𝗩𝗜 @viscalett - Tumblr Blog

Jul 25

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐬

✮ masterlist ✮

> Vito Scaletta/Reader > What starts as a quiet shift at your job ends with a stranger's hand on your wrist and a dead mob boss. Three weeks on the run with Vito, you learn that that the most dangerous thing about him isn't the men trying to kill him. (based on a request) 【 wc: 5217 】

Men had started arriving early in the morning. It wasn’t unusual to have more guests during the weekends, but this crowd had become absurdly large by noon. You had never seen this many men in suits lining the halls of the Zavesky Observatory, attempting to act as regular tourists.

You’d realized they meant trouble when you noticed they gathered near each of the entrances of the observation room. Some came outside, standing by the external exits of the building. Their faces were stoic and their eyes cold. You dared not look any of them in the eye, minding your business as you sat at the reception desk.

Pretending to fill out the visitor logs, you observed one of the man standing nearest to you. There was a bulge in his jacket, outlined in the shape of a gun. Your eyes wandered a little farther, noticing that most of the men near you had similar weapons barely tucked away.

With the careless way they were carrying their weapons, you knew something troubling was going to happen here.

You began packing your things, planning to head out early for the day. There was no point in staying, only to get caught in the crossfire, fulfilling a job that wasn’t worth your life. Heels clicking as you retreated to the main exit. With your breath held, you nodded at the men out of politeness. When the setting sun’s rays finally shone over your feet, you let out a breath.

You had only made it a few feet past the lawn of the observatory when another man, much like the ones you’d met inside, came walking with a stiff figure. You raised your head ever so slightly to meet his eyes. His face was expressionless. His clothes unruly. His breath loud and unsteady.

“You work here?” He inquired, his voice softer than you’d expect.

Caught off guard, you took a moment to register his words. “Yes. But my shift is over, sir.”

You attempted to push past him, but he stepped in front of you.

“Before you go…how many of my friends did ya see inside?”

You were starting to get frustrated by the delay in your way home. “They’re your friends. Shouldn’t you know?”

“Look lady, I just need a straight answer–”

“And I need you to move,” you interrupted, not wanting to involve yourself in whatever this stranger was doing.

The man clutched your shoulder, holding you firm in your position. You clutched your purse’s handle, readying yourself to smack him and run.

But before you could act, he leaned down closer to you and heeded. “Y’know who’s in that observatory of yours? He’s a real model citizen.”

His voice lowered to a whisper. “You don’t have to cross Carlo Falcone to be a loose end. He’s not gonna let you go after you saw his men take over the observatory.”

Falcone. Don Falcone. One of the mob bosses who ran Empire Bay like it was his playground. Everybody knew who he was, including you. You weren’t ready to believe that Falcone of all people would grace his presence in an observatory at a hill at the eastern edge of the city. It was pointless unless he was trying to do something quietly.

The stranger, as much as you didn’t want to believe, was telling the truth.

The man withdrew from you a little before asking again, “…So tell me, how many are there?”

Before you could utter another word, a bullet whizzed past your ear. Then a firm, bruising grip took hold of your wrist. And before you knew it, you were being dragged behind one of the observatory’s courtyard walls. Your brain hadn’t caught up with your eyes as you watched the stranger beside you take out his gun and peek around the edge.

Someone was shooting at you. Those men. Falcone’s men.

So this was the man they were preparing for all morning.

You watched him leave the cover of the wall and move forward. Almost like a machine, you watched him tear through the men in suits, leaving bodies in his wake. Your ears were covered as you crouched by the wall. The sound of bullets loud enough to be heard despite your attempt at muffling them.

You were frozen in fear, but your eyes followed the man in awe. When he finally disappeared inside the observatory, having killed every man in your sight, you realized you couldn’t keep your balance anymore. Your legs were profusely shaking and your fingers could barely wrap around your ear without trembling.

When the makeshift silence fell upon the outside lawn, your eyes searched for something.

An answer.

What was happening, who was the stranger, what had you witnessed?

Or perhaps a lie.

That you could go home and forget about all this.

