himself. Moving with her, in her.
Santino hopes one day he will stop feeling like she’s about to slip away from him even when she’s right there in his arms.
sometimes i just want to shake women who exhaust themselves for the men in their lives like. they would never do that shit for youuuu. they dont even defend you to their friends when youre not around. they would never do that shit for youuuuuuuuu
Summary: Paulette’s ex moved on a little too soon in her opinion, but damn does she have good taste in women…
Pairing: soft!dark!Paulette Atreides x black!Reader
Warnings: Attempted non-con, social media stalking, that’s all I think for this part but let me know if I missed anything
A/n: mmm problematic rich girl Paulette yum yum yum this is my girl dinner. Toxic rich sorority girl Paulette my sunshine, my temptress. DNI minors, ageless and/or blank blogs, or serial-likers. I only want genuine interaction on my fics
It had been a couple months, so Paulette shouldn’t have been as annoyed as she was. Chani had broken up with her… for kinda good reason. Her ex was a sensitive girly so Paulette figured after she had overheard her casual admission that the relationship wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t serious, was just fun and something to do for now… yeah, that’s the kind of thing Chani couldn’t get over.
Paulette didn’t feel any type of way about it, however, until she heard that it hadn’t even taken three months for Chani to have moved on to someone else. Like, hello? Paulette was Paulette. Even if there hadn’t been bad blood that caused the split, mourning the loss of her usually took her exes much longer. Didn’t Paulette leave a bad taste in her mouth for relationships? For giving her heart away? Where were the trust issues? The trauma? The long healing process?
So needless to say as much as outwardly, Paulette pretended she hadn’t eavesdropped to glean the little tidbit. But inside her irritation simmered.
As soon as Paulette entered her loft, she logged into her burner instagram account that still follows Chani. The latest post was exactly what she needed.
She couldn’t tell who you were supposed to be in this photo. It was four girls posing for the picture and she recognized two of them as Chani’s friends she’d met before. Didn’t look overly familiar with any of them. Paulette swiped left through the photo dump and by the time she reached the ninth, she was sure she’d pegged who you were. Featured in more of the pictures than anyone else.
You were hot, like, objectively. Paulette wouldn’t have figured you as Chani’s type given the lack of similarities between you and herself. You looked…. Cutesy. Short, doe-eyed, silly. Maybe that was on purpose then? Surely, nothing about you would remind Chani of their not so distant past relationship.
Paulette pursed her lips, tapping her thumb on your tagged url. ‘Just as open as Chani,’ she tsked as she was able to go straight to your public account and look at your backlog of photos. Only 190 posts over 8 years, what the hell was wrong with you? Paulette rolled her eyes as she put her phone face down, unfolded from the posh armchair and went to her wine rack. She selected her favorite Syrah and the proper glass for it. Her bottom lip cushioned the slightly tapered rim as she took a sip, let the familiar flavor spread over her tongue.
If she was going to pick apart your pictures, she’d do it with a nice pleasant drink.
📱📲📱📲📱
Paulette frowned as her thumb swiped and swiped, trying to load more photos but her sluggish mind came to the reason for that. She’d reached the beginning of your damn account. No more pictures. She’d already studied all 194 posts. Why the fuck did you only have 194 posts?!
It frustrated her even though it made sense. She’d been able to paint a general picture of you over the last…. however many glasses ago she’d started. The kind of introvert that blossoms with those you’re very close to. Love being included even if you don’t participate. You collect stuffed animals at your grown age, God love you. Dressed more for comfort than for trends but… your style wasn’t unpleasant. Suited you well actually. She saw hints of a figure under the comfy clothes you often chose and it irked Paulette. Why didn’t you have way too much information on your instagram like everyone else your age?!
The wine glass clinked clumsily as she placed it a little too hard on the side table by her, her depth perception a little fucked.
She tipped the wine bottle that she had finally broken down and just brought over while looking at your Bahamas vacation pictures. NO BATHING SUIT PICS AT ALL by the way. Paulette had wanted to throw her phone when she just saw you smiling big at the camera in sundresses and landscape shots and fish and shit.
Fucking infuriating. Even more so when the Syrah dribbled out to barely half a glass. Paulette let her head fall back on the back of the armchair and groaned aloud.
