Summary: Bucky still doesn't know what he is doing most of the time. He is trying to ajust to the 21st century with the help of his friends when his universe is turned upside down. Now he has to discover how to be a father while trying to find his place in the world.
Pairing: singledad!bucky x bestfriend!reader
Warnings: — each drabbles have their own warnings, but is mostly just fluff. all the chapters can also be read as one-shots.
A/N: English is not my first language so if you find some mistake please let me know.
--
0 - 1 year
not alone: 8 months.
little hand: 0 months.
breathing: [new chapter friday]
Thank you for reading! please like/reblog and comment if you like this fic or send me ideas here.
Mafia Wife [Sonny Corleone x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter 7 – The Greenhouse.
Read on AO3 / Read Chapter 6 / Chapter Masterlist.
18+, explicit smut read.
“Why do you seek her so much? Talk about her so much? But I don’t hear her talk about you.” / “It’s like I can’t control myself around you… But I have to.”
Unwanted, unliked–all labels your brothers place upon Emilio Barzini. Since the death of your brother's former lover years ago, the consequences of an otherwise uninvolved civilian marrying into and getting involved with a mafioso echo to this day. Sonny is slowly accepted, respected and all eyes are on you and your engagement with him. Emilio Barzini remains relentless in his own ways, but he refuses to give up despite the warnings. As your engagement with Sonny ramps up, a lifetime of luxury and promises catered to your every want and need begin to follow you. Pushing aside traditional courting rules and norms, you and Sonny are simply unable to get enough of each other, relishing in every heated moment you two can share in the very place you two spent so much time in–the greenhouse.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: Merry Christmas!! The flu/cold works hard but I work harder, what can I say? I finally finished up this very much anticipated chapter we've all been looking forward to. 🤭🫶🏻 FIRST TIME SMUT! Can I get a HELL YEAH?!
“The underboss’s wife”; that’s who you are, and the whispers of enemies, family and colleagues alike know it too. You’re no stranger to the underworld of crime surrounding you including the one run by the Corleone family’s underboss; Santino Corleone. The streets run red with blood and brutality under Santino’s influence but it’s Santino who feels hit by the thunderbolt at the very sight of you—pushing away his womanizing and notorious unfaithfulness. You unexpectedly find yourself in a position of power balancing your marriage with the fate of the Corleone’s family’s future whether it be through Santino’s infamous brutality or the love he finds amidst the man he claims to be.
The afternoon air hangs warm and quiet over the estate, the kind of soft stillness that doesn’t match the tension vibrating through the air. Light spills from the greenhouse behind the mansion, glowing pale across the gravel path and the trimmed hedges.
From inside the house, soft conversation rises and falls—the clink of whiskey glasses, a male voice belonging to Sonny, and your voice right behind it, bright from the proposal you’ve just accepted.
Inside, your future is unfolding. Outside, trouble is already stirring at the back of the Giordano estate.
Luca Giordano, your eldest brother, stops just short of the greenhouse corner, one hand sliding into the pocket of his vest.
He listens—sharp, focused. Emilio Barzini’s voice reaches him first: rapid Italian, bitter and frustrated, spilling out like a man who thinks no one important is listening.
The driver murmurs cautious replies, the kind of half-agreement that says I don’t want to die for knowing too much.
Luca’s jaw tightens. He knows he’s not going to like where this is heading.
Being the firstborn son of the family means instinct does half the work for him; he feels threats long before they show their faces. Something is off. Someone is out of place. Someone is stupid enough to lurk behind his home uninvited, and for whom?
Luca’s been held to impossible expectations since the day he was born in 1915—spoiled, monitored, and molded into the heir before he was old enough to understand what that meant. Pressure lived at his bedside like a second nanny.
Every grade is scrutinized. Every achievement is compared. Every mistake is remembered longer than his successes.
Luca rose to all of it. Excelled. Observed people with a precision that sometimes scared his siblings. Deception never survived under his gaze— Luca read it naturally, like a language he was born fluent in.
Cornell followed. Business and accounting. Not chosen for Luca, but chosen by him—the clearest path to becoming indispensable. By 1936, Luca graduated at the top of his class. By 1937, he stepped into one of the most powerful positions in the family’s banking business, earning it not with favoritism but with sheer competence.
But the part of Luca that means the most tonight is the one no expectation could corrupt: the older brother. Protective. Loving. Never overbearing. Never abusive with his authority. Luca refuses to weaponize his age the way others weaponized theirs over him.
