no greater grief than to remember days of joy,
when misery is at hand.
(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)
full work
The commanding view of the Colosseo over the symphony of flickering lights that stretched through the nighttime - a view that you swore you could never get tired of, regardless of the countless nights you had spent seeping the beauty in.
How could you? More importantly, why would you?
With the center of civilization sprawled under your very feet, with a half-enjoyed glass of wine resting between your fingers - what else could you need to conquer the world from this very position?
Often, you would find yourself looking down from your vantage position to the bustling streets below, even at the ungodly hours, to the dots of people walking, sitting, resting, drinking on a Friday night. It was doubtful that they even had an inkling of an idea that endless money could buy a penthouse right across the Colosseo, and many other equally opulent ones around the world. That money, and the sheer power associated with it, brought along the never-ending ego boost of otherwise challenges just working exactly as you wanted - one way or another, through many deals sealed by more hands and lips. With confidantes all across the country, continent and corner of the world, any need you might have had was addressed to promptly, doors opened for you wherever you stepped foot in. The mention of his family name alone tied to yours bringing an aura of influence across borders that seemed to illicit fear, yet respect.
When everything that the normal, common folk could ever want want had been under your fingertips ever since you became conscious of your inherent privilege - why was something missing from the depths of your soul?
Why, oh, why did you catch yourself wanting just the one thing you could not have?
“It’s always a pleasure to have you here, John.”
Through the gentle hums of background piano, a feather-light touch on the small of your back accompanied with Gianna’s voice echoing through the dining room pulled you back to reality.
“Tutto bene, mia cara?” your fiancé would question with a quiet worry etched onto his tone, his hand resting leisurely over your dress as he stood behind you, neck craned gently to catch your gaze illuminated by the city lights.
The habitual comfort that seeped into your skin as you caught a whiff of his woody cologne in the breeze from the fan above, one stronger than his usual aquatic lean. His light green eyes looked into yours with a desire to discover the unknown, to go into the very depths of your soul.
Why would you want anybody else when you had him?
The heart and the mind never worked in unison, as far as your experience went in this world.
“Si,” you would reply softly, a hint of a smile laced in your tone. “Just admiring our city.”
Words only reserved for him as you reached up to land a reassuring kiss to his jaw - amidst the chaos in your mind being exacerbated by the other presence in the room, it was admittedly more of a reassurance to yourself.
If only Santino had known that you had been trying to avoid a certain dark-haired assassin with every piece of willpower left in your being, as alcohol slowly mixed itself into your blood.
“I know what you are doing, amore. Lo so.”
And yet, you had previously applauded yourself for concealing your emotions so well, forgetting just how well he could read your face after the years spent together.
Gianna’s laughter emanated through the air, acting as the universe’s answer to your current predicament - a shiver running down your spine, your jaw tightening, body frozen at the fear of the unknown.
“I know it is hard for you to see, to reminisce, to relive.”
Much to your surprise, Santino leaned further towards the drape of your neck, pulling your body closer as his hand found your left hand, his palm a gentle cushion for your fingers to lay on - showcasing the object of interest, the presence of which only supported the silent point he had been making.
“So bene che è difficile, amore,” his breath hot against your neck, deep voice awakening the demons in you, lips brushing the skin. The close proximity of his warmth making the wine glass in your hand tremble ever so slightly.
Did he really know just how much anger your heart housed, even after all these years?
Even when you kept telling yourself, over and over again, that whatever happened in the past did not matter the slightest anymore?
Santino, who preferred actions over words quite often, was seemingly ready to answer your burning questions - as if he had heard your deepest, darkest thoughts. A quick, sly angling of his hand holding yours and the lights caught onto your extravagant, emerald-cut engagement ring, almost blinding specks dancing in front of you. Rays of light that would pave the way to an even brighter future. The shine that reminded you of just who you belonged to, the moment you had given the promise of commitment - that there was no room for confusion on the road that you had began traveling through.
