𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑺 | 𝑪.𝑺 - 𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺
▶︎ ၊၊||၊ BEYOND THE SEA , ROBBIE WILLIAMS
AN ORIGINAL AU — MOB HEIR!CHRIS X BIRDIE!READER
WARNINGS : part one of four, smut series, plot build-up, slight mentions of drugs & guns, etc, mentions of rat in the business, degradation & praise as always, fingering you in the car, car sex, fucking you while he's on the phone
╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮
IN WHICH.. a shipment goes missing and a rat is suspected, Chris gets determined to find out who’s responsible, and you become more involved than you ever planned.
╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯
The air inside the club is thick with smoke and jazz.
Brassy horns dance in rhythm with the low hum of whispered deals and broken promises.
Laughter bubbles from velvet booths where the city's most dangerous men nurse expensive scotch and dirtier secrets.
Chris Sturniolo sits with his legs spread, cigar dangling from his fingers, the tip glowing like a coal. He lounges, but there’s tension in his jaw.
The kind that says someone, somewhere, is going to die by sunrise.
Tony leans back in his chair, a smirk creeping across his face as he plaster a smile on, watching Chris. "You can’t be serious, Tony... that’s the most insane fuckin’ bullshit I’ve ever damn heard..." Chris snickers, shaking his head. "No, no, no—don’t you back outta this one, you—Cross-eye! Tell me you heard what he said?!"
Cross-eye doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t blink, either. He just sits there in his sharp gray suit, nursing a glass of bourbon like it’s a baby.
His left eye twitches, the bad one, the one that always looks just past you, like it could see the thing waiting behind your back.
He clears his throat, gravel thick with years of cigarettes. “I heard him. And I think he’s full of shit.”
Tony barks out a laugh, slapping his knee. “C’mon, Cross. You think I’d make somethin’ like that up? I got the places for 'em right here." He gestures, pulling out his wallet, thumbing it open with a casual flick like it’s just any other day.
The wallet cracks open like a confession booth—faded leather, but fat with sins. The bills inside aren’t folded; they’re stacked, crisp, fresh from the count. Hundreds, mostly. A few foreign notes tucked in for flair. Silver coins glitter in the pocket fold, catching the chandeliers overhead, spinning little moons across the polished table.
He sighs, tapping on the shell of a plastic empty cover, the perfect space for a photo. "For the little ones. I know they’ll be smilin’ like they ain’t got a clue their daddy moves weight for men who ain’t supposed to exist.”
Tony chuckles, shoulders rising in a lazy shrug. He takes a long, slow pull from his pipe, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as he winks. “A wife, two kids, a dog—what, you think I’m kiddin’?”
Chris raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading like a crack in glass as he leans in. “Only thing missin’ is a white picket fence, huh?”
He laughs, low and rough, taking a drag from his cigar. Smoke wraps around his head like a halo gone crooked.
“What—you gonna be out there in a button-down, mowin’ your lawn every Sunday? Apron on, flippin’ burgers for the neighbors? ‘Hi there, name’s Tony, don’t mind the duffel bag full of cash in the shed.'"
The table bursts into laughter. Even Cross-eye snorts into his bourbon. Tony shakes his head, grinning despite himself, and flips Chris the bird across the table.
Chris flashes teeth, still chuckling. “I’ll leave that to your imaginary wife.”
The mood lightens for a moment, the kind of easy banter that only comes from years of bad jobs and worse nights.
The kind that makes monsters feel like men, if only for a breath.
But then the grin slips off Chris’s face. Falls, like a mask coming down the second he remembers everything at stake. Even though they’re all here to forget—to drown it in liquor, in smoke, in silk dresses and saxophone wails—it creeps back in.
His jaw tightens. The ice in his glass cracks as he grips it harder than he means to. His eyes flick away from you for just a second, scanning the room with that same cold sharpness that makes grown men flinch.
He sees too much. Hears too much. Always has.