The one thing he can’t stomach? Betrayal inside the family. That’s the wound he fears he won’t be able to close cleanly.
Luca thinks of Chiara back inside the estate, upstairs—pregnant, glowing, moving with that tired grace he’s grown to adore. Their twin boys, Dario and Arturo, are growing mischievous and sharp-eyed. Their daughter, Mary, is still months away but already the soft center of his world.
Luca doesn’t have time for disrespect. He doesn’t have patience for snakes.
Luca steps forward. He makes just enough noise on the gravel for it to be intentional. Emilio’s rant cuts off mid-sentence, and the driver stiffens.
Luca rounds the corner, and the scene reveals itself exactly as he predicted: Emilio pacing beside his car like a man denied something he believes he deserves, and the poor driver staring straight ahead, silently begging God to erase him from the narrative.
Emilio freezes when he sees Luca.
‘Of course he does.’
Luca doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. His calm does more damage than shouting ever could. “You’re a long way from where guests belong,” he says, tone polite but weighted enough to pull the color from a man’s face. “Especially uninvited ones.”
Emilio’s fingers were twitching on the car door. “Signor Luca— I was only—”
“—complaining,” Luca finishes for him with a tilt of his head. “To a driver who didn’t ask to be part of your problems.”
He closes the distance slowly, each step calculated, controlled, deliberate. The kind of approach that promises violence only if someone forces his hand. The sunlight glints along Luca’s cheekbone, sharpening the intensity in his eyes.
Inside, you’re celebrating your engagement. Outside, Luca is deciding whether he’s going to break a man’s nose or his dignity first.
“Why don’t you go ahead and tell me,” he says softly, “exactly what you think you’re doing behind my family’s home.”
Emilio opens his mouth like he’s about to attempt an excuse, but Luca doesn’t give him the luxury.
He lunges. One hand fists into Emilio’s collar, and the other drives him back hard enough that the car rocks under the impact. Metal groans.
The driver inside the vehicle lets out a strangled yelp and squeezes his eyes shut like a man hoping that if he can’t see anything, he can’t be forced to testify about it.
Luca presses Emilio into the door, forearm braced across his chest, pinning him like he weighs nothing. “That’s the third time I’ve seen you sneaking around here,” Luca growls, voice low, controlled, but vibrating with the kind of anger that doesn’t shake—anger that calculates. “Trying to invite yourself in. And I know why.”
Emilio’s breath stutters.
“It’s for Gabriella,” Luca continues, leaning in, tightening his grip on the collar until Emilio chokes. “Why do you seek her so much? Talk about her so much? But I don’t hear her talk about you.”
Luca’s face edges closer, their noses almost touching. “Why are you…” He pauses—just long enough for fear to settle thickly in Emilio’s chest. “…trespassing?”
Emilio swallows. “—I-I was leaving—”
“I’m sure you were,” Luca answers, flat, cold, unblinking. He pushes him just a bit harder against the door, enough to make Emilio gasp.
“I’ve been itching to hurt you, Emilio.” The honesty in his voice is chilling. “My brothers might be kind-hearted. But I am not.”
The driver makes a tiny, involuntary sound from inside the car—somewhere between a whimper and a prayer.
Luca doesn’t look away from Emilio. “I’d better never see you here again unless Gabriella explicitly tells me you’re invited. Do you understand me? Otherwise,”—his lip curls slightly—“you’re just a pest on my property.”
And just like that, Luca lets go.
Emilio practically collapses against the car before catching himself.
He avoids Luca’s eyes completely, scrambling into the back seat with shaking hands. “Go—GO!” he barks at the chauffeur, his voice cracking.
The tires screech as the car jerks forward, fishtails slightly, then tears down the long drive of the estate, headlights cutting through the dark until they disappear entirely.
Luca stands there, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, watching every inch of that taillight glow until it vanishes from view. Only then does he exhale, slow and deliberate, resetting his composure before he turns back toward the house—back toward you, the celebration, and the family Luca actually protects.
~~~
[ + 1 Day, Corleone Estate ]
The morning sun spills over the estate, casting golden light across the Corleone grounds. Inside, the scent of fresh Italian pastries mingles with faint smoke from the kitchen, a quiet comfort that wraps the house in domestic normalcy.
In the heart of the estate, there is no quietness for Sonny. He moves with purpose, checking, arranging, ensuring every detail of the dowry and engagement promise made to you and your father is flawless.
Vito sits in the study, hands folded neatly on his lap, eyes tracking Sonny as he paces with that restless energy of his that has always made Vito simultaneously proud and anxious.
