DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER XV - FIRE
remember tonight - for it is the beginning of always.
(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)
full work
Certain facts, unspoken pacts and broken rules ran rampant within the tightly-knit, ever-reaching circles of the underworld.
Kill, and be killed - or run far enough to survive. Never reveal more information than necessary, even to your most trusted ally.
And, a favorite that was always whispered from the lips of lower-ranking officials, however, as truthful as it can be.
Power always had a habit of shifting.
In this world of secrets buried deep alongside bodies, unfairly traded favors and unforeseen consequences - no other way would cut it.
It had been the way the cogs turned in the hypothetical machinery that made up the underworld, the wires running rampant to feed the participants - willing and coerced alike. Some rules had been unwritten, yet engraved into the beating heart of the system - that given one very mighty fine day, just how the balances holding the whole world could rattle, to never be the same again.
Not many lived long enough to witness such an event, yet alone have it unfold before their mere eyes.
With each click of your black heels across concrete, you would find yourself wondering if you had been blessed or cursed for the opportunity.
Every step you took felt like dragging tons of rock, moments passing around you feeling like an eternity in a frame. Stewards, bellboys dressed in mourning blacks to match the overall theme lined neatly for welcoming, yet the silhouettes were blurrier than ever in plain daylight.
The silent, yet determined expression on your face never faltered. It could not - your training did not lend you the luxury to.
Your feet slowly yet surely carried you towards the entrance of the Continental, gaze dragging upwards to the towering structure ahead. Steps you had walked too many times to count, for business or pleasure.
A place you had once taken safe refuge, about to become no less than a war zone, a memorial rising from a funeral - a place of ruthless wrath and silent mourning. Men that came to pay their respects to a fallen patriarch, yet instead would never leave the confinements of the building.
A place that would soon become the grave of more than the one congregated for, in a mere matter of hours to follow. A malicious plan that you had taken part in orchestrating, the consequences of which you would have to live with for the rest of your life.
The rest of your life spent with him.
A quick peripheral look would reveal the quiet sorrow concealed through the mourning blacks Santino adorned, as he followed right behind your trail. Always the gentleman, whether the situation called for it or not. Even if his name was being whispered in the back rooms of High Table gatherings, associated to the vacant seat that had remained. Even when he willingly stepped into the fire that would engulf him whole had he been too reckless.
The doors that parted revealed the utterly familiar landscape of the lobby, yet this time there was weight in the air. A waiting silence, the classical music turned into a solemn hymn echoing off of the marble. Unusually empty, with grand vases of white flowers scattered around.
A commemoration, gesture of respect - before the leaves would be stained by the inevitable crimson.
There had been no room for the usual pleasantries that day, save for the reverent nod tossed at Charon’s way, who had gently directed them to the elevators leading to unknowns of the Continental.
“The manager is waiting for you upstairs.”
As you would later discover - he truly did not have that much of a choice, after all.
And there he stood waiting right outside the elevator doors that opened with a barely-there click, the smallest detail at the hotel accounted for.
Winston’s eyes met yours in an unspoken greeting, years of encounters glinting through his worn out orbs that mighty day, before he turned his attention towards your lover - whose hand found yours in pure habit, engulfing your smaller fingers as if he had intended to anchor you to the very ground you stepped on.
The security floor, one you had never gotten the pleasure of frequenting despite your familiarity with the guest wing of the hotel, was everything you could have expected out of an establishment that served assassins for clientele.
The silent whispers of shadows across the hallway gave way to the dark leather soles entering the room. John Wick, with his hair slicked back and black three-piece suit pressed impeccably against the nature of the acts that he was about to commit, stepped in as darkness made flesh. Expression stone-cold, yet your knowing gaze could tell those shoulders carried the weight of a thousand possible futures that could arise from a small change of fate.
One slip-up. One missed bullet, one tiny little mishap - one too many that he could not afford.
His obsidian eyes found yours behind your black veil for a fleeting moment, a silent glint of gratitude winking at you. The heavy gaze, loaded with the broken promises of the past and hopes of the near future then shifted to Santino.
His nod to him was clear - no hesitation, just a man with an impossible plan that he had to flawlessly execute within the confinements of time.
A man willingly walking into death in a thousand ways, into a warzone that had been curated only for him to conquer.
Details of the operation you had taken a major role in curating, a planned mass execution lay bare in front of you, scattered methodically across the large oak table. Notes and instructions that everyone in the room could now recite without thinking.
Entrance times, diligently calculated and assigned to each invitee. Drink and seating preferences, for ensuring utmost hospitality. Accommodation instructions for a High Table envoy added last minute to the guest list due to the precarious nature of the empty seat - and to pay respects to the elder.