A ring fit for the future wife of the man whose command stretched further than the underground.
“Il mondo gira, amore.”
The world turned, and turned - as it would always do. All those countless turns, he had waited for you far too many nights, days that felt like eternities.
Santino could not afford to wait another lifetime.
After all, even a man as hopelessly, helplessly, recklessly devoted to his lover as him, could run out of patience - and you knew within that you must have been cutting it quite close.
“We have nothing but happiness ahead of us, but you have to believe in it.”
And at that moment, as he uttered those words, as if to prove himself and his words - he would land a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, inhaling in your scent under the moon and stars of Rome.
“It was about time, no?” Gianna would quip at your arrival, Santino’s guiding hand leading you back to the expansive dining table adorned with crystal glasses, white candles and delicacies - and, most importantly, red wine. Remnants of food that already had been enjoyed throughout the night, told silent stories of surprisingly good conversation that they accompanied.
John’s dark eyes followed you as you took the seat Santino had pulled back for you, right next to Gianna, your almost empty glass placed back on the table in a soft clink.
“Our apologies,” you would offer to John and Gianna sincerely, both acknowledging with a smile. Ever the observant, Gianna would reach over to the bottle, filling your empty vial with the crimson liquid.
“Where were we?”
For this once, there had been no waitstaff this late at night. They had all been instructed to take a restful night, for this was a supposed gathering of old friends reminiscing about the good times. It had been the truth that working relationships had to be maintained within your alliances, as hard as maintaining friendship after betrayal could have been. Burning bridges had been a last resort in the underworld, as many chose to live and let live - no one could know just when help from the distant hand could be needed.
But how could he have betrayed you, if he had not been solely yours in the first place?
And so, there he stood - invited to dinner with the d’Antonio family, mere nights before the task he would undertake. Only nights before he would add to his endless death tally in hopes of never killing again. A neat bourbon resting in his fingers, nimble as you recalled, falling back into a friendly conversation with Santino without much effort.
The honorary sister you never asked for but was grateful to receive, Gianna managed to get your attention back as she raised her own glass to clink yours in a small toast, sending you a wink. She had adorned a dress on the more casual side even for her, an ankle-length black number with sheer long sleeves and a low neckline, hair in her signature loose chignon.
“Look at us, can you believe it?” she would exclaim, taking a long sip and surveying the wide expanse of the room, as well as the men across her. “Never thought father’s death would bring unity.”
“It is a miracle that we are not at each other’s throats yet.”
A short knock cut through the piano melody and the conversation, the door perching open ever so slightly as the family’s trusted Ares showed face - always in one of her impeccable suits, redirecting the attention in the room to herself.
“Mi dispiace,” she would signal with a smile, as Santino perched his body to turn while seated. “It’s about the funeral arrangements, Signore.”
“Ah, bene,” he would respond with a quick nod, standing up to button his pinstripe suit jacket, eyes meeting his sister’s to silently request her attendance - and then yours, Gianna would respond with an understanding hum, getting on her feet as she walked alongside her brother, heels clicking against the chevron hardwood.
“We will not be long.”
And as they shut the door with a click, the light air illuminated by the chandelier and candlelight became increasingly tense - somewhere deep in the silence, the echoes of unspoken history sent pulses across the atmosphere. The soft glow of crystals bounced across John’s angular features, the beard he had sported as of late, lips taking another seemingly unfazed sip from his drink.
The alcohol seeping into your body threatened to betray a crack in your composure, otherwise stoic in his presence.
It’s just you and me, John.
“I never got the chance to congratulate you.”
His words cut through the like a dagger, delivered after clearing his throat slightly, in response to which your eyes would meet his - and the worst part was, you knew that he had meant them. Flickering waves of light accentuated his searching, yet reminiscent stare.
“Thank you,” you would respond in a kind voice, lifting your left hand in a brief moment of vanity to admire the exquisite piece of jewelry, only one out of the extensive collection Santino had gifted her over the years - yet, arguably the most significant. The cold weight of the metal was a constant reminder of Santino’s claim, of his promises and enduring love, resting over your essence.