Finally, the Don speaks, his voice deep and measured, carrying the weight of a lifetime of authority. “Santino,” Vito gives a small, approving nod. “This is very good. Very good.” His eyes glint with pride. “You went to Gabriella’s father. You spoke seriously, like a man settling for responsibility.”
Sonny stiffens slightly under the praise, but Vito’s rare smile softens the room. “It’s about time, Sonny. A wife. A family. Someone to anchor you. You’ve got the strength, yes, but strength without direction… it is wasted. Now you are settling, finally.”
Vito leans back, fingers steepled, eyes reflecting the pride he doesn’t often allow himself to show. “And Gabriella… she will be well cared for. You understand the honor in this? Not just for you, but for her family, for ours. This is how the world works. This is how we build legacies.”
From the kitchen, Mama Corleone steps lightly into the study, drying her hands on a cloth. Her face is warm, eyes soft, but there’s a sparkle of mischievous satisfaction hiding behind it.
“Your Papa is right,” Mama Corleone says, voice rich with pride. “Finally, a wife, someone to be his own, and children soon to follow. Grandchildren to spoil, mark my words, Santino.”
Sonny nods solemnly, every muscle in him taut with focus. He looks at you, Gabriella, and the corners of his mouth lift into a small, rare smile. “Yeah, yeah. Let me handle it.”
Vito’s expression softens, the weight of a father’s approval settling comfortably over Sonny’s shoulders.
Mama Corleone, still beaming, steps back toward the kitchen—Vito following her— humming a faint tune, the kind that carries pride, joy, and a hint of expectation for the generations to come.
The morning hums with anticipation. Today, Sonny prepares for the life he has chosen, his family watching with pride and satisfaction. The future feels steady, deliberate, and entirely theirs to shape.
The office now remains quiet except for the scratch of Sonny’s pen against the paper, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbles down an expense report in his journal. The sunlight filters through the blinds, casting stripes across the polished wood of Vito’s desk.
The soft click of the door draws his attention. Tom steps in, carrying a large suitcase, and stops just inside the room, looking at Sonny with that familiar mix of expectation and disbelief.
“Here it is,” Tom says, setting the suitcase down on the floor. “A million dollars cash… just like you wanted.”
Sonny doesn’t look up. He pats the table next to him. “Set it over here.”
Tom chuckles, easing the case onto the table. “You sure about this?”
Sonny glances up briefly, eyes sharp. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Tom shakes his head, laughter bubbling under his disbelief. “Oh, you are serious, serious.”
“Damn right I’m serious,” Sonny replies, voice low, measured.
Tom grins and leans back slightly, shaking his head. “A million dollars for the new bride… now that’s something special. The neighborhood is going to be talking about this wedding for months.”
“They'd better,” Sonny mutters under his breath, eyes returning to his journal. “For her, not for me.”
“And what else are you getting her?” Tom asks, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
Sonny smirks, writing another line in the expense report. “A lot more. You’ll see.” He gestures toward the journal, where a $20,000 entry is neatly scrawled under “jewelry.”
Tom’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Twenty grand for jewelry? That’s just the start?”
Sonny lifts a finger, signaling him to wait. “Wait a minute. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Sonny moves to Vito’s desk and carefully unlocks one of the cupboards. From inside, he pulls out a large, engraved box, its polished surface catching the sunlight. He sets it on the table with deliberate weight.
Tom stares at it, mouth slightly open. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah,” Sonny says simply, a hint of pride in his tone.
Sonny unlocks the box and turns it toward Tom, revealing dozens of pieces of gold and diamond jewelry, each catching the light, glinting, sparkling as if the room itself had been infused with wealth.
Tom leans in closer, eyes wide, taking in the sheer volume and quality. “You’re serious… all of this for her?”
Sonny shrugs, picking up a delicate gold chain and letting it fall back into the box. “For her, not for me,” he repeats, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Everything’s for her. She’s worth it.”
Tom shakes his head again, laughing softly. “Very nice. Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Something like that.” Sonny goes back to his journal, pen scratching the page as he begins calculating the next line of expenses.
The million-dollar cash, the jewelry—everything is meticulous, intentional, a testament to both Sonny’s love and his understanding of legacy.
Tom lets out a low whistle, still staring at the mountain of jewelry. “So, what else is on the agenda for the engagement? Because knowing you, I don’t think you’re stopping at cash and diamonds.”