His hand tilts the cigar, flicking ash into the tray without looking. “Alright,” he mutters, voice dropping into something colder. Deader. “Enough of the bullshit."
"Black Hands got their fuckin’ claws on our shipment," he mutters, voice low and sharp, like a knife being pulled from its sheath. “Somebody’s talkin’. I find out who, I’ll tie bricks to their ankles myself and drop ‘em in the Hudson.”
Laughter erupts from the table, the same polished men holding up their glasses in salute, their eyes worn and crinkled.
But Chris doesn’t smile, his jaw is frigid as he continues, "there ain’t no way twenty pounds of crank gets taken just like that without any fuckin’ trace. If I don’t find out who did it by the end of the week, pop’s gonna start clippin’ people left and right, and I don’t wanna see one of you or any of my other guys end up in a bag on the fuckin' street..."
He groans, leaning back in the booth, letting the smoke from his cigar curl like a ghost around his jaw as the men around him nod, taking in his words.
The pinstripes of his charcoal suit catch the golden lowlight of the overhead chandelier, just enough to highlight the knife’s-edge press of his collar, the dark silk of his tie knotted like a noose. The jacket is tailored within an inch of its life, hugging his broad shoulders, lapels sharp enough to cut through to his skin.
Every man at the table is armed, their guns pressed against their sides, outlines spilling from beneath their lush, expensive suits. Revolvers tucked under jackets, glocks resting at waists, knives sheathed close to ribs.
Chris exhales slow, his eyes scanning the club like he’s bored of all of it—the scotch, the company, the shadows clinging to the corners.
The ice in his glass clinks when he leans back, that ever-present smirk tugging at his lips, one that never quite reaches his eyes.
There's blood on his conscience and bourbon in his veins, and yet, for the first time tonight, something suddenly cuts through the noise.
Red dress, hips swaying in time with the saxophone’s sultry wail. She moves like temptation lit a cigarette and decided to walk the earth. Not loud. Not flashy. But devastating.
"Who's the bird?" he murmurs, voice low but heavy enough to silence the table. His eyes never leaving her.
Joey shifts in his seat. “New girl. Came in from Brooklyn a couple weeks ago—Sam brought her on. Sings. Keeps the books too.”
Birdie. Of course, she has a name that sweet.
Chris grinds the cigar into the ashtray and stands, rolling his shoulders. “She got a man?”
Joey hesitates. “Not that I know—”
Chris licks his bottom lip, eyes flicking to where you disappear into the crowd, your red dress fluttering behind you like a whisper of sin.
“I’mma take that pretty birdie for a spin... after all, we’re here to take our minds off things.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. He doesn’t need it.
The room shifts around him as he moves. There’s a gravity to the way he walks, like he owns every inch of space between him and the bar. Heads turn. Nobody dares stop him.
His gaze is sharp, slicing through the haze and noise, locked on one thing—you.
The club may be loud, but the moment Chris reaches you, the world narrows to a single heartbeat. Yours.
He stops just behind you, close enough that his heat kisses your skin. You smell him before you see him—smoke, bourbon, and danger. A lethal cocktail.
One hand braces against the bar beside your elbow, the other brushes your waist as he leans in, voice a low rasp at your ear.
“I think you owe me a drink…”
You startle slightly, just enough to turn and meet his grin—crooked, devilish, impossible to ignore.
“Why?” you manage, voice caught somewhere between curiosity and warning.
He tilts his head, that glint in his eye cutting straight through you. “Because when I saw you, I dropped mine.”
“Blushing, huh?” he smirks, motioning for the bartender without taking his eyes off you. “Here, sweetheart—lemme buy you something to cool you down. Can’t have a woman as stunning as you all hot and flustered.”
He leans in just a little more, enough for the light to catch him right—and that’s when you really see him.
He leans in a little, and in the dim, golden light of the bar, you finally got a proper look at him.