Her thumb flew back over the screen, looking at the timestamp of your latest post. Two days ago. And.. four weeks ago before that?! You were practically off-grid!! What kind of pioneer, boomer shit was this?! How the hell was she expected to satiate her curiosity of you?!
Defeated and pissed, Paulette tossed her phone to the side. It was later than she usually started her night routine and the fact alone that she had wasted it on you left her even more grumbly. She showered and did her skincare routine before promptly crawling into bamboo sheets stark naked. Her head swam, circuitous curses of you and your ways. How were you an open book with so many blank pages?!
Paulette even dreamed of taking you apart that night.
📱📲📱📲📱
Eventually tired of just stalking your socials, Paulette does what she does best. She plots to get her way.
She meet-cutes you accidentally on purpose. Did it piss her off that you didn’t know who she was? A little bit yeah. Seriously, what was up with Chani that she hadn’t shown her current girlfriend/situationship/whatever the fuck pics of your ex?? Whatever, it worked out for her because she could start fresh on you.
Paulette didn’t necessarily give you a fake name, but she doesn’t introduce herself properly.
When you accidentally bumped into Paulette and she acted like it was hard enough for her to drop her fresh latte on the floor, you’d gasped and with a twang that was peculiarly pleasant and unexpected to hear after seeing your pictures, you apologized so profusely.
“Honey, I’m so sorry! Fuck, I’m clumsy as all get out. Did it get on you, hon? Are you burned?”
You couldn’t get more polar opposite than Paulette. How was Chani with you?
But Paulette was a good actress, putting on a demure face of apology herself. “No, it’s my mistake, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No need to apologize at all! Let me get you another, please.”
You knelt to clean it up with Paulette, who was barely putting any effort into wiping it up herself. And when the barista asked for a name for the order, Paulette shot a coy look sideways and bit her lip on a grin.
“‘Honey’. I, um, think I like the name Honey a lot.”
With a small fluster, you handed your card to the cashier. And something bloomed in Paulette’s chest, in her lower belly.
Reluctantly, she had to admit: between herself and you, Chani actually had damn good taste.
📱📲📱📲📱
She never wanted to wear Chani’s sports jerseys and old tshirts. Why the hell would she want to have on something so shapeless? And Paulette really didn’t understand how you made it look hot. She likes you in this oversized shit but she wants to drape you in the silks and velvets and leather in her own closet. See diamonds on your throat, gold circling those wrists.
Soon she’ll dream of bite marks and bruises on your throat. Her fingers circling those wrists.
📱📲📱📲📱
Impatience wasn’t a foreign feeling for Paulette. She was usually a lot better when she had a plot in the works. But you were unprecedentedly tempting.
Paulette was getting more possessive of you by the minute, so frustrated every time you mentioned Chani, so tired of having to share you. Tired of hiding that she wanted you.
Paulette was sure Chani knew about her, but only as Honey. Straddling the line between coy and brat, she refused to tell you her given name, saying she liked the nickname you inadvertently gave her better. Though, lately she really wanted to know what the southern drawl would do to her name if you actually said it. It’d featured a few dreams and starred in a few fantasies when she zoned out in Statistics.
This was the first time you were both studying in your room as opposed to Paulette’s place and Paulette was already regretting saying yes to you.
Was your side of the room perfectly fitting to how she had imagined? Absolutely. Cozy and lived-in and sickeningly cute stuffed animals on the bed and in a hammock pinned to the wall as well.
But you mentioned Chani one too many times. You weren’t focusing enough on Paulette right in fucking front of you. Paulette had a plan, dammit. A seduction to steal you away from Chani and get you to sin so so deliciously with her. You were such a good girl. A sweet and giving friend and affectionate girlfriend. Paulette wanted that all to herself. She was itching for it. Sitting in your comfy lounge clothes looking too soft not to sink her teeth in. Loose and gabby from the hard seltzers. What was a girl to do?
She has you cornered on your bed as you tried to back away from her when Chani opened the door.
“Chani!” You called, your voice wobbling pretty cutely. Dammit, Paulette wanted to hear more of that. She sighed as she sat back on her calves, turning unimpressed eyes towards Chani standing hurt, betrayed, fuming, speechless in the doorway.
Summary: Clark messed up really badly……he didn't tell you he was Superman and now he's just like all the other terrible guys. during his grief he decides to just tell you about just being Superman. He shows up at your door hoping you'll answer the door…..one last time.