“Of course not,” Sonny says, snapping his journal shut and sliding it aside. “She’s gotta get a place of her own with me at the Corleone mall. Pop made sure of it.”
Tom raises a brow. “One of the big estates?”
“One of the biggest,” Sonny corrects, leaning back in the chair with easy confidence. “One of the nicest, too. But it doesn’t have a greenhouse.”
Tom blinks. “It has to have a greenhouse?”
“It’s a must,” Sonny reaffirms without hesitation. “So I’m contacting one of our builders today. Gonna have ‘em put up one identical to Gabriella’s.”
Tom tilts his head. “Did she request something like this?”
“Nah.” Sonny shakes his head once. “She doesn’t have to. I already know.”
Sonny exhales, closing his notebook completely now, tapping his pen against the lambskin cover with a quiet sense of accomplishment. “And I want her to drive something sleek. Something luxurious. I’m getting her a new Cadillac. And she needs a chauffeur too, in case she doesn’t feel like driving.”
Tom chuckles lightly. “From what you and Connie told me, Gabriella doesn’t really strike me as the princess-treatment kind of girl.”
“She isn’t.” Sonny flashes a grin, the kind that shows how deeply he enjoys this. “That’s the thing, Tom. I’ve been telling you she’s different. She can handle herself. But on the days she doesn’t want to? She has to have options. I’m not giving her anything less than every option we can get.”
Tom nods slowly, accepting that logic, even if he finds it over the top. “Pop said our family is covering the wedding in full.”
“That’s right,” Sonny answers. He shifts in his chair, expression hardening just a touch. “I’m not exactly… the best marriage ‘candidate’ for Gabriella, because of who I am.”
“Ah.” Tom’s tone softens. “Because of the family business stuff?”
“Yeah.” Sonny rolls his eyes and sighs. “Just that. I get it. I know why they’re wary. So now they’ve got a lot of room to be impressed, and I’m working on it.”
“Right,” Tom agrees. “I guess that accident with Romeo Giordano’s girlfriend really shook the family.”
“I get it,” Sonny repeats, shrugging like the whole situation is obvious to him. “We all deal with death and stuff differently, but if you ask me? That was preventable.”
Tom’s eyes widen. “How?”
“Easy.” Sonny leans back, limbs loose, like he’s explaining something simple. “You don’t want someone you love to be killed—whether they’re a target or it’s an accident? The ball is in your court.” He taps his chest with two fingers. “You cover him or her. Like a shield. Better you eat those bullets all over your body than them.”
Tom stiffens at the bluntness, but Sonny continues, voice steady, almost casual.
“Romeo didn’t do that. And now Elena is dead.” Sonny lifts a shoulder. “Gabriella is not.”
He says it with finality, the kind that says he’s already made his vows long before any formal ceremony. The gifts, the estate, the greenhouse, the Cadillac — they’re nothing compared to what he’s actually promising.
Tom sees it. Even if Sonny never says it aloud, Tom understands that everything he’s preparing… starts and ends with protection.
~~~
[ Giordano Estate ]
Francesco calls everyone into the living room with a tone that carries weight — deliberate, controlled, almost ceremonial.
The family drifts in, and the space settles around them as if it knows something important is about to be said.
Late-morning light spills through the half-drawn curtains in long, warm stripes, cutting across the carpet and catching tiny dust motes that float lazily in the air. The room hums with quiet anticipation.
Rosa enters first, still wiping her hands on her apron. Her dark hair is pinned back neatly, and the moment she steps inside, one palm presses to her chest. A smile blooms instantly — that instinctive, hopeful joy only a mother feels.
Rosa eases into her favourite floral armchair, already brimming with emotion.
Romeo follows, dragging his feet just enough to look casual, though the quick flick of his eyes toward Francesco betrays his curiosity. He drops onto the far corner of the sofa, arm draped lazily over the back, foot bouncing lightly. He tries for indifference, but it doesn’t hold.
You slip quietly behind your mother, standing just to her side. Your hands fold lightly in front of you, calm but alert, cheeks carrying a faint flush of excitement you can’t hide.
Luca comes last, pausing in the doorway as if weighing the scene before stepping fully into the room. He doesn’t sit. He plants himself near the corner, arms crossed tightly, gaze fixed somewhere beyond everyone else, calculating, quiet, and unreadable.
Francesco positions himself in the center, one hand resting on the back of an armchair, the other smoothing down his vest. He looks at each of you slowly, letting the silence stretch, letting the anticipation build.
The air feels heavier with each second he waits before speaking, like the room itself is holding its breath.