Another brief pause as you took a sip of the wine. “As I have heard - congratulations were in order with you as well,” you said calmly, a ghost of a smile adorning your features, legs crossed as you leaned further into your chair - an aura of confidence.
“Well,” John would start, mulling over his words, his elbows resting against the table, fingers tracing over the rim of the thin glass. Pensive, less subdued than usual, his dark strands of hair framing his face in unison with his dark suit. “It is not over until the task is done.”
“You are John Wick,” you would exclaim, waving him off politely. “There is no target you cannot take down.”
John would respond with an understanding nod, his gaze moving to the ornate Caravaggio painting behind you.
Yet, your focus was on him. Potentially fueled by the alcohol clouding your thoughts, or rather, overexposing them as your tone took a turn - one of genuine curiosity.
“You know what, John? I have always wanted to ask you - meant to bring it up for a long while now, but every time I felt ready, something always came up.”
A certain mix of emotions in his expression that you had been once good at discerning somehow encouraged you to keep speaking.
“What did she have that I did not?”
The moment you let those words slip from your lips, it did not matter that your eyes became glassier by the minute, nor did it matter that John had never been formally yours. It did not matter if the pain you felt manifested physically, as there had been no use in hiding it anymore.
You had concealed it long enough.
No, this was a question that had been cemented in the cornerstone of your mind, ever since you had caught him in her arms years ago. A part of you sought answers, and another one screamed them, over and over again - yet they had never been enough.
“Was I just a distraction to you? Just a little something to take the edge off whenever you needed between closed doors?”
The candlelight flickered across his features, reflecting the mess of thoughts as he visibly fought for the right words, mouth ever so slightly agape and knuckles turning white.
Emotional and more human, you could swear that he had been a changed man already - another twist of the knife, knowing he had kept himself closed off before. And finally, he would catch your expecting gaze, his low voice vibrating with regret, guilt, yet hope.
“She is my promise to live a normal life,” he confessed in a brief moment of vulnerability. “To build something and not break for once - an ordinary family, a warm home. To leave all of this mayhem behind.”
“Ah,” you would acknowledge, lips tightening as the truth settled in your chest. “So, that was it, then.”
A small chuckle escaped your lips, shaking your head in disbelief at the games fate had played on you, tangling in with dry nostalgia. It was your turn to lean back in your chair, the scarlet silk dress rippling to hug your body as it echoed the dark burgundy swirl in your glass. In the moments that followed, filled with charged silence - you could feel the past and present entangle themselves even further, momentarily clouding the future.
“A life outside this world. A life without killing and contracts. Do you believe yourself when you say that, John?”
“I need to. I have to,” he would quip back unexpectedly after a brief pause, eyes distant, index finger tapping the rim on the crystal.
“I am done running, executing contracts soullessly, shooting before taking names. Living under the orders of one man, no different than a dog.”
Looking up with a more determined gaze, voice steady but threaded with thin strands of quiet apologies.
“You have to understand - I have to do it for her. She… she does not know of this world. Of what we all are capable of. She deserves a world untouched by darkness.”
It was at that moment a single tear began its lazy trail down your cheek, as his words were uttered so easily, so naturally when speaking of the woman he loved the most. How accepting to let go came so naturally. How he was awarded the luxury of even plotting of leaving all he knew behind - the world he had been born into. A world he had waltzed through, exuding fear in anyone who dared step close enough to him. A sacrifice of a dangerous, yet thrilling and luxurious lifestyle, made instantly at the promise of an eternity with her.
A sacrifice he would have never made for you.
Desperate for closure and for answers, you found yourself leaning forward and catching his haunted eyes.
“Tell me.”
John inhaled, his gaze softened with his head tilted, his shoulders tensing visibly under the suit.
“Look me in the eye, and tell me the truth, for old time’s sake. If I have ever meant anything to you. What makes you think this time is going to be different, John? You really believe that you can shed your skin of blood and bullets, out of your identity?”