The stranger was right in the regard that Falcone’s men had seen you. And since you had seen them, you’d become a loose end. And if not Falcone’s target, then maybe the stranger would finish their job. Take you out as soon as he deals with Falcone.

As your mind turned into a whirlwind of tumultuous thoughts, your legs began to move on instinct. You had to get out of here before anybody spotted you.

With no car and little chance of hailing a cab at this hour, you began running towards the road. When you finally reached the end of the parking lot, your feet began to ache unbearably. Your heels would make it impossible for you to trek any further. So you took them off, holding the pair of shoes in your hand, and started carefully walking down the outside road.

A few minutes later, you heard the sound of an engine heading your way. Your glee was short-lived, when you saw the car turn into the front entrance of the observatory. The car looked too expensive and polished to be a cab. And considering the circumstances, it could only mean more trouble.

As you observed the party at the entrance, with more cars filing inside, you couldn’t help but wonder. Were they Falcone’s reinforcements or the strangers?

You shook your head. It didn’t matter. You just needed to escape this place undetected. But how could you, barefoot with at least a few miles of tar between you and the rest of civilization? As hopeless as it seemed, you kept going one step at a time, down the steep slope of the road.

Boots pounding against the ground could be heard behind you. At first, you were too consumed by your predicament to hear the sound. Then, as it grew closer, you could somewhat register the rhythmic tone of a gait. It wasn’t until you felt the heat of a body behind you that you realized the stranger had returned.

Out of breath and with a gun in his right hand, he could barely begin, “Watchya still doin’ here?”

You thought that if you didn’t turn around to face him then he might disappear.

“Lady?” He pressed, more confused than anything.

You watched one of the cars at the entrance start to back out. It turned left, heading toward the same road you were on.

“We gotta–” You yelped, as you felt yourself being hoisted by the waist. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Your voice was shrill from fear as you looked up at the man. He held you in his arms bridal style as he started jogging up the hill. You were both mesmerized by his ability to hold you like you were nothing, and petrified by the fact that he was going further uphill. There was nothing up the road except for a dense forest.

“Where are you taking me!” You yelled, beginning to thrash your arms.

“Stop it!” He finally stopped. “I’m trying to help you here, lady. You clearly can’t walk, and staying back there is practically a death sentence.”

You huffed in frustration, knowing he was right.

He set you down when he noticed you’d crossed your arms.

“If you hate this so much, you can walk.” He had a cocky smile spread across his face as if you hadn’t just been on the run from the mafia.

You looked at him through your brows and angrily asked, “Walk where?”

He didn’t answer, instead leading the way. It didn’t take you long to see where he was headed. A few feet ahead was a bright red convertible, hidden behind the thicket of trees that populated the bend of the road.

You refused to show just how happy you were that your feet could finally rest, but your little jog to the passenger seat might have hinted at it.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

A short car ride later, you’d arrived undetected and safe at a motel just outside Empire Bay. You hadn’t even realized how long the ride was, having passed out from exhaustion as soon as your head met the headrest.

“Looks like you’re finally awake.” You heard a deep voice come from beside you. You’d thought of it as a dream until your eyes fluttered open to see the stranger’s face clear as day.

You rolled your eyes at him as he motioned for you to get out of the car and follow him.

You stopped just short of the motel room door, reality ramming into you like a truck.

“I’m not going in there with you.” You announced.

The man turned around, facing you with a quizzical look. He didn’t have to express his confusion for you to know.

“You’re a murderer, a fugitive, and you’ve just kidnapped me. I don’t know who you are, nor do I know what you’ll do to me once I’m out of the open.” You explained.

He started chuckling.

“You think this is funny?” You were livid at his amusement.

He answered through his laughter. “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I’ve had enough opportunities? I could’ve left you for dead back there, took you someplace secluded–”

“I get the point,” you interrupted, not wanting to listen to his reasoning. Sure, he was right, but your fears weren’t completely unfounded.

“As for who I am…name’s Vito. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He was barely able to hold back a cheeky grin.

Hesitantly, you introduced yourself.