His hair is dark and messy, effortlessly tousled like he’d just run his hands through it—like he’d been dragged out of bed or into someone’s arms. A single curl fell onto his forehead, careless and perfect. His jaw, so unbelievably sharp, defined like it had been carved just to make you stare, dusted with a couple days' worth of stubble that caught the light and made your fingertips itch to feel it.
That stubble framed his mouth—full, plush lips, pink and sinful, made to say all the wrong things. When he smiled, it was crooked, cocky, but the kind of crooked that made your stomach flip, like he knew something you didn’t.
His eyes were darker than they looked in videos, sharp and intense up close, with a glint of something dangerous behind the lashes—like if you looked too long, you’d fall, and he wouldn’t catch you.
He’d let you hit the bottom and still make you thank him for the drop.
His gold chain caught the light with his every movement, a flash of warmth silver and gold tones against his collarbone.
Everything about him felt intentional and unbothered all at once. He looked like trouble. The kind that ruins you and leaves you crawling back for more.
“You keep starin’, birdie,” he murmurs, dragging his eyes down your body like a slow burn, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want me to do somethin’ about it.”
You blink, lips parting, but nothing comes out.
Your mouth had gone dry. His voice like velvet and sin, low and rough, laced with something that made your thighs press together beneath the bar.
He was watching you closely—like he could see every reaction, every shift in your breath, every spark flickering behind your eyes.
Then, without waiting for permission, he reaches for your drink and sets it aside.
“C’mon,” he said casually, like it wasn’t the most reckless offer of your life.
“Let’s go talk somewhere quieter.”
Before you can think of a reason to say no, his hand slips behind your back—firm, warm, confident—guiding you off the barstool like you’re something delicate, breakable. Like he already owns the story you’re about to walk into.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of the others—your boss, Sam, laughing with someone you don’t recognize, eyes flicking toward you just long enough to see where you’re going. Who you’re going with.
“Oh, I insist,” Chris calls back over his shoulder, that voice of his drenched in charm and something more dangerous. “Sam don’t mind, do ya?”
No one ever does when Chris Sturniolo is involved.
Your heels click against the floor, a rhythm that doesn't match the pacing in your chest. Your body’s already made the decision, even if your mind is scrambling to catch up. He leads like a man used to being followed.
Chris pushes open the back door like it’s his own damn house, stepping into the chill of the night without hesitation. The alley behind the bar is dim, dressed in shadows lit only by the red glow of the exit sign and the occasional flicker of a faulty bulb overhead.
He leans against a sleek black car—low, shining, expensive—clearly his.
But the way he looks at you makes it feel like you’re the luxury. Like you’re the thing that turns heads.
You stop a few feet away, arms crossing instinctively, trying to hold in the tremor crawling up your spine. “Who are you?” you ask, the question coming out quieter than you expect.
He smiles like the question tickles him, the corner of his mouth curving up slow and dangerous.
“Let’s just say…” he murmurs, taking a lazy step forward, his fingers brushing the side of your hip like he’s testing the charge between you, “your boss knows my pop’s.”
It sounds simple. Too simple. Like something he’s said before—clean, practiced, polished just enough to hide the blood underneath.
But the way he says it? The way his voice dips low, like a secret sliding across your skin?
It makes your stomach flip.
Like he knows he’s off-limits.
Like he wants you to understand, without saying it outright, that whatever this is—whatever’s hanging heavy in the air between you—it’s dangerous. Tethered to something sharp. Something that bites.
Chris leans in, so close you could almost count the dark lashes framing his wicked eyes. “Relax,” he murmurs voice dipping lower, almost a whisper thick with a deep Boston accent. “’m not gonna bite— unless you ask nice.”
You hate the way it hits you. Hate how your breath stutters in your chest, how your pulse jumps behind your ribs like it’s got somewhere else to be. How your knees threaten to buckle from just a handful of words.
And he sees it. All of it. Watches the way your body reacts like he owns it.
Like it’s routine. Like it’s expected.