Francesco clears his throat with a hint of fatherly ceremony. “Well,” he announces, “our lovely Gabriella has accepted Santino Corleone’s proposal for marriage, with our blessings.”
Rosa gasps first — a soft, delighted sound — and immediately reaches for your face, kissing both cheeks with frantic joy. “Oh, tesoro! My beautiful girl! You’re engaged! I knew it, I knew it, I felt it in my bones this week!”
You laugh softly, letting your mother fuss, enjoying her unrestrained happiness.
Francesco’s chest puffs slightly in pride as he continues. “The Corleones have been close to our family longer than you have been alive,” he says, looking toward the two of them. “All the way back to the old days — before the olive war, and even before that. Old friendships, old loyalties. Ties worth honoring.” His voice carries the weight of tradition, seasoned with genuine satisfaction. “Santino, Gabriella, and I spoke privately last week. He wants to do things right. Properly.”
Romeo perks up, curiosity shining through. “When are they getting married?”
“In the fall,” Francesco answers. “A few months for the couple to get to know one another properly, and enough time to prepare everything.”
“Oh, we’ll be sending so many invitations to Sicily,” Rosa chimes in, already picturing the mail piling up. “Half the island will come. My cousins, your cousins, your aunts — everyone adored you when they visited last time—” Her words trail off as the silence from the corner stretches.
Francesco finally turns fully toward Luca, brow raised. “Luca? You seem distant, son.”
Luca doesn’t move at first. He just stares ahead, jaw tight, arms still folded. When he finally speaks, his voice low and deliberate, it cuts through the room. “What about Emilio Barzini?”
The air tightens instantly, like a quiet snap in your ribs that signals tension you can’t ignore.
“What about him?” Francesco raises a brow, looking toward Luca.
Romeo exchanges a glance with you, then with Luca, and Luca glances back at you, sharp and measured.
“It seems Santino Corleone isn’t the only one interested in Gabriella,” Luca says.
Rosa blinks, startled. “Gabriella… is this true?”
Romeo opens his mouth, ready to answer for you, but Luca raises a hand, cutting him off. “Let her speak for herself, brother.”
You give Luca a quick, appreciative smile. “Not entirely. It’s one-sided. I don’t know Emilio… and I don’t want to.”
“I see,” Francesco nods slowly, frowning slightly. “Barzini never mentioned anything to me about his son’s romantic prospects… I will need to speak with him privately.”
“I don’t think you need to do all that,” Luca replies evenly.
Your eyes widen. “You want me to invite Emilio Barzini to my wedding?”
“Why not?” Romeo pipes up, grinning. “Sounds like the perfect way to get the message across — especially next to your new in-laws.”
Francesco shrugs. “It’s up to you. If that makes you feel more comfortable than a private conversation…”
You hesitate for a moment, thinking of Sonny, the warm look in his eyes, the way he is always so protective of you.
Pride, relief, and happiness swirl in your chest, mingling into a delicate tension that makes your heart flutter. The Corleone family is pleased — not just at the promise of your engagement, but because Sonny is finally giving the life he’s always owed to someone worthy. Someone like you.
Let Emilio come. You know you’re under Corleone protection.
“He can come,” you finally answer. “The entire Barzini family can come if they want.”
“I’m sure they won’t miss it for the world,” Luca says calmly. “Neither will I.”
“Will Casio come?” you ask, directing the question to your mother.
“I’m sure he will, sweetheart,” Rosa says, smiling at you. “Casio missing a wedding? Impossible.”
“We’ll round everyone up,” Francesco adds, giving you a soft smile and kissing the top of your head. “Don’t you worry. We’ll handle the invitations.”
“The only thing you need to worry about is getting to know your fiancé,” Romeo teases, flashing you a grin. “He seems quite the character.”
“I see a lot of him in you, Luca,” Rosa points out. “That quick irritability.”
Luca rolls his eyes, and Romeo laughs. “Right. I’ll meet him myself soon enough. As long as he makes my sister happy, I couldn't care less if he was a circus clown.”
The family continues to chatter around you, excitement spilling from Rosa and Francesco, Romeo teasing lightly.
But Luca remains still in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight. He watches every movement, every laugh, every subtle flicker of emotion across your face.
The energy in the room shifts slightly around him, heavier, tighter — as if he’s not entirely present for the celebration.
Luca glances at you, studying the way you smile, the warmth you carry even in the midst of all this talk about weddings and Corleones. Luca’s eyes then drift toward Francesco, then to Romeo, lingering on each subtle expression as if calculating motives.