When silence befell you both for a minute, Vito took the initiative to hold the door open for you. Inside the small room, there was a bed, a nightstand, and a couch. It wasn’t home, but it was something.

You turned to shut the door, but realized Vito wasn’t leaving. In fact, he had already closed the door and started toward the couch.

“What are you doing?”

Vito dropped down onto the couch, letting his full body weight collapse on the weak cushion. He kicked his shoes off, the items landing sideways against the foot of the nightstand, and tilted his head back.

“Sleeping,” he said, staring at the ceiling.

You hadn’t expected this. “On my couch?”

“We’re on the run, sweetheart. This is our couch.” Vito rolled his head to look at you. “Unless you want it. Bed’s yours. I’m not gonna fight you for it.”

You turned to face the window, your face draining of its color. When you continued to remain motionless and silent for a few minutes, he spoke, “Get some sleep. You can yell at me about the arrangement in the morning.”

He closed his eyes and leaned against one end of the couch.

You stood at the foot of the bed and simply looked at him. He had dry blood on the collar of his shirt. His hair was a disaster. There was a purple bruise developing along his jaw. And he’d already fallen asleep in under two minutes.

You sat at the edge of the bed lost in your mind. You couldn’t comprehend how a he–much less anyone–could act so relaxed when in so much pain.

Then you turned to look at yourself. You’d worn your favorite outfit today. Looking at them now, there was a dark stain on the fabric, looking awfully akin to blood. You were sure your makeup and hair were just as ruined as your dress.

It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. All you had now was the prospect of tomorrow. And the hope that this was all a nightmare.

You lay down on the bed, on top of the coverlet, fully dressed. You could hear Vito’s light breathing as your eyes began to lid. Sleep finally came, but your mind couldn’t rest.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

In the morning you’d found a nice surprise.

Vito had made coffee, albeit quite different from your usual taste; you appreciated the sentiment. You drank the liquid bottoms up, being in no position to be selective.

When you’d moved your gaze further from the nightstand, you realized there was something new in the room. A squat brown set of a motel television with a large antenna set on the dresser facing the bed. It was already on, showing the morning news. You turned it up, assuming you were alone with Vito out of sight.

“–discovered late last evening at the Zavesky Observatory in what police are calling a devastating development in the ongoing–”

Vito came out of the bathroom with a towel and stopped at the doorway when he heard the news anchor speak. You hadn’t registered his presence, still engrossed in the anchor’s report.

He mentioned no names, but discussed the involvement of organized crime at least twice. He spent a mere ten minutes on the topic before moving on to discussing a story about a new highway extension in the city.

Vito resumed his steps as he sat down on the couch. He had gotten rid of his ruined shirt. He seemed to clean up nice enough, though the bruise on his jaw had become more prominent.

“We stay here a few more days,” he explained. “Keep quiet. Then we move.”

You nodded along. He was the expert in evading the law after all. Who were you to question his methods?

His answer satisfied you enough to shift your focus toward the current state of yourself. Looking at the handsome man in front of you–with wet hair sticking to his forehead in the most picturesque way and a lazy smirk you were sure he didn’t realize he had–you realized the state you were currently in.

You didn’t have a chance to wash off your makeup or fatigue. Your clothes were ruined, and you had none to change into. And you needed better shoes if you were going to run again.

“I need clothes,” you said.

By the front door now, Vito quickly answered, “Joe’s bringing them.”

The door was already halfway open when you’d questioned, “Who’s Joe?”

"My–" he paused, apparently considering the word. "He's like a brother. Known him since we were kids."

He left those words hanging in the air as he quickly exited.

Vito returned an hour later with a large man who had an even larger personality. Walking into the quaint motel room at eleven in the morning with a paper sack of groceries, a bag of clothes in your size–how, you wondered, he’d discerned your size–and the energy of a golden retriever.

With a face incapable of subtlety, you quickly realized Joe assumed you to be something more than you were. He’d looked between you and Vito, and then peeked at the bed to see any signs of wear as soon as he arrived.

"So," he said, setting the grocery sack down.

"Don't," Vito said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"I was going to say," Joe said, with dignity, "So,” He turned to you with too wide a grin. "How's it going?"