There was no room for error. There never was when a man’s freedom was at stake.
“The chapel doors will lock the moment the organ switches to the requiem,” Winston’s voice stated, low and certain in affirmation. The usual smooth, velvety tone laced with steel.
A conductor awaiting his first note.
The manager’s presence commanded the room with many a dangerous men surrounding him, as he restated the measures, the task at hand too precarious to leave any stone unturned.
“Cameras are set to loop with the signal.”
“All exits and entrances manned by our best lethal response - in case of any stragglers. Not that we expect that would be the case, Mr. Wick.”
His eyes, sharp despite the faint trace of a smile on his lips, found the dark-haired assassin perched over a table with his vast choice of arsenal splayed.
The respect he had for the man evident in his gaze, John would look up from his trance and give a quick, firm nod. His jaw clenching ever so slightly through his iron resolve.
“Bene,” Santino acknowledged, his hand briefly closing over yours - a quiet anchor in the rising tide of tension. You felt the subtle movement of his limbs, positioning towards the exit - yet he did not move immediately.
Around you, the air seemed to pulse and contract in those fleeting moments. Santino would exhale, as if delaying himself from the inevitable, and glanced at his watch for the time - his eyes meeting yours as a signal to slowly head down to duty.
Another echo of his voice seemed to slice through the knowing silence.
“Buona fortuna.”
It was clear the wish was meant for the man loading his gun in a ceremonial fashion a few paces away.
However, he did not notice your eyes desperately trying to get one last glance at the taller assassin in the dark suit, as he had expertly disappeared into the shadows as if he had belonged amongst them, with the silent inevitability that had defined him.
Behind you, the doors closed, leaving the chamber heavy with expectation. The Continental awaiting the first hymn, the first bullet to shatter the fragile quiet that had been protected for too long.
---
No thought had been spared with the organization of the farewell to yet another seat, the chapel as elegant as a High Table funeral could have been.
Gaudiness had not been a word present in the vocabulary - each seat placement deliberate, to the crease of the drapery that covered the tall walls. Camorra seals adorning the tapestries flown in from Napoli the night before, now illuminated under the flickering candlelight.
It was an orchestrated spectacle, had it not come with the pretense of a passing. A silent feat of forced smiles, subtle touches and carefully selected words - all dressed in the darkest black for the occasion as the chosen ones walked in one by one, their usual entourage of guards absent.
After all, no business could be conducted within the ground of the Continental.
It would not take too long.
A brief gathering that would change the course of history, for not just them - but the underworld, for those who could fathom. For those who roamed the circles of hell alongside the assassins, mafia leaders and weapon dealers. For those who understood exactly what this power play meant.
It was not a simple funeral - no, you all had paid your respects to the man who protected everyone around him privately, in the comfort of the secluded estate.
It was all business, a transaction taking place. It was a rift in the board that held the stakes. An execution, in the most meticulously crafted way possible. The rumors of a so-called, feared impossible task rendered a reality.
And for that precise reason, Marquis Vincent de Gramont stood at the very corner of the chapel illuminated by candles, a crystal glass of amber liquid swirled in his gloved hand - his watchful gaze observing every crevice and corner with detail.
A ghost in plain sight, a symbol of authority in silence, the living echo of the High Table. Donning a long black jacket with satin lapels, his pin attached proud. An elegantly knotted black silk tie fit for the gravity of the occasion, gray wool covering his long legs. His hair parted as impeccably as his description had mentioned.
And for the moment, he solely watched - like a storm waiting to unravel everything it touched in its path.
---
Seconds passed like an eternity, and then the organs changed the melody into a slow requiem.
It had been mere minutes since you had taken your designated spot next to Winston on the upper balcony of the chapel, one hand against the balustrade, your frame nestled beneath the black marble columns that trailed upwards in elegant braids.
A calloused, large hand found your back in a small, grounding gesture, the anticipation beneath the palm discernible in the slightest of tremors against your suit - even from the man who had ran the show behind the scenes.
A silence fell between the observers in the upper balcony, Camorra lieutenants standing tall beneath their stoic façades, storms of unknown origin in their eyes under the black veils. Below, the private Continental chapel usually reserved for more wholehearted funerals, unfathomably buzzed with just the right combination of killers and kings alike.
Santino stood at the casket, a sculpted portrait of the grieving son. His black suit, pressed and immaculate, only the finest even in mourning for the blood of Camorra. Hands clasped, he accepted murmured condolences, each one another bead on the rosary of his performance.
The tapered flames flickered ever so slightly, the drapery rustling, a couple leaves of the floral arrangements trembling almost in anticipation.
