Slum of the West End, although most people decide to ignore basic geography, refusing to accept such a dreary place shadows the Western Shore. Southernmost on their end, practically on the river, a a big reason their pretentious teens cross the bridge to hang out at Rosmerta’s. An incredibly disrespectful place to host a first meeting. Perfectly fitting for a blood battle.
Blaise Zabini x mafia!Fem!reader
18+ bc of AU, mafia violence
“Expect battle, silently provoke but do not actively initiate. No kills.”
“No kills?!” Crabbe babbles, a few dunderheads muttering in agreement.
“Did boss stutter?” Nott sneers, fixing Crabbe with a glare of barely controlled rage. You smirk as Crabbe shivers, knowing the only reason he wasn’t hit was due to illegality.
Of your laws, that is. The formalities of this gathering.
Any other day and Crabbe would be sporting a black eye by now, a lingering pain taut enough to keep his stupidity restrained for a solid 36 hours.
You glance up at the sound of shoes approaching, too lost in your head to realize Draco’s address was over. “We’ll be to his right tonight. No knives.”
You nod, swallowing your protests in front of the lieutenant. “Corner?”
“Nott’s covering him.” Blaise replies, composure stoic as you unclip your calf blade to lay on the table. Flint’s to watch them, resigned from active duty for the night’s ministrations. And though you’d much rather have your angels on you than under that maniac’s eye, you’re not stupid enough to complain about it to Blaise. “So we’re keeping boss, then.”
Blaise nods as you pass him, turning to follow you down the rickety stairs to the withered table in the loading dock, six even shots ready for the salute. He expertly to keep the bitterness out of his voice, hiding his irritation that you’re once again talking about Draco. “We keep boss.”
“Steady then.” Draco beams, Pansy, Nott and McNair filling around the table to stand behind their respective glasses. Draco waits for you and Blaise to take your stations before lifting his glass, fixing each of you with a brief stare. “My best men.”
You all swallow the whisky in unison, glasses clanking onto the wood with a solid thud. The sound of tires over gravel cuts out it’s echo, their arrival making your belly swoop. You’re always paired with Blaise, you always salute before battle, you always holster pip-squeak the ‘22 as your primary weapon. But you usually have your angels, and their absence from their holsters is making you uneasy.
You sneak a peek out of the corner of your eye at Blaise, nearly flinching when his slanted gaze meets yours. Is he…worried about you? Doesn’t think you can handle it, doesn’t think you deserve it? That you’re nothing special without your blades?
The slam of a car door forces you to silence your doubts, Draco’s set jaw and stifling air of tension righting you in this moment.