Finally, he speaks quietly, almost to himself, but loud enough for the room to hear.
“Barzini,” he says, voice low and even, “I don’t like it. I don’t trust him.”
Francesco frowns slightly but says nothing. Romeo tilts his head, curious. Rosa huffs softly, sensing the tension.
Luca lets his gaze fall back on you, calm and deliberate. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t show alarm — only the faintest edge of protective steel that cuts beneath the surface.
You catch the look and feel it, and a quiet appreciation stirs in your chest. This is your brother, your oldest protector. Luca may be calculating, he may be cautious, but he’s watching over you. And that, more than anything, makes you feel safe.
~~~
[ Evening Hours ]
The clock ticks past midnight; the silence of the Giordano estate surrounds you, and dim lights flicker in the garden with security.
You sit up in bed with a pillow propped behind you, the sheets tangled around your legs, phone pressed to your ear, and an arm wrapped around your knees.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Sonny’s voice comes softly through the line, low and smooth, carrying that impossible warmth that makes your chest tighten.
“Hi,” you whisper back, biting your lip. You twist a strand of your hair around your finger, nerves and anticipation fluttering together.
“You’re still awake at this hour, huh?” Sonny says, almost a statement, almost a tease.
“Of course I’m awake,” you muffle out a giggle. “I was waiting for your call. Just at midnight, you said.”
There’s a pause, then a chuckle on his end. “You sound beautiful, darling. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You blush. “You really know how to flatter a girl,” you say, voice catching a little.
“I’m serious,” Sonny replies, voice softening even further. “I want to see you. Even right now, if you want.”
You giggle, shaking your head, heart racing. “You must be joking.”
“I’m not,” he says simply, calm but intense. “I mean it. I’m a man of my word.”
“I really want to see you again,” you admit, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Sooner rather than later.”
Sonny’s voice drops to a low, intimate purr. “I love hearing that pretty voice of yours over the phone, darling, but seeing you… seeing you is the next best thing.”
You laugh, a little breathless. “It’s the dead of night, Sonny. Where could we even go? What could we do?”
There’s a pause, then he teases, playful and slow. “There’s always the greenhouse, isn’t there? Never been there in the dark.”
Your eyes widen, pulse quickening. “Only if you promise we don’t get caught.”
“I promise you,” he says firmly, almost a whisper.
And just like that, your cheeks heat, your heart flutters, and the quiet of the night feels charged with the electric thrill of anticipation.
“Are you seriously going to come over here?” You ask, half whispering, half smiling into the receiver.
“Well, of course,” Sonny says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You got security to tell that to?”
“I think so,” you laugh softly, covering your mouth with your hand because you’re smiling way too much. “How long do you think you’ll take to get here?”
“Eh, about twenty minutes or so,” Sonny replies. You can hear the grin in his voice. “I’m serious, darling. I’m gonna get on my bike and come on over before.”
“I believe you,” you say, cheeks warm with blush. “Then I’ll put something on and meet you in the greenhouse in twenty.”
“Perfect,” Sonny breathes. “See you then, sweetheart.”
You hang up first, not because you want to, but because if you keep hearing his voice, you’re going to combust. You drop the phone onto your bed and take a quick, shaky breath, giddy from head to toe.
You slide off the mattress and step toward your mirror across the room. All you’re wearing is a pale pink nightgown — soft, delicate, falling just above your knees — and slippers. You look… flushed. Excited. A little dangerous.
You pad over to your closet and reach for your favorite white mink coat. The moment you slip it over your nightgown, the plush warmth wraps around you, making you feel both elegant and mischievous. You smooth the fur over your shoulders and stare at yourself for a long second, heart thudding.
Meanwhile, miles away, Sonny is already moving.
He shrugs on his leather jacket in one smooth motion, the zipper clinking faintly in the quiet of his family home.
Sonny’s keys dangle from his hand, already swinging as he walks. Before stepping out the door, he pauses — not to reconsider, but to grab something off a shelf.
A small bottle of whiskey.
‘That’ll do.’ Sonny tucks it inside his jacket with a smirk, then steps out into the night.
In twenty minutes, the greenhouse awaits.
~~~
Wrapped snugly in your white mink coat with the pale pink of your nightgown peeking softly at the neckline, you step out into the quiet night and make your way down the dim stone path toward the rear of the estate, the place where two of the night security guards stand watch under the soft orange glow of the outdoor lamps.