Then he steps back, slow and deliberate, and swings open the car door behind him with a flick of his wrist. Holds it there like a man offering the world.
It’s not a question. Not even close.
You hesitate—half a second, no more—your gaze flicking back toward the bar, toward Sam, toward safety. But the cold night air nips at your skin where his heat used to be, and you feel it.
Your head screams no. Screams danger. But your body?
Your body is already moving.
Chris catches it, that shift, and his grin curves into something downright filthy. “Need help deciding, birdie?” he teases, thumb brushing the edge of the open door. “I could always bend you over the hood instead.”
Your stomach turns inside out. Your thighs tighten like they’ve got secrets.
You climb into the backseat, silent, breath shallow.
He closes the door behind you—click—like sealing a vault. Like locking the past out.
Then he moves around, unrushed, sleek like oil on water, sliding into the seat beside you. The door shuts with a low, weighted thud.
Like you’ve just agreed to something you can’t undo.
He doesn’t touch the keys.
Just watches you, tongue sweeping slow over his bottom lip, gaze dropping—lingering—on the shape of your legs, your dress bunched high over your thighs.
“Smart girl,” he says finally, voice all silk and sin.
He leans in and twists, brushing your bare knee with the back of his knuckles.
Casual. Intentional. Like lighting a match and watching it fall.
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was charged. Like the whole car might combust if either of you breathed too loud. His thumb started tracing circles, slow and lazy, like he was testing how far you’d let him go without saying no.
“You ever been in trouble, little bird?” he asks, voice low, amused.
You nod before you can stop yourself—small, shaky, like your body answers before your brain is able to catch up.
Chris' smile spreads slow, dangerous. “Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in just a little closer, breath ghosting your cheek. “You look like the type.”
His fingers slide higher, barely an inch, but it feels like everything. A growing heat curls in your gut, slow and thick, as his hand pauses right at the hem of your red silky dress.
“You ever fuck in a parked car before?” he asks, almost a whisper, his accent rough and smug like he already knew the answer to that.
The windows fog slightly, the night outside long and forgotten, swallowed by the heat between you, the faintest whisper of the jazz music from inside surrounding both of you, a silent murmur in the background.
His hand slips beneath the fabric in time with the music, like it's his right, fingertips brushing against the soft inside of your thigh—testing, teasing, tracing upward.
You suck in a breath, but don't stop him. Couldn’t. Not when your body is already giving in, your back pressing into the seat, legs parting just enough for him to slide into your sopping pussy further.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs his voice low and thick, laced with heat as he leans in once again, lips grazing your jaw. “Too pretty to be good all the time.”
His fingers reach the edge of your panties and he smiles against your skin, cocky and slow.
“Fuck,” he breaths, voice raspier now. “Already wet for me, huh birdie?”
You whimper, the sound catching in your throat as his mouth finally finds your neck, teeth dragging gently while his fingers dip under the lace—slick, warm, unhurried as they find your clit.
“You got no idea what that does to me, you, so innocent in this fuckin' dress.”
He moves against you with control, with confidence, like he has all night and nothing to prove—but everything to claim. His fingers circle your clit just right, slow enough to make you squirm, fast enough to make your hips buck toward his hand.
“Look at you,” he whispers, lifting his head to catch your eyes, his gaze catching onto yours as his hands work against your cunt. “Gonna come for me right here, sweetheart? In the backseat like a fuckin’ daydream?”
His other hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Open,” he murmurs, soft but firm.
And when you do—when you part your lips, breathing ragged and eyes blown wide—he slides two ring-covered fingers into your mouth, just as the ones between your thighs curled deep inside of your dripping cunt.
The metal of his golden rings is cold and brassy against your tongue as he slips them against your tongue, groaning slightly as your lips move around them both, pulling them deeper into the inside of your cheek as his fingers relentlessly work inside of your pussy.
“Good girl,” he growls, watching you fall apart around him. “Just like that.”