Warnings: Make Up Fluff
Clark shifted from foot to foot, open and closed his hands repeatedly, he took several deep breaths and before be decided this was a bad idea he rang the doorbell. He scratched his shirt suit underneath the last time he was here in his suit he felt like his heart stayed here ever since that night a month ago.
Had it really been a month? It felt like eons really.
He'd been working himself up the courage to do this finally for that past month, cause he couldn't move on, he couldn't just flyaway without letting you know the whole truth about him being Superman. You deserved better, he knew that.
You didn't expect anyone today during your stay-cation and especially not this early in the morning. You just finished your morning routine, your toothbrush hanging in your mouth. This was probably a newspaper boy insisting you get The Daily Planet to your doorstep yet again for the billionth time this month. The lad was persistent you'd give him that. You wrapped your exes hoodie around yourself you didn't want the cold to get in. You just worked up the warmth from your Yoga routine you were not going to let the winter air steal it cause of a prescient paperboy.
Your brown fingers reached the door handle and pulled it open.
"Look kid, I…." You froze hand slack on the doorknob you definitely didn't expect to see the man you cried your eyes out for a month over standing in your doorway. You felt your chest pang a bit.
Clark's jaw about dropped on the floor. Mint, Coco butter and lavender filled his nose. He missed that smell around him, he missed the sounds you made when his lips would kiss your beautiful brown skin. He missed your lips on his. All the memories of him and you tangled together in this doorway either coming or going somewhere together, flashed in his mind.
The wind blew and you opened it further to usher Clark inside he went hesitantly. But idled in the hallway, you shut the door every word that you thought you'd say if you'd ever saw him again go out the window.
"Why are you here, Clark?" You asked softly.
Clark cleared his throat.
"I wanted to tell you the truth all of it…so you can move on from me." he disclosed.
You nodded gesturing for him to sit down on your couch. You placed your toothbrush back in the bathroom. Pouring yourself a cup of coffee and putting the kettle on for Clark. You brought the box of tea out for him he picked the same one: chamomile.
You sat cross legged on the floor taking a sip of your coffee and exhaled.
"Where are you from?" you started.
"A planet called Krypton."
"How did you get here to earth?" You continued.
"a ship that crashed in some cornfields in Kansas. Where I landed Ma and Pa raised me."
Your brows furrowed in curiosity.
"Martha and John Kent…they named me Clark so that's what i go by, instead of my birth name." Clark explained.
"Which is?"
"Kal-El."
"why Metropolis?"
Clark opened his mouth to answer just as the kettle stopped boiling. You pushed back your mug on the table and turned to get up from the floor and fetched the kettle and the massive potholder you put under it. Clark filled the mug that was your least favorite color in the whole cabinet that you had. It was the mug you gave to people that you didn't favor.
"I figured I could do the best here since its a big city. And being a journalist helps me with that too."
You asked Clark a bunch of more questions about his life and he told you everything honestly without hesitation.
You started to understand the complexities of Clark, and started to piece together your time that you had spent with him. Eventually, everything just clicked after hours spent talking.
"What are your powers?"
"Heat vision, x ray vision, wind breath…" Clark started listening off.
"Who are your enemies?" You mumbled.
"Uh…anyone or anything that wants to harm people…and the man that kidnapped you." He answers, taking a sip of his tea.
"How do you hide your identity?"
Clark smiled. Taking out his glasses.
"Their hypo glasses, so who ever looks can't make the connection that I'm Superman."
You chuckled at the ridiculousness of it. Then your heart started to pound quickly and your skin warmed like a tickling sensation as Clark rolled up his sleeves. You did not forget about those shirts Clark seemed to burst out of even though he tried to be small.
"One more thing I want to show you excuse me a moment." Clark got up dipped into your bathroom you heard a few rustling sounds and then he appeared in his bright red and blue suit undies on the outside and his cape draped like a curtain in your living room.
You looked at Clark and a tear went down your face. His eyes instantly looked concerned. Then a few fell. He reached for you and was surprised you held on to him. His arms instantly landing where you liked holding you tight.
Your braids sprawled across his suit, and your tears on them as well. He didn't want to cause you anymore pain, so he held you while you cried.
Your forehead rested on the symbol on his chest. And you realized you made a mistake, you weren't angry anymore. Clark told the truth every previous suitor you had lied somewhere so to know Clark who didn't changed the way you thought about him.
