𝐅𝐈𝐎𝐑𝐄 | 𝐨𝐧𝐞
mafia: old country x reader | cesare massaro x afro-italian! fem! reader
prologue: how is cesare supposed to enjoy his summer when he has to watch over some gabellotto's daughter? how are you supposed to learn about the world when you have to follow after some gabellotto's nephew? how are either of you going to survive the summer without tearing each other apart?
cw - wc: 500, fluff, takes place a few years before the events of the game, more parts to come, reader is daughter of another don (friend of torrisi, descendant of medici), reader is 10 at this part, cesare is 12, cesare's a bit of a little shit, will timeskip about 8-10 years in next part.
1891.
The morning sun spilled gold across the gravel drive, catching the iron gates and the old stone of the estate beyond.
Cypress trees stood tall, unmoving, dignified—much like the man who now stood rigidly at the foot of the entrance.
"Stand up straight."
Luca's voice cut low and sharp, his elbow jabbing into Cesare's ribs with practiced precision.
Cesare exhaled hard through his nose, dragging his posture upright with theatrical exaggeration.
His shoulders rolled back, chin lifting just a touch too high, as if mocking the very idea.
"I am standing straight," he muttered, eyes drifting skyward in a slow exaggerated arc.
His hands remained deep in his pockets.
Another jab—harder this time.
"And take your hands out of your pockets," Luca added, voice tightening. "Sembri un teppista."
You look like a hoodlum.
With a long-suffering groan, Cesare yanked his hands free and let them fall limply at his sides, fingers twitching with relentless irritation.
"There," he said flatly. "Perfect."
Luca didn’t even look convinced.
“You’re slouching.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Cesare turned his head just enough to glare, “You worry too much.”
Luca inhaled slowly through his nose, pinching the bridge of it between his fingers as though holding himself together by sheer will.
“This needs to be perfect,” he said, quieter now, but far more serious. “Do you understand? A lot is riding on this meeting.”
Cesare waved a dismissive hand, already bored.
“All we’re doing is greeting some stuck-up principessa.”
Luca’s head snapped toward him.
“She is not a princess,” he corrected sharply. “But her family is noble. Respected. And your uncle has made it very clear she is to be welcomed and treated as an honored guest.”
Cesare rolled his eyes again, slower this time.
“Honored,” he echoed dryly.
Luca’s expression hardened.
“And you,” he added, stepping closer, his voice dropping, “have the responsibility of being her chaperone.”
That earned him a pause.
Cesare’s brow furrowed, just slightly.
“If anything happens to her,” Luca continued, each word measured, “your uncle will have your hide.”
A beat.
“And so will Don Medici.”
That did it.
Cesare’s spine straightened—not dramatically this time, but for real.
A faint shiver slipped down his back before he could stop it.
“…Fine,” he muttered.
Luca watched him for a moment longer, then gave a small, satisfied nod.
“Good.”
The distant clatter of wheels against stone broke the tension.
Both their heads turned.
A carriage—polished black, trimmed in gold—rolled slowly through the gates, drawn by a pair of steady, gleaming horses.
Gravel crunched beneath its weight as it approached, unhurried, inevitable.
Above them, a set of double doors opened onto the balcony.
Don Torrisi stepped out, hands resting behind his back, his presence alone enough to command the space below.
His gaze swept the drive, sharp and assessing, before settling on the arriving carriage.
Luca straightened.
Cesare followed suit—this time without being told.
Inside the carriage, the world felt smaller.
You sat close to your father, your fingers curling into the fine fabric of his sleeve as the estate loomed larger through the window.
“Papa…” Your voice was small, hesitant. “Why do I have to come here?”
He glanced down at you, already smiling as though he’d expected the question.
“Because,” he said lightly, adjusting your collar with careful hands, “you have been spending far too much time buried in those books.”
Your grip tightened just a little.
“I like my books.”
“I know, stellina," he chuckled softly. “But you need air. Sunlight. Space to run.”