Unbeknownst to them that their fate would be sealed in shut the moment John Wick entered the room through one of the doors hidden behind the Camorra family tapestry.
The shadows moved with the man - deliberate and menacing. Before one gunshot’s full echo could reverberate off of the marble walls, another one would leave the nozzle with immense speed, leaving nothing to chance. Crystal would scatter across the stone as aged liquor mingled with deep red blood, both seeping into the floor as if the chapel itself bore witness. Screams did not have enough time to leave throats before life had been taken from the body - relentless, unforgiving.
Death moved faster than his breath, as he took away others’ so effortlessly. As if he had been born for the sole purpose of taking life, his movements blending into an inevitable tide of cold-blooded killing.
It had ended as quickly as it had begun.
A near lifetime of inflicted sorrow, constant pain and suffering, of bruises and broken bones - taken apart out of want, out of sheer need in the hands of one determined man.
Not out of rage, or the need to prove himself - no, he had already done that when his name was whispered across the world with horror often attached to the tone.
This was an act of cold, relentless necessity, of helplessness finding form in bullets and souls lazily trailing into the ether.
Complete stillness engulfed the room - the kind that came only after death had done its work. Blood dripping lazily off of benches, the candlelight flickering with the cold air, casting long and trembling shadows into the altar.
The guise of a full coffin - unharmed, commanding the chapel’s center of attention through the carnage. Santino stood still, one hand on the coffin, seemingly unfazed - though his chest rising and falling rapidly gave away the adrenaline rush beneath his composure.
John, on the other end, stood still with his head bowed slightly, slick hair coating his forehead. Body still tense, as if it had carried a weight far too immense, for far too long that it did not know when to let go.
Finally looking up before the smoke on his gun dissipated - he caught your eyes through the remaining vast emptiness, across the dim lights of the chapel, his empty gun hanging loose in his hand - threatening to fall for one last time. Bodies scattered all around him, all souls already gone as he did not leave any work to luck.
His chest heaving in the aftermath of his exertion. A different stance in his shoulders, all pushed back, as if he had known that this time - it would all be worth it.
You saw it all through him, in the glint of his onyx orbs, the slow rise and fall of his chest underneath the three-piece that had seen better days. The wave of emotions recoiling and then striking back in a riptide in a split second. There was no fight in his eyes this time. No, the raging spark had left its place to a simpler, brighter emotion.
Relief.
Collections of torn-apart memories, snippets of his presence in yours. A couple of years from your precious life, countless moments worth of emotions flickered through the obsidian gaze, glazed with the slowly seeping in realization that in fact, from that moment on - John Wick had been a free man.
And, with all debts paid to the ones who laid control, absolutely no force in the world could stop him from walking into the peaceful life he ached for, leaving behind the trail of smoke, blood and ash as he always had.
There had not been many closures in life, not many that you could have the pleasure of witnessing - yet, this seemed to be as close to one as it could get.
This is it, John, you would find yourself mumbling under your breath.
The cleanup crew, paid handsomely for their discretion, worked in surgically precise methods to erase the aftermath of the chaos, collecting names and evidence as proof for a certain Russian to hold his promise.
As if eternal carnage had not just taken place. As if history had not been rewritten in blood.
As if an impossible freedom had not been gained by crimson blood coating the Camorra crest draped over the coffin.
The painful silence would be cut with the sharp echoes of clapping, resonating into the room that had taken too many lives to count in a stark contrast.
Marquis Vincent de Gramont stood in the aisle, his mouth curved in the faintest of gestures. Not a smile, yet a ghost of one. His expression was calculated with hints of respect, always laced with the hidden meaning of something more. One hand resting on his hip, steel blues scanning the room for any signs of life. Signs of failure.
The High Table had yet to voice any misconduct identified. For now.
Now was all John needed.
“Félicitations Monsieur Wick,” the Marquis would utter, a seemingly approving tone accompanying his nod, taking you out of your trance.
Santino’s reassuring nod would meet your eyes for a heartbeat, his gaze then joining the other pairs as they trailed the steps of Marquis, the hinges of the double doors whispering open to let him through the exit - almost absorbing and taking away the leftover tension within the confinements.
And in that moment, when fragments history unfolding beneath your eyes filling the cracks of reality, you knew - the chains holding him captive had not vanished.
They broke, and they melted, seeping into the bloody marble - yet only to transform into another form of captivity.
For in this dark, twisted world of eternal pain - freedom for one had been merely the tightening of another’s noose. Another bullet loaded into the revolver.
A man granted his freedom did not die - he walked victorious.
But the day the debt would be repaid in blood, as it always did - he would take the life's breath out of another.