Clark looked down at you with remorse and tried to cement this moment in his head as the last time he would hold you. He breathed in the smell of you and the smoothness of your brown skin against his.
"Clark?" You whispered.
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry…for what I said that night, I was terrified."
"I understand why you didn't tell me…you are the most powerful person probably on this planet…and you bring people hope. I saw the news last week about that giant arm thing that attacked Metropolis & your friends the Justice gang." You wiped your tears on your sleeves. His blue eyes fixates on you while in his arms.
You traced the outline of the symbol on his chest then danced your fingers across his neck and to his face lovingly. And that's when your heart caught up with your brain.
"I'm crying because I'm an idiot and…I love you, Clark all of you, even Superman."
Clark smiled and leaned in to you lips capturing yours instantly. He wiped the tears on your face with his thumbs.
"I love you too, Honey. And I'm sorry I kept this away from you." Clark disclosed. When he pulled apart briefly.
"Will you forgive me?" Clark asked.
"Under two conditions." You told placing your finger on his nose for attention purposes.
Clark watched you to show he was listening.
"I want to see your fortress of solitude…"
You bit your lip next and Clark knew your next question would probably be very risque. When you whispered it in his ear his face turned bright red.
"Y-Yeah we can do that…" Clark said nervously.
"I know how to take stains out of anything." You mused.
"The yellow sun huh?"
"Yeah the sun in this universe gave me my powers it also heals me too. My cousin parties on planets with red suns so she can get wasted." Clark told.
You laughed. And Clark grinned from ear to ear even his eyes smiled at you.
A/n: another smutty blurb with dom!architect!Timmy being a wittle bit mean. Reader called a slut and implied sexual punishment ahead
Timothée sighed, disappointed as he pushed himself up from the bed. “Get on your knees since you can’t listen.”
You whined immediately, reaching for him. “I’m not trying to! I'm trying to listen!”
“Then why are you closing your legs?”
You’re too embarrassed to respond but he just raised both eyebrows at you. He's not gonna ask again.
“It feels too good but I don't try to, it just happens! I want you to keep going and I can't keep still.”
“Ohhh, I get it,” he nodded solemnly. “You’re too much of a slut to listen.” He pushed at your hip to get you to roll over.
“No, please—!”
“‘No’? First you aren’t listening, now you’re telling me no?”
“Please, I just wanted—.”
“I just wanted to come home and eat my pretty little pussy. But you can’t follow simple directions. So get on your knees and let me finish and maybe I’ll listen when you say you’ve had enough.”
Summary: Reader is kidnapped one afternoon by one of Lex Luthor's cronies. All because of his obsession with finding Superman.Reader finds out Clark is Superman
Warnings: kidnapping, angst
You heaved the last of the trash to the dumpster, letting out a exasperating sigh. You threw out your gloves and zipped up your coat continuing your closing duties.
When you finished you turned around to lock the door and walked towards your usual bus stop.
You messaged Clark told him you were on your way home. A man walked past you smoking his cigar that had an awful amount of smoke around him. You covered your mouth so you didn't breathe too much of it in….or so you thought.
You got dizzy from the stench, started to cough and then you passed out. The stranger put out his pipe. Pulled out his phone and started to call someone. Soon a van pulled up and the stranger and a few others carried you into the van and drove away.
Few hours later….
You started to stir, your vision was blurry. You tried to move your hands but you couldn't for some reason. You tried the same for your feet but that didn't help either. Your heart rate picked up and you started panic.
Where were you? What happened? & Why can't you move?
No one else was in the room besides a man on the other side. He was bald like an egg and dressed professionally. He turned around with a mug in his hand.
"Your finally awake." He told calmly.
Your eyes darted around the room. You could see Metropolis through the tall glass windows in all its glory, the sun had just went down and the city twinkled with lights. It would have been pretty if you weren't being held captive right now.
The man walked towards you slowly he looked familiar somehow. Your brow furrowed and you looked around trying to piece together who it was. Your eyes landed on his mug LexCorp. You felt an instant shock of panic.
"You're…Lex Luthor, your on every screen in the city besides Superman."
Lex's eye twitched at your last words. But you didn't see it.
"I am and you are….Clark Kent's girlfriend."