The assassin’s jaw tightened with every sentence, gaze growing relentlessly unfocused as your remarks had seemed to hit a spot. Even a man as controlled, as disciplined as him could not hide the slight flicker of doubt that passed over him.
“You will never be out, John,” you continued, emphasizing each and every word softly. “Someway, someplace, sometime - it will catch up to you. Just like I am bound by blood to Camorra.”
The weight of the words settling in the air, in sharp contrast to the relaxing piano and the gentle shadow of the city lights.
“And, when the darkness of the past comes calling. When all the blood you spilled become more than checks off a ledger. When you need to draw those guns yet one more time - what happens then?”
His darkened eyes found your glassy ones, his throat hitched, yet no words came out. To those words that held utter worry, John had no answer to give this time, as the echoes of your voice faded into a charged silence - one so complete it felt that the world itself had been holding its breath.
A sigh escaping your lips upon the answers that were revealed to you, you would lift your glass once more - this time, drinking to savor the taste, to let the wine’s warmth settle in your broken memories.
In the motionless silence that engulfed both of you, one immutable truth became more certain than ever before.
I have super random ideas for ACOTAR x Camorra fanfiction, and I never write a whole chapter, just drafts that I leave on Google Drive. Well, I came across an ACOTAR x One Punch Man transmigration fanfic. ONE PUNCH MAN KAKAKAKAKKAKKKKKKKKAAKKAAK IS THIS A SIGNAL FOR ME TO STOP BEING A FOOL AND JUST WRITE WHAT I IMAGINE???
"A frenzy of absolute disclosure": what post-WWII Europe needed and never got
Naples, Italy, 1955 [x]
Then Lila, drying her tears with the back of her hand, asked “Who are the Nazi Fascists, Pascà? Who are the monarchists? What’s the black market?”
It’s hard to say what Pasquale’s answers did to Lila. I’m in danger of getting it wrong, partly because on me, at the time, they had no concrete effect. But she, in her usual way, was moved and altered by them, so that for the entire summer she tormented me with a single concept that I found quite unbearable. I’ll try to summarize it, using the language of today, like this: there are no gestures, words, or sighs that do not contain the sum of all the crimes that human beings have committed and commit.
Naturally she said it in another way. But what matters is that she was gripped by a frenzy of absolute disclosure. She pointed to people, things, streets, and said, “That man fought in the war and killed people, that one beat people with a stick and poured castor oil down their throat, that one starved his own mother, in that house they tortured and killed, on these stones they marched giving the Fascist salute, on this corner they beat people up, these people's money comes from the hunger of others, this car was bought by selling rotten meat and flour laced with marble dust on the black market, that butcher shop came from stolen copper and vandalized freight trains, behind that bar is the Camorra, smuggling, loan-sharking.”
— Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend
Note: I was gonna quote the official English translation and get done with it, but it was BAD. It had vocabulary like "administered castor oil", "inflicted beatings", "adulterated with marble dust", and I couldn't stand it. This is formal register, not how a teenager would casually talk to her friend. It's maybe how she'd write an essay for school, but that's the whole fucking point: school doesn't cover this, formal register is not applicable. We're in Italy in the 1950s, and the establishment pretends all this doesn't exist, and in turn the girls' families and neighbours pretend it doesn't exist, everyone shuts their eyes and mouth because they don't want any trouble. That's the point. Lila has read the entire school library, and she still wouldn't know what a Nazi is if the communist kid hadn't told her.
Post-war Italy – like most of post-war Europe and especially countries that had fascist movements and/or were under occupation, and ended up on the NATO side – forged a comforting narrative where everything bad that happened was of external origin or in the past. When the war ends and the dust settles, the people involved are still around if not more or less in power, everything's still in shambles, no rights have been wronged, with a handful of exceptions fascists and collaborators have kept the fortunes they made on other people's misery and walk around unbothered, and no one talks about it.