Your moans are muffled by his fingers, your lips wrapping around them like you were starving for something so much sweeter.
Chris’s eyes darken, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches you—watching your body react, twitch, tremble under his touch like you were made for this. Made for him.
His fingers between your legs circle your clit and fill your cunt in perfect rhythm, slow, deliberate movements that have your thighs shaking and your cunt shivering with sloppy sounds every single time he plunges them in and out.
The car is warm now, suffocating with the heat, fog slicking the windows until the outside world didn’t exist anymore. Just the press of leather, the beat of jazz still bleeding faintly from the club, and him—everywhere around you.
“Fuckin’ filthy,” he mutters almost to himself, dragging his soaked fingers from your mouth and back down your body like he can't quite choose which part he wants to ruin first. “Letting me touch you like this, all desperate and messy.”
He leans in, kissing you hard, nearly claiming the noise you made against his lips. His tongue glides against yours, his breathing heavy as he tastes the sweetest of you on his taste buds.
His hand doesn't stop. If anything, it moves rougher, like your moan light a fire in him.
He knows he needs to feel you break apart under his fingers—again, and again, until your voice is nothing but a whisper and your body can't take any more.
Chris curls his fingers deep, hitting that spot against your cervix that made your hips jolt, that made your breath catch and your thighs try to clamp shut around his wrist.
But he doesn't let up. Instead, he growls low, almost feral, and uses his free hand to push your leg open wider, holding you there—open, shaking, completely at his mercy as he toys with your slick cunt, right there in the car outside your new workplace.
And you're close. So close it hurts. The edge is right there, burning, begging, and he knows it—feels it in the way your walls flutter around his fingers, in the way you whimper to him with all your wetness, hears it in the way you murmur his name over and over, like it's the only word you even know.
“That’s it,” he whispers, watching your face, obsessed with every flicker of pleasure that crosses it. “Gonna come for me, yeah? Gonna soak my fuckin’ hand like a good girl—right here in the fuckin' car, huh? My slutty girl?”
And when you do—hips bucking, breath catching, thighs clenching around his hand as your climax crashes over you like a wave—he just watches. Smirking. Possessive. Like he already knows this won’t be the last time he has you like this.
He pulls his fingers free slow, eyes never leaving yours, then brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean.
His tongue twists around his own fingers deliberately, your sticky wetness coating his lips, running down the stubble on his chin as he groans at the taste of you.
“Fuckin’ sweet,” he moans. “Like you were made for me.”
Then he leans back, voice low and cocky, thumbing the inside of your thigh.
“Still with me, birdie?” he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue like something sacred and sinful all at once. “Didn’t fly too far, did you?”
You can’t answer. Not right away. Your body’s still pulsing, every nerve singing, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. But he doesn’t mind. He just watches, drinking you in, like the sight of you wrecked and pliant is his personal religion.
Chris’s hand moves again, this time gentler—just a brush, a tease—like he’s reminding you he’s still in control, still touching, still here.
“I could watch you come apart like that all night,” he says, voice thick, eyes burning. “Mouth full of my fingers, soaked for me. You’re a fuckin’ dream, bird.”
He leans down again, this time pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, trailing heat with every soft press of lips. “Bet if I slid in right now, you’d take me so well. Wouldn’t even fight it, would you?”
His teeth graze the skin just beneath your ear. “Nah,” he whispers, breath hot, words threading into your spine. “You’d beg for it. Just like you begged for my fingers. Just like you’ll beg next time.”
Then he pulls back again, just far enough to meet your eyes.
He shifts, the leather creaking under his weight as he pulls you closer—legs parted, back pressed to the door, your body guided exactly where he wants it. His belt comes undone with a harsh metallic clink, suit pants shoved down just enough for him to free himself.
He’s already hard, cock drenched with precum, so thick in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, watching your eyes widen.