"I've had better days," you said, a little taken aback.

"I like her," he said to Vito, just soft enough for only him to hear.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

A week passed with each day resembling the last closely enough to blur. You often occupied yourself by reading the newspapers when Joe brought them, tracking the observatory story as it evolved–fewer details were told to the public and you’d started to take that as a sign that the heat was dying down.

The motel room had become familiar to you and Vito by now. He had his own side and you had yours, established without discussion. His jacket on the chair by the door. Your shoes under the window. His belongings placed slightly too close to the edge of the small table by the couch and yours on the nightstand.

Joe came by most days, briefly, carrying things: food, newspapers, once a deck of cards that led to a three-hour poker game where you won repeatedly.

"Where'd you learn to play like that," Vito had asked curiously when you’d revealed another winning hand.

"I worked reception at a card room in my second year of college," you said, collecting the pile. "I was underpaid but the educational experience was unforgettable."

Joe laughed so hard he had to put his cards down.

The rainy weather had set in at Empire Bay near the end of the week. You stood at the window on Friday afternoon and watched it sheet against the parking lot and thought about your apartment–the plants you'd forgotten to water, your books collecting dust, and the peace of being alone. You had never imagined you’d find yourself in such strange circumstances. And as much as you missed who you were, you’d started to find an unconventional comfort in the fact that you had someone looking out for you for the first time in your life.

Vito came to stand beside you. He didn't say anything. He just stood there providing his company.

"Will this be over?" you asked.

He stayed quiet, staring out the window along with you.

The rain came down. Outside, a woman in a yellow raincoat crossed the parking lot with the determined haste of someone who had underestimated the weather. You watched her make it halfway through the area before the rain slowed to a light drizzle. The small successful drama of it was almost funny.

"Even the rain stops, right?” He finally said, his voice soft but steady.

You rolled your eyes as you replied, “Quite the observation, genius.”

He didn't smile. But the line of his mouth had tilted.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The second motel was in a town forty minutes outside Empire Bay called Harwick, with a room with two beds available when you’d arrived.

You'd moved when the roads were quiet with Joe at the wheel. You and Vito sat in the back, not talking much, the city receding behind you with a finality that you didn't entirely trust.

On the third night in Harwick, you woke at two in the morning to the sound of his voice. Low. Careful.

You lay still in the dark, eyes open, and listened without meaning to.

"— not the way it was supposed to go, Leo. She had nothing to do with this."

A pause.

"I know what I'm telling you. She works the public sessions. She was leaving when I —" Another pause. "It doesn't matter how it happened. What matters is she's here, and it's my fault she's here. I need to know there's a way out of this that doesn't keep her running."

You stared at the window as you lay on your side. The curtain let in a thin line of parking lot light that divided the walls in two.

"A clean out." He waited for the person on the other end of the phone. "I know it takes time. I'm asking you to find it."

His voice dropped lower. You caught fragments of his conversation–unfamiliar names and places strung together in sentences you’d never think to hear. The last thing you heard him say was a plea for a woman he’d just met.

"She didn't ask for this, Leo."

You closed your eyes before he finished the call. You heard him set the phone down. Heard him cross the room, trying not to wake you. He stood near your bed for a moment — you didn't know why, you didn't open your eyes — and then he went back to his bed and lay down, and the room went quiet.

You couldn’t sleep after that, glaring at the line of light on the ceiling as if it could give you some clarity.

Vito was trying to get you out.

You should have been relieved. And you were, for the most part. But a piece of your heart liked being acknowledged, and you were scared to let go of what had begun to feel familiar.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The Capri was the third motel and a diner called Rosie's across the street that became yours. You’d gone there every night since you’d arrived, sitting yourself at a corner booth, being attended by Rosie herself.

You had been moving and hiding and waiting for three weeks, so the little conversations you’d had with the her allowed you to feel like you weren’t completely separated from society. You had read every newspaper and magazine Joe had brought and beaten Vito at cards enough times that he'd stopped suggesting the game before you’d met her, so a change of pace was much needed. You’d been barely managing

It was at there that it happened.