When you reach them, you offer a small, composed smile — the kind that always makes them straighten a little, and you say, “I’m expecting Sonny Corleone shortly. When he arrives, let him through, please.”
One of the guards, a tall man with a stern face that softens only for you, nods once and replies, “Of course, Miss Gabriella.”
The other adds, in a respectful tone that carries the faintest hint of curiosity, “We’ll keep the gate open for him.”
You trust these men implicitly, and you know perfectly well they won’t breathe a word of your late-night visitor to your father or your brothers — your authority on the property is unquestioned, and they’ve seen you escort people on and off these grounds with full command since you were old enough to be involved in family matters.
Their discretion gives you a soothing sense of control that allows your excitement to settle in without anxiety tugging at its edges.
You glance back at the mansion, taking in its lovely, dark silhouette against the night sky. Every window sits black and perfectly still, which tells you your entire family has already retired to their bedrooms, the whole house wrapped in its familiar, slumbering quiet. That knowledge gives you a small, private thrill — this moment belongs only to you, and no one inside that house will ever know whom you’re sneaking out to meet.
Your black flats whisper lightly against the gravel and stone as you turn and begin walking toward the greenhouse.
When you slip inside, a warm breath of humid air greets you, mingling the aromas of fresh soil, citrus leaves, and blooming night herbs.
The glass walls shimmer faintly from the moonlight outside, but you want something softer, something golden, so you move to the long wooden table and strike a match.
You light one candle, then another, watching the flames take hold slowly, each one deepening the glow inside the greenhouse until the whole room feels like a secret little world carved out just for this night.
You switch on a couple of oil lamps as well, their warm halos stretching over the plants, turning the space into a sanctuary of soft light and quiet anticipation.
Meanwhile, miles away, Sonny is already locking the door behind him, his leather jacket slung over his shoulders, the small bottle of whiskey tucked securely into his pocket.
He grabs the keys to his motorcycle, strides out into the cool night air, and throws one leg over the bike in a smooth, practiced motion.
The engine roars to life, low and powerful, and Sonny revs it once with a smirk over his lips before pulling out into the empty streets.
The wind rushes against him as he rides, the roads open and quiet, and all Sonny can think about — all he cares about — is the greenhouse, the warm glow waiting for him, and the sight of you standing there in your nightgown and mink coat, waiting for him in the middle of the night.
~~~
Sonny slows his motorcycle as the Giordano estate appears ahead of him, its silhouette rising like some grand, sleeping monument against the night sky.
Even wrapped in darkness, the manor has an undeniable presence — tall gates, endless gardens, the faint outline of balconies and carved stonework that catch what little moonlight slips through the clouds.
Sonny lets out a low whistle under his breath, not mocking, just genuinely impressed. “Hell of a place you got here,” he murmurs to himself.
As Sonny approaches the back entrance, two security guards step forward with the crisp precision of made men.
One dips his head politely. “Good evening, Mr. Santino Corleone.”
Sonny huffs a quiet laugh; he’s used to ‘Sonny,’ always has been, but hearing his full name in their formal tone makes him straighten a little. “Evenin’. Appreciate you boys letting me through.”
“Miss Gabriella informed us,” the other guard says, already reaching for the gate controls. “She’s in the greenhouse.”
“Figured she might be.” Sonny gives them a quick nod and pushes the bike forward, the gate sliding shut behind him with a heavy metallic click.
The walk from the gate to the greenhouse is short, but enough for him to take in more of the estate’s grandeur — the manicured hedges shaped like twisting ribbons, the sculpted fountains now still and glistening, and the sprawling glass structure ahead glowing faintly from within.
The moment Sonny spots the warm flicker of candles and oil lamps through the glass panes, something in his chest tightens.
It looks unreal, like a hidden world tucked inside the real one, full of golden light and shadows dancing over leaves and paintings hung between the vines.
Sonny pushes the greenhouse door open slowly. The hinge gives a soft creak, and warm, fragrant air washes over him. The scents of citrus blossoms, damp soil, and night-blooming flowers wrap around him instantly.
You look up from where you’re adjusting one of the lamps, and the blush that blooms across your cheeks hits Sonny harder than any punch he’s ever taken.
Your smile is shy and bright all at once, framed softly by the fur of your mink coat and the pale pink hem of your nightgown.
Sonny grins, amused and charmed to his bones. “Hey, darling. Told you I’d be here soon.”
He sets the small bottle of whiskey down on a counter crowded with potted herbs and trailing vines, the glass clinking lightly against a terracotta pot.