“You gonna let me fuck you right here?” he asks, voice a low growl, almost reverent. “Let me fill you up in the same seat you just came in?”
You nod, breathless, and that’s all he needs.
Chris lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your slick folds, catching on your entrance. He groans deep, like the heat of you is already too much, and when he pushes in—slow, steady, filling every inch—you both gasp.
“Shit, bird,” he hisses, forehead dropping to yours as he bottoms out. “You feel that? How perfect you are f’me?”
You nod again, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts to move, slow at first, grinding deep with every thrust, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you.
The car rocks with each roll of his hips, the windows fogging again, this time from both your bodies moving like you were made to do this. Like nothing else exists but him inside you, his breath against your neck, his voice all gravel and sin in your ear.
“Gonna make you come again,” he promises, one hand sliding between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with practiced precision.
“Wanna feel you clench around me when I fill you up. Y’want that, pretty baby?”
Chris leans in close, nose brushing your cheek, voice thick with that rough Brooklyn edge, like it’s carved from smoke and sin.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby. You takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were built for it,” he mutters, words dragging hot across your skin. “Ain’t nothin’ out there sweeter than this pussy, I swear to fuckin’ God.”
You barely have time to breathe—barely holding on—when his phone buzzes sharp and sudden against the leather seat.
It keeps buzzing, loud and insistent, but Chris doesn’t stop moving. He just grunts, eyes narrowing with a mix of irritation and amusement.
“Fuckin’ timing,” he growls, hips still rolling into you slow, deep, like he can’t bear to stop. He reaches blindly for his suit jacket, yanking the phone from the pocket, not even bothering to check the screen before answering.
“What?” he snaps, breathless and impatient.
There’s a pause. A familiar voice crackles on the other end—Tony.
“Christ, finally,” Tony barks, oblivious. “You were supposed to check in like half a fuckin’ hour ago. You got the package or what?”
Chris’s eyes flick to yours, and the smirk that curls on his lips is wicked.
“Yeah, I got my hands full right now,” he says, voice smug, teeth flashing as he snaps his hips harder into you, making you bite back a gasp.
“Real tight fuckin’ schedule I got here.”
You whimper beneath him, and his grin only widens.
Tony scoffs. “You fuckin’ serious right now?”
Chris doesn’t answer at first—just holds your gaze, leans in, and presses the phone tighter to his ear while dragging his thumb down your body, finding your clit again like he wants Tony to hear how wrecked you are. How busy he really is.
“Dead serious,” he mutters, fingers rubbing tight circles that make your back arch. “Tell Pops I’ll handle the drop-off when I’m done. Got somethin’ sweeter in my lap than any package he’s got waitin’.”
Chris doesn’t say anything for a while, his heavy breathing and the wet sounds of his cock plunging into you the only things breaking the silence as he sighs, nodding at Tony’s words you can’t quite make out.
“Yeah?” he says, voice low and dangerous now, even as he thrusts deeper into you, his cock so far inside you, you feel it in your stomach.
“Then Vinnie better start diggin’ before I do. ‘Cause if I find out who’s been runnin’ their fuckin’ mouth, I’ll put their teeth on the curb myself.”
“Gotta go,” he mutters into the phone, tone final. “Got a mess to make here first. I’ll get the fuckin’ shipment when I’m done takin’ care of this pretty fuckin’ schedule I got.”
He hangs up mid-curse from Tony, tossing the phone somewhere behind him, chuckling as he wraps a hand around your throat—not tight, just enough to hold your focus.
“Now,” he says, grinding deep, voice full of grit and threat and desire, “Where were we, birdie? Ah—right. You were about to come all over my cock while I think about who needs bleedin’ next.”
“Y’gonna come f’me again, huh?” he rasps, hips driving into you harder now, cock hittin’ that spot that makes you whimper, makes your whole body seize up around him. “Gonna squeeze me tight while I fill you up? Paint that pretty cunt with every drop I got?”