On a Tuesday lunch, Rosie had just refilled your coffee. Vito was sitting across from you, looking at a newspaper, with an attention so unwavering, it excluded the surrounding world. You were writing in a small notebook you'd had in your purse the day the whole ordeal started, one of those tiny personal projects that had survived the upheaval because it lived in your purse and came wherever you did.

You heard the bell above the door and looked up out of habit.

Two men came in wearing familiar black suits and walking as though they owned the room. You looked at Vito with worried eyes. He was already looking at the door over the top of his newspaper.

The men were talking to Rosie, showing her a photograph. You were sure it was either you or Vito in that photo and you only had a few seconds before you’d be caught by Falcone’s men.

Vito folded his newspaper and set it down, understanding the same thing. Before you could realize what was happening, Vito had slid across the booth to sit beside you, took your hand and squeezed it gently.

"Look at me," he said.

You looked at him. He looked back at you with an expression you had never seen on him before. It held an openness and warmth that almost felt fake if it were on the face of the man you’d met a few weeks ago.

"Laugh," he said, quietly.

"At what."

"At whatever I just said."

"You didn't say anything."

"Pretend I did."

You laughed. It came out more naturally than it should have, some reflex of the absurdity of the instruction combining with the anxiety of the moment.

Rosie said something to the men. She gestured vaguely away from you, toward the other end of the diner.

One of the men turned to scan the room.

Vito's hand tightened on yours. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, attempting to ground you. He said something low and unimportant, something about the weather or the coffee, and you answered it. The words didn't matter. You were just trying your best to be as unremarkable as two people could possibly be.

The men stayed a while longer as they drank coffee at the counter before finally leaving.

You waited until the bell above the door had stopped moving.

Your hand was still in his when he apologized. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be," you blurted out. Then, in an attempt to regain control of the conversation, you quickly added, "They would’ve caught us otherwise. You did the right thing."

He let go of your hand with a hint of a smile.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Joe had arrived that afternoon with bread, cold cuts and information about the Falcone investigation. His death was blamed on a power struggle within his own organization, allowing you and Vito to remain largely uninvolved to the general public. However, his men still knew the truth.

After Joe had given his debrief of the recent news, he’d come to speak to you. Without any preamble, he’d immediately launched into talking about how Vito was acting strange because of his lack of proper sleep in recent days. He’d stayed in quite a few terrible places during his tenure in Empire Bay, but something about the stress of being on the run had worsened the strain on his body.

You couldn’t sleep that night, mulling over Joe’s words as you lay in your bed and listened to Vito faking being asleep. He kept his breathing even and remained still, but you'd been in close quarters with him long enough to know the difference.

"Vito," you called out in the dark room.

There was no response. His very convincing fake-sleep breathing continued.

"I know you're awake."

A pause. Then a slow sigh. "Yeah."

"That bed’s got a loose spring, doesn’t it?"

"It's fine."

"I sat on it the other day. That thing needs to be in a torture chamber. You can’t possibly be fine."

Silence.

"There's a whole other bed," you said. "It's large too. So much so that I only take up one side of it." A pause of your own. "You've been sleeping on couches and rough beds for three weeks."

"I'm all right."

"You have a bruise on your shoulder from the armrest. I saw it this morning."

With a frustrated huff, he said, "You weren't supposed to see that."

"I have eyes."

There was another silence. Much longer than the ones before. Then you heard the sound of him getting up. Careful footsteps. The other side of the bed dipping under his weight and the mattress shifting around you.

"Top of the covers," you noted.

"Obviously," he said.

The room settled. "Thank you," he quietly whispered after a while.

"Go to sleep," you said.

He did. You lay on your side of the bed and listened until he remained true to his word. With him resting well, you felt a foreign sense of comfort. As if you’d stopped fighting something you held at bay these past few weeks. You let the calm wash over you as you fell into sleep a few minutes later, not wanting to dwell on your thoughts.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Three days later, he knocked on the bathroom door while you were brushing your teeth.

"Got something to tell you," he said, through the door.

When you came out, he was sitting on the edge of his side of the bed–it had become his side ever since that night. He held a determined expression.

