Old Fashioned Manners: Dom Pascal x Reader (Mafia AU)
Tagging: @kmc1989 @buckysteveloki-me @mandy426 @forensicgirl99 @gremlinkat1992
Summary: You return home to find Chicago's most feared mafia don in your house.
Companion piece to:
Cigars - Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.
You’re welcomed home by scent of lilies.
Flowers that have no place in your house because you certainly did not buy them. They rest on the sideboard in your open plan kitchen/dining space, a rich burgundy that reminds you of blood.
You lean against the doorframe, surveying the man standing at your kitchen island in a seven thousand dollar with the shirt sleeves rolled up and a navy-blue apron you certainly don’t own. He kneads dough on the counter, the veins in his muscular arms popping as he exudes a power that gets you more than a little wet between your legs.
“Pour yourself a glass of wine.” Dom says, jerking his head towards the uncorked bottle of red residing on the set kitchen table. There’s a crystal bowl of floating candles in the centre, each one hand carved into the shape of a lily. “I thought maybe we could talk about your proposal while we wait for the dough to rise.”
“So, you broke into my house to make dinner for me.” You say pushing off the doorframe and reaching for the wine. It’s a Pinot Noir that costs over $25k at retail because it’s from tiny 4-acre vineyard in Burgandy. You raise your eyebrows, your thumb running over the red wax seal before you begin to fill both glasses.
“You broke into my home first.” He reminds you, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he drives his knuckles into the dough. “I thought it was kind of our thing.”
Our thing…
The way he says it sends a rush of heat through your body as you carry the wine towards the kitchen island.
“The flowers…” You begin, and he looks up for the first time capturing your gaze. His eyes are warm and dark, like honey being dripped across your skin. Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the thought of that, his strong hands guiding your legs apart as he licks it off your inner thigh. His gaze fastens on the action, his pupils dilating.
“I’m an excellent house guest.” He informs you, the scar on his upper lip deepening as he gives you that salacious smile. “I always bring a gift for the host.”
Oh, you like him, really fucking like him. Those old-fashioned manners wrapped up in nontraditional values. You didn’t expect that from a man who runs the biggest crime syndicate in this state.
“So, what are you making me?” You say, using two fingers to push his wine glass towards him.
“Pizza.” He tells you as he folds the dough again, driving his palms into it. “My nonna used to make the best pie this side of Chicago, she passed it down me as a little boy.” His nonna also used launder cash and smuggle heroin through the dozens of pizzerias she owned throughout the city. She’d managed to walk away untouched when the indictment came down in the 70s, starting up her business once again when the heat died down. “I had to buy in some groceries though, I gather you’re not a stay at home and cook kinda gal.”
“I’m not.” You say, slipping into one of the stools at the kitchen island. “So, if you’re looking for a trad wife to fill that big empty house of yours…”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Trust me if that was what I wanted I have plenty of pretty young things lining up to take up the mantle.”
“I noticed.” You say, your fingertips playing along the stem of your wineglass. “I also noticed you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of them.”
“They don’t want me.” He says frankly as he rolls the dough into a ball between his hands. He reaches for the mixing bowl he’s lightly oiled before placing it inside and covering it with a damp towel. “They want the prestige that comes with fucking the Head of the Pascal Family.”
“It looks like you learned your lesson from Monica.” You remark, sipping from your wineglass. His head jerks up, that honey turning molten as he fixes you with stare makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out. “Maybe not.”
“You know.” He states, his floured palms grasping the kitchen island, the skin across his knuckles tightening as he grips it. “That’s why you came to me about Vale?”
“Yes, I know she was his mole. That she was feeding him information on your operations to him over pillow talk while screwing him behind your back.” The words strike him like bullets, searing through his skin as he tries not to flinch. “You pretend to be the grieving widow but… we both know that her car accident wasn’t such an accident.”
“Who the fuck are you?” He snarls the words into the space between you, and in that moment you see the man from all those stories, the one that tore snitches apart by tying their wrists and ankles to two separate cars, who beat a cop to death for trying to extort him, leaving the body on the steps of his precinct. A betrayal like Monica’s, the punishment couldn’t be public like that. It was too intimate, too painful, it would have to look like an accident because anything else would mean that he was weak, that he’d let the snake into his bed and allowed himself to get bitten.
“You know who I am.” You say, swirling the wine around your glass. “And you know how I know what I know.”
He pauses, the cogs turning in his brain. You wait patiently, raising your glass to your lips as he clicks his fingers. “The sister.” His voice filled with disbelief. “The one that disappeared, the one that everyone thought the Flaconnis had burned alive in an oil drum out on the wastelands.”
“A good reason to go to war, no?” You say, your fingers hooking in the neckline of your dress, pulling the fabric away from your skin. His lips purse into a furious line as he takes in the bullet wound above your left breast, just shy of where your heart should be. “Since I didn’t want to marry, Stephen decided I was worth more to him dead. He put a bullet in me, dumped me on their land with the intention of gaining support from the other families so he could take over their territory. The only problem is he didn’t finish the job so when he went to get fuel for his little bonfire…”
“You escaped.” He summarises, his palm rubbing across his mouth as he stares at you. The edges of his lips curl up, an unexpected bark of laughter erupting from deep his chest. “The look on his fucking face when he came back to find you gone… I wish I could have seen it…”
A ghost of a smile crosses your lips as you release the fabric of your dress, covering the scar once more. “Honestly, I do too. I had enough of my own finances squirrelled away to vanish for a while, recover but now…”
“Now you want revenge.” He says, nodding his head with understanding.
“Yes. I know you do too for him turning Monica.” You say meeting his gaze. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of the organisation, you can have that, absorb it into your own. I just want to look him in the eyes as I pull the trigger, I want him to know it was me that terrorized him, that dismantled his life piece by piece.”
“What you’re asking for…” He leans over the counter, his elbows resting on it as it brings him into your proximity. You can smell the aftershave that clings to his skin. Agarwood, Turkish rose and amber. It’s a delectable scent, rich, smoky, woodsy with just the slightest floral hint to take the edge off. It tells of unspoken nights, of calloused hands roaming over bare skin, a gruff whisper in your ear as fingers squeeze your throat, raw heat driven deep into you. “…it’s going to require us working together… very closely. Things like this, they take time, planning.”
“I know.” You say conspiratory, tilting your face so the tip of your nose brushes light over his. “It’ll mean lots more wine, dinners, cigars, who knows what else we’ll get into.”
“I’ve been burned before…”
“I know.” You say earnestly, tapping the space above your heart. “So, have I. I can tell you I won’t betray you, but I know… it doesn’t make a difference, that actions speak louder than words so I… I actually have a gift for you.”
You break away, rising to your feet, returning to the purse you’ve left by the door. You dig around in it for a second, removing a black velvet box that usually used for bracelets. His eyebrows raise as you place it on the counter, sliding it towards him. He picks it up, his mouth flattening into a line as he open it, reviewing the item inside.
It’s a man’s finger, wrinkled and tanned with a huge gold signet ring attached to the base. In the centre is a polished red garnet, one that he recognises almost immediately as belonging his head of security.
“Monica wasn’t the only rat in your organization.” You inform him as he sets it down between the two of you. “Don’t worry, I took care of this one for you.”
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