His hand came to rest gently over yours.
“Some time in the country will do you good. Like when I was your age.”
Your bottom lip pushed forward, stubborn and uncertain.
“I want to go home,” you admitted, the words soft and fragile, “…I’m scared.”
His expression softened instantly.
“Ah,” he murmured, turning toward you fully now.
His hand rose to cup your cheek, warm and steady.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, amore mio,” he said gently. “You hear me?”
You hesitated.
“I am here,” he continued, his voice firming just enough to anchor the promise. “Your papa is here to protect you. Nothing will happen while I am around.”
That… helped.
A little.
You nodded, even if the knot in your stomach hadn’t fully loosened.
Outside, the carriage slowed.
Then stopped.
Your father stepped out first, boots landing firmly against the gravel.
A moment later, the door opened again, and his hand reached inside—waiting for yours.
You placed your small hand into his.
He helped you down carefully, steadying you as your shoes touched the ground.
Across the drive, Cesare’s nose wrinkled.
“…That’s her?” he muttered under his breath.
You were small.
Smaller than he’d expected—dressed in a white, ruffled dress that looked like it would tear if you so much as breathed wrong.
Your hair was pinned neatly, not a strand out of place.
You didn’t look like someone who could do anything.
What was he supposed to do with you?
Talk about flowers?
He suppressed a groan.
A sharp elbow struck his side.
“Fix your face,” Luca hissed.
Cesare smoothed his expression instantly.
Don Torrisi descended the steps with open arms.
“Vincenzo!” he called, warmth blooming easily across his features.
“Amico mio!” your father greeted in return, stepping forward.
The two men embraced firmly, laughter threading between them like no time had passed at all.
“It has been too long.”
“Far too long.”
They pulled back, hands still clasped at each other’s shoulders.
Then, Don Torrisi’s gaze shifted to you.
“Well,” he said, a pleased smile tugging at his lips, “look at you.”
You instinctively pressed closer to your father’s side.
“You have grown,” he continued, voice softer now. “The last time I saw you, you barely reached my knee.”
The men chuckled, slipping into easy reminiscence—stories of years past, of youth, of things you only half understood.
Luca stepped forward then, offering you a polite nod and greeting you with careful respect.
And then, Don Torrisi gestured behind him.
“This,” he began, “is my nephew, Cesare. He will be looking after you during your stay.”
Before either of you could react, hands pressed lightly—but firmly—against your backs.
A shove from both sides.
You stumbled a step forward.
So did he.
And suddenly, you were standing in front of each other.
Too close... too aware.
Your eyes met, then immediately darted away.
Silence stretched.
Luca cleared his throat.
Cesare didn’t move.
Another, harsher nudge.
“…Ciao,” Cesare muttered, not bothering to hide the lack of enthusiasm. “I’m… happy you could come.”
It sounded like a lie even to him.
You shifted your weight, fingers twisting together for a moment before you answered.
“I am… very happy to be here.”
Also a lie.
Another silence.
He glanced at you.
You glanced at him.
Then both of you looked away again.
The adults exchanged subtle looks.
This was going poorly.
Very poorly.
Luca clapped his hands together lightly.
“Perhaps,” he suggested smoothly, “the two of you would like to spend some time in the garden.”
He gestured toward the sprawling grounds beyond.
“The flowers are in full bloom.”
Your head lifted instantly.
“…Flowers?” you echoed.
Your eyes lit up—bright, sudden, unmistakable.
A smile broke across your face before you could stop it.
The shift was so quick, so genuine, it caught all three men off guard.
"Yes,” Luca said, softer now.
You turned toward the garden without hesitation.
Behind you, Cesare sighed.
Of course.
Flowers.
Perfect.
He turned on his heel, jerking his head slightly in the direction of the path.
“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll show you.”
You followed immediately, small steps quick and eager to keep up.
And as the two of you disappeared into the winding garden paths, Cesare dragged a hand down his face, already exhausted.
This was going to be a very long summer.
.
.
.