You sat on your side and waited.

"Leo came through," he said.

Leo. The voice on the phone that night, you remembered.

"Okay…" you said, your voice drawing out the word.

"There's a way out for you." He said it carefully, like he wanted you to believe him. "Your name will no longer be attached to what happened at the observatory. You’ll be able to go home, or wherever you want to go, and none of this follows you."

You quirked your brow, not quite understanding how this was possible.

"And you."

"I’ve overstayed my time in Empire Bay long enough," he said. "I gotta move.” He paused, contemplation clear on his face. You could see he was hesitating from telling you something.

He finally blurted out, “New Bordeaux."

You'd heard of it. Far south. Far enough to be a different world entirely.

"For how long," you said.

He looked at you with downturned eyes, something adjacent to pity, or perhaps sadness. "It's not a temporary thing."

The room was very quiet. Through the window, the afternoon light came in at a long angle and caught the dust in the air and made it briefly visible, all those particles that were always there and never seen.

You thought about your apartment. The dust it would be covered in by now. There was no easy way of forgetting a person who had become the shape of your days.

"When?" you asked.

"End of the week," he said. "Joe drives you back Thursday. You go home, you pick up your life."

You nodded. Slowly. You were trying to buy time for your mind to come up with something to say. Anything. To stop him, to figure things out together, to have some say in the matter. But you could only manage to repeat what he’d said.

"New Bordeaux," you said.

"Yeah."

"Is it —" you searched for the question you were actually asking. "Is it somewhere you can make something. A life."

He was quiet for a moment. Something in him considering the question seriously, like he understood what you were really asking. "I think so," he said. "Starting from scratch, but." He looked at his hands briefly. "Maybe that's not the worst thing."

The afternoon light moved slightly as the sun went behind something outside. The dust disappeared.

"I'm glad…I met you," you said. "That evening. On the road."

He looked up.

"For what it's worth, when you came after me," you clarified. "I'm glad it was you and not —" you stopped. "I'm glad it was you."

He held your gaze. Something crossed his face, as though it were the truest expression of what he felt in that moment.

“Me too.”

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Morning came as if it were a punishment.

Joe was outside with the car. You had your purse, fuller than it had been three weeks ago, stocked with things acquired in pieces along the way. You stood in the room and looked at it one more time: the two sides of the bed, the coffee cups on the table, the window.

Vito was leaning against the doorframe. He'd walked you down and planned on watching you drive away with Joe. And then, he’d eventually make his way south to a city that neither of you had ever seen.

You looked at him. At the bruise that had finally faded. At the line of his jaw and the dark eyes and the expression that he had mostly stopped managing around you. You thought about the feeling of his hand on yours. As if he were begging you to stay with him with a single touch.

You picked up your purse and said, "It’s a small world, and I’ve got Joe’s number."

"Joe," he chuckled with feeling.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the distance between you. Taking your face in both hands, he pressed his forehead against yours, and you stood like that for a moment.

"Go home," he said. Quiet. Close.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "New Bordeaux," you said, one more time. Like it was a door held open.

You kissed him once. Then you picked up your purse and walked out into the morning, where Joe was waiting with the engine running and the tactful expression of a man looking anywhere but at the door.

You got in and he pulled the car out of the parking lot.

You didn't look back.

You didn’t have to. The map southward was more than enough to start with.

⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅∙ ∘☽༓☾∘ •⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅

✮ masterlist ✮

viscalett

Jul 25

comicarc

𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

✮ masterlist ✮

> Vito Scaletta/Reader > A refugee waitress finds herself drawn to the same quietly guarded man, and he finds no need to pull away. The more they meet, the more they recognize in each other a grief neither one has been able to put into words. (based on a request) 【 wc: 1884 】

You had been in the country for only a year, but you had learned that the hunger to survive could never leave you, not even after you found it. You’d walked around the boardwalk for three weeks, into every restaurant with an OPEN sign. Benny’s Ristorante Italiano was the last place on your list, and the manager Giuseppe, a heavyset man with exhausted eyes, seemed to be the only one who was willing to give you a chance.