He grunts low, forehead pressed to yours, sweat slick at his temple. “Fuckin’ knew you’d take me like this. Knew the first time you looked at me with those big eyes, you’d end up here—shakin’ around my cock in the backseat like a good little bird.”
You feel yourself unraveling, right on the edge again as he pumps into you, his cock thick and deep inside you, your body tight, pulsing, trembling beneath him.
He feels it too—the way your walls flutter around him, desperate and close as his cock pushes against your cervix again and again, fucking into you deeper with every thrust.
“That’s it,” he growls, biting lightly at your jaw, thrusts turning messy, urgent. “Come f’me, beautiful. Let me feel it. Show me who the fuck you belong to.”
And when you do—when your body snaps around him with a cry you can’t hold back, nails digging into his shoulders—Chris groans deep, pulls you flush against him, and spills inside you with a filthy, broken sound that makes your toes curl.
“Fuck,” he hisses, grinding through every last pulse, like he wants to leave his name carved into your bones. “That’s it, baby. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”
You’re still trembling, still catching your breath with him buried deep inside you, when Chris finally pulls back, just enough to study your face—like he’s memorizing the way you look completely wrecked and full of him.
He smirks, wiping a bead of sweat from your temple with his thumb, voice low. “Fuckin’ perfect. You always do what you’re told like that?”
Chris stays there for a moment, buried deep, breath heaving against your skin, the weight of him pressing you into the leather seat like a brand.
Sharp. Measured. Not rushed, but pointed.
Three taps. A pause. Then two more.
Chris’s entire body tenses.
He stills completely, eyes flicking up toward the steamed-over window like a wolf catching the scent of something wrong. His hand slides from your waist, quiet, practiced, reaching under the driver’s seat where the cold metal of a pistol waits, just in case.
You barely manage to find your voice, still dazed, breathless. “Chris…?”
Instead, he eases back, slowly—reluctantly—pulling out of you with a hiss. You can still feel him, warm and thick and dripping between your thighs as he tugs his pants up with one hand and cocks the gun with the other.
Chris clears a line in the fogged window with a swipe of his hand. Just enough to see.
And the minute he does—his entire posture shifts. His jaw clenches.
“Fuck me,” he growls. “Of all people.”
You sit up, heart stammering as you try to follow his gaze.
Suit wrinkled. Tie undone. One hand in his coat pocket—and you don’t need to see it to know it’s on a piece.
Chris exhales through his nose, short and sharp. “He don’t knock like that unless someone’s dead.”
He doesn’t wait for you to speak. Just leans toward the glove box, flips it open, and tosses you a small, dark cloth.
“Cover up, birdie,” he mutters. “Showtime.”
You catch it, trembling, as Chris pops the lock and shoves the door open.
Tony’s standing in the half-light, face carved from marble, eyes unreadable.
“Didn’t mean to bust up your little date,” he says, voice dry and hard. “But I figured you’d wanna hear this before the bullets start flyin’.”
Chris doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “Talk.”
Tony’s silence is loud. Too loud.
Then he says it. Flat. Final.
"Might've found the rat."
thank you for reading!! god i've been planning out this little series for months, I truly hope you guys grow to love it as much as I enjoy writing it <3
sorry for the mini break cuties!
🖇 - @chriss-slutt @55sturn @chrysiie @il0vey0um0st @trustinsturniolos @v4lsturn @shitttttypoet @mattsplaything @emely9274 @pip4444chris @whore4mattsturniolo @sweetshuga @courta13 @divinesturn @aaliyahsturniolo @chris-hallelujah @mi-co-uk @ivysturnss @sweetpeabreezyree @christophersgf @bluestriips @angelic-sturniolos111 @shadowthesim237 @bee-43 @eeyoresturnz @ellssturn @fratbrochrisgf @teddystvrns @pvssychicken @ribbonlovergirl @chrisspussygang @vanteguccir @tits4matt @bambisturns @luvs4matt @delilahsturniolo <3