"What does Clark have to do with you kidnapping me?" You asked. Trying to move against the restraints but failing miserably.
Lex moved even closer still sipping his tea.
"It's easy…Clark Kent is the reporter that interviews Superman all the time. Maybe their even friends outside of work."
"And if they are I can you use as a trap, what will Clark do when you don't return home? Call Superman perhaps? I'm betting on it." Lex smiled evilly.
A chill ran down your spine. Lex finished his coffee and walked towards the door. Leaving you alone.
Clark told you about LuthorCorp once when he did an article with Lois. He was a suspicious rich guy that had it out for Superman like an obsession with trying to kill him. He had never succeeded.
Luthor probably could keep you here for hours if not days, so you tried to remember anything Clark even mentioned about Superman that would help you out of this.
You closed your eyes to think about the one time Clark told you about how he calls him. You took a few deep breaths in and out, in and out then you screamed as loud and as long as your stomach would let you. You hoped that Superman heard you.
Clark lifted his phone to his ear to call you he didn't get the usual "I'm home now." Text from you that you always sent if you had to close that night. He instantly dropped his phone when he heard screaming.
He knew that sound anywhere. He ran up the stairs of his apartment building stripping off his clothes reveling his suit and flew off across the sky like a lighting strike.
You were in trouble and he was going to make someone pay for that.
One of lex cronies tried to get you to drink some water out of a cup, you didn't trust it was water so you didn't bite.
"If it was poison you'd be dead by now."
You looked out through the windows again and saw a flash of red you grinned at the floor.
"What are you--?"
Suddenly there was a sound of rounds of gunshots all aiming for whatever was flying across the sky it kept missing its target.
"AIM BETTER, ITS JUST A DOG!!" you heard lex shout.
In the blink of an eye all the windows shattered and Superman was in the room. His hair fell perfectly on his face despite the frayed edges to his suit.
"I'm going to snap these off and we're get you out of here, ma'am."
You just sighed in relief as Superman crushed the restraints with just his hands. He then grabbed you carefully and took off back through the window.
You held on tightly to Superman. But realized how he held you, only one person knew how to hold you to avoid too much pressure on your back since you hurt it ages ago, Clark.
You had a massive realization. The man flying you through the sky right now was Clark.
Your lips trembled and tears went down your face.
"Ma'am….are you ok?" Superman asked.
"Just take me home…Clark." you mumbled.
Superman looked down instantly. You looked tired and worn out he opened and closed his mouth but said nothing. Landing at your front door.
"Honey, I…" Clark started.
"Your…Superman?" You disclosed. Tears were going down your face rapidly.
Clark shook his head. "Yes, I am…I wanted to tell you months ago…but dangerous people were after me and I didn't want you to be in danger too!" Clark pleaded to you.
You wiped your tears on your sleeves. Your blood boiled, you felt hurt so you started shouting.
"Y-YOU LIED!" Your voice cracked.
Those two words made Clark pause. He went to reach for your arm and you stepped back away from him. Shaking your head no.
"Get…away…from me." You seethed.
"Honey…" Superman cried out for you.
You picked up one of the soft decorations you'd put out for the holidays and threw it at him. Your eyes were bloodshot red, Tears were soaking your brown skin now onto your jacket in streams.
"GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, GETOUT!!!" you screamed frantically at the brightly caped hero.
Superman was crying too his tears landed on his suit as he floated away into the night.
You fumbled with your keys to get them in the door but once you finally got your door open you slid inside sliding down the wall in a fit of sobs the stress of the day taking you over.
Days later somewhere in Metropolis…
The apartment was dark no lights were on the space littered with shoes, and clothes strewn about every which way. Papers were on the floor, it didn't look like it was cleaned in days. The tv was off, the radio was off. A vibrating noise was on the kitchen counter.
Clark had multiple missed calls from his coworkers. And messages that rolled on into days missed.
Jimmy: Where are you?
Lois: Clark? You haven't been at work in days what's going on?
Thousands upon thousands of miles away in the artic sat a magnificent spike fortress inside was a man crying his eyes out.
He knows he messed up big time. And possibly, no defiantly lost the woman he loved in the process. All because he was scared.
He laied on floor in tears looking up at the ice of the fortress eyes blurry from tears it looked like even the walls were crying. Superman rolled over into a ball sniffing and cried some more. While the icy wind blew outside.