Reciting a sentence in your broken English that you’d been practicing in the mirror a million times to the man, you’d expected him to turn you away immediately.

“You ever carry six plates at once?” His question had caught you off guard.

“No,” you replied, feeling as though lying would start you off on the wrong foot. Quickly, you amended, “But I can learn.”

His mouth ticked up ever so slightly into an almost-smile. “You will learn.”

On that day, you’d finally gotten a job. Another step towards happiness.

The next evening, after your first full shift–with aching feet crammed into second-hand shoes that barely fit you and an apron stained with marinara sauce–Giuseppe had told you to ‘take fifteen.’ You stepped out the back door of the restaurant and found yourself on a little strip of boardwalk that ran along the pier. Lighting a cigarette with hands that smelled like garlic and lemon rind, you looked out at the water.

The sun was setting, leaving behind long orange ribbons of light that bled into the sky. Gulls wheeled low over the pier pilings. Somewhere nearby, a radio was playing from an open window.

You stood there and felt something in your chest loosen, a feeling close to happiness, but not quite settling the same in your heart. You thought, as you often did around this hour, of another shoreline you might never see again. The light was all the same there, as the sun escaped into the horizon. Remembering was the only way you could visit a place you’d once called home.

You didn’t hear him come up beside you.

“Got a light?”

You turned, startled. A man, maybe in his forties, with dark hair going silver at temples, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the October chill. He held an unlit cigarette between two fingers.

“Yes,” you said, and held out your lighter.

He cupped his hands around the flame, drew on the cigarette, and exhaled toward the water.

“You new?” he inquired, nodding faintly to the restaurant behind.

“Is it that obvious?” You let out an awkward chuckle, not knowing how to push the conversation forward. Your exhaustion was starting to get the better of you, but you still wanted to remain polite.

Thankfully for you, he commented, “Pretty sky tonight.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is.”

There was nothing more to be said. When he finished his cigarette, he thanked you for the light and went back the way he’d come. You stayed a little while longer, relishing the sun’s warmth until darkness had completely settled in.

You’d thought nothing of the exchange until you met him at the same spot the next evening.

And then the one after that.

By the end of your first week working at the restaurant, you stopped being surprised when you saw him lean against the railing by the boardwalk when you came for your breaks.

He never asked for a light again; he had his own matches after that day. But he’d acknowledge you with a nod when you approached. You’d stand a companionable distance apart and talk. At first it was regarding small things–the weather, a strange customer, the seagulls.

Vito had told you a story about one of the gulls. He was notorious for strutting around the pier like he owned the place. Any poor soul who got near the beast would learn their lesson real quick.

He never really talked about himself, only unrelated subjects like that.

It wasn’t until your fifth day on the job that you learned his name. Giuseppe had stuck his head out the back door and said, “Vito, Leo’s on the line for you.”

Vito had gone into the diner muttering something under his breath. He walked inside broad-shouldered, his expression unwavering, but he glanced back at you with an apologetic look.

You’d asked him the next day, “You own this place?”

He pursed his lips before admitting, “Yeah.”

“You didn’t say.” Your eyebrows furrowed a bit. You weren’t as shocked at the revelation as you should’ve been. Vito looked the part with his head always held high and a tendency to wear durable clothes.

You had a feeling he never intended for you to find out. For even after you knew, your dynamic didn’t change much. If anything, it made you more curious about him, because a man who owned a restaurant like Benny’s chose to spend his evenings on a splintering pier with the new waitress.

By the second week, you started timing yourself so that you’d cross paths around the same time.

Sometime that week, you’d stayed up at night, lying on your narrow bed in a cramped apartment above a shoe repair shop, listening to the pipes groan in the wall. You’d started nurturing the thought that he might like you. The idea sat strangely in your chest, as you contemplated your interactions. What other reason would he have to stand by that railing and smoke at the same hour for two weeks? But then–maybe you already fit into his routine and not the other way around. Perhaps it was all a coincidence.

You turned over on the bed, but the thought wouldn’t leave your mind.

If anything, in the following days, the idea grew even more burdensome. The fact that it had become even easier to talk to him did you no favors.

You hadn’t realized, until Vito, how long it had been since you’d had a real conversation with anyone in this foreign land. Something beyond clipped exchanges about ordering food, asking for directions, or explaining your accent. With Vito, you found yourself talking about how the ocean smelled different in New Bordeaux than it did back home, and how you still woke up disoriented some mornings, momentarily certain you were somewhere you hadn't lived in years.

The words simply kept flowing when you were in Vito’s presence, allowing you to reveal thoughts you’d otherwise kept hidden in your heart to fester. He listened, intently and almost as though he understood some part of your pain.

He gave less of himself in return, but not nothing. You learned over the weeks that he’d grown up far from New Bordeaux. That he had a loving mother and a sister. How he’d been born in Italy, and only went back to fight in a war he never wanted any part in. He didn’t talk about what he’d done there, or his time in America. He never spoke about his life directly, only through memory, like the way the backfire of a passing truck could still make his shoulders tense.

“You lose people,” he said once as you both watched the gulls eating breadcrumbs. “War’s got a talent for isolating you. Even when you think you’ve escaped it.” He didn’t elaborate, and you found no need to push.

You thought about him more than you meant to, in the hours you weren’t working. Not with the giddiness of a girl with a crush–you were much beyond that now–but with the mind of a woman curious to understand someone so much like her in every other way. You wondered what he looked like when he was younger. Who his friends were. What he’d act like. Would he have paid you any mind if you’d met a few years before?

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Vito hadn’t meant for it to become a habit. Yet, every evening he found himself walking out to the same stretch of railing at the same hour, as though the reason for it was still in question.

He knew why. There was something in the way you held your cigarette and watched the sunset like it might not rise again tomorrow, that reminded him of a past he was trying to forget.

Joe used to stand like that, hiding his sorrows with a faint smile. His best friend, who used to tell him to ‘live a little,’ as though tomorrow wasn’t promised. Of course, Joe took that to mean more booze and babes, but Vito was starting to understand his philosophy in another light.

And Henry.

Henry didn’t last long, but for the time that Vito did know him, the man knew how to live to the fullest. The three of them were like three peas in a pod, until he died. Until the whole mess in Empire Bay began. Until remnants of the war finally caught up to Vito–the reality that men like him would always stay fighting or running.

As soon as he’d come to New Bordeaux, Vito buried himself in piles of work on behalf of the Commission. It was easier to forget the life he could’ve lived than feel the pain of loss. Yet, you seemed to surface that feeling every time he saw your face. He saw the pain you harbored. And when you spoke of your home like it was a broken paradise lost, all he could do was look within himself.

But you weren’t all bad. You’d come to remind him of the good parts of himself that he’d hidden as well. The taste of the good life he was promised when he came home from the war.

It was easy to talk to you. Easier than keeping his thoughts stuck in the back of his head. He gave you snippets of his life, because some nights, standing beside you while the light went down over the water, he thought that maybe he didn’t need to carry everything weighing him down alone.

He wasn’t sure yet what he wanted from those fifteen minutes you’d spend together. He only knew that he’d started arranging his whole evening around them without meaning to. Giuseppe was the first to notice the change in his attitude.

The manager had even commented, “You got a girlfriend already, and you don’t even take her to dinner someplace nice. Just stand out by the water like a couple of degenerates.”

Vito didn’t correct the man, which was like an answer to his confusion. Maybe he did know what he wanted.

After a month, the sun went down that evening like it had the first day you’d met. With hues of orange bleeding into the sky like fire. You stood by the railing beside him, cigarette burning down between your fingers, and asked him about the man he talked about more than himself–Joe.

He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.

“He was a friend,” Vito finally said. “A good friend.” He looked out at the water, at the dying orange and gold light by the horizon, and felt a semblance of peace.

You simply smiled, taking his answer as a sign he trusted you, if only just a little. For the first time since you’d come to New Bordeaux, you’d found a chance of a better future at last.

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A/N: I hope I did this request justice! I've got one more request to finish, so stay tuned for another Vito story (hopefully soon).

As always, I'm open to more requests for Vito!

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