Sonny turns back to you with a teasing spark in his eyes. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”
“Oh, unfortunately, I did,” you say with a giggle, walking toward him with slow, playful steps. “So now you have to make it up to me.”
You slip your arms around Sonny’s shoulders, your fingers brushing the collar of his leather jacket.
For a second, he looks like he wants to say something clever — but Sonny doesn’t get a word out. Instead, he wraps his arms tight around your waist and pulls you straight into a deep, hungry kiss, the kind that carries all the promise and heat Sonny’s been holding onto since the moment you hung up the phone.
Sonny's lips press against yours with a hunger that sends shivers down your spine. His hands, strong and gentle, rest around your waist, holding you close but not exploring further, as if he were savoring every moment.
The dim light from the candles and oil lamps casts a warm, romantic glow, making the air feel electric and charged with anticipation.
Your heart races as you feel the intensity of his kiss, a dance of passion and longing. You can sense Sonny’s restraint, the way he is holding back, allowing the moment to build.
It’s a kiss unlike any other you have experienced, with Sonny's lips both demanding and tender, a contradiction that leaves you breathless.
The shadows cast by the candles surrounding you both dance across your skin, heightening every sensation. You can feel the heat of Sonny’s body against yours, his breath mingling with your own as you lose yourself in the moment.
Sonny's kiss deepens, his tongue gently exploring your mouth, tasting and teasing. You respond with equal fervor, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair.
The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you in this intimate, passionate embrace.
In your own secluded paradise with Sonny, he admires the way the soft, flickering light plays across your skin, highlighting the curves and contours of your body between his breathy kisses.
Sonny's eyes, when they meet yours, are filled with a mix of desire and adoration, a look that makes your heart flutter.
As the kiss continues, you can feel the tension building, a promise of more to come. Sonny's hands, still gently resting on your waist, seem to be fighting the urge to explore further. You can sense his struggle, his desire to take things slowly, to savor every moment of this intimate encounter.
You can feel the heat of his body against yours, his breath mingling with your own as you lose yourself in the moment.
Sonny’s mouth breaks from yours all at once, as if some invisible force yanked him back to reality.
His breath is warm against your cheek, uneven, like he’s fighting something inside himself. You stay close, your palms still pressed to his chest through the leather, and when you look up, Sonny’s eyes are wide — dark, conflicted, hungry, and terrified of that hunger all at once.
He searches your face as if trying to understand the spell you’ve put him under.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Sonny murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s like I can’t control myself around you… But I have to.”
Your voice slips out softer than you intend, barely more than a breath. “What’s holding you back?”
“Everything about us. Everything surrounding us,” he answers, his tone heavier than the night air.
Sonny doesn’t have to spell it out — the engagement, the expectations, the unspoken rule that an untouched bride is a respected bride, the silent scrutiny of two powerful families who care more about tradition than temptation.
Sonny promised himself he wouldn’t make you feel like some conquest. He promised he’d keep his hands steady, his mouth civil, his intentions pure.
But right now, those promises look as flimsy as the candle flames that surround you two.
“Don’t,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his jacket, gripping the worn leather tight. “Don’t hold back.”
Sonny’s breath catches. The words hit him like a physical touch, and his forehead nearly drops to yours.
“You play a dangerous game,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours without kissing. “Very, very dangerous.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you tease, tugging on one of his suspenders with a slow, deliberate pull until he has no choice but to step into your space again. The gesture knocks the breath out of Sonny more than the kiss had.
He huffs a low, incredulous laugh. “I have to be gentle with you.”
“I never asked for that,” you answer, and the boldness of it sends a shiver through Sonny.
He moves then — not rushed, not reckless, just utterly sure — guiding you backward until your spine meets the cool glass wall of the greenhouse.
The oil lamps flicker behind the leaves, casting gold across his cheekbones and sharp shadows across his jaw.
“Sweetheart…” Sonny’s voice drops, thick with restraint. “I don’t think we have a choice. Not once I show you what I mean.”
And it’s obvious in the way Sonny’s breathing, in the way his hands settle on your waist and linger like they’re memorizing the shape of you, in the way he presses close enough for the heat of him to swallow the air between you — he’s right at the edge of what he can hold back.
Right at the edge of losing that last promise Sonny made to himself.
You whisper, "Show me what?" but your words are cut short by a soft gasp as Sonny presses his body firmly against yours.
His arm is raised, the palm of his hand pressed against the greenhouse wall, enclosing you in an intimate space.
Sonny’s free hand gently tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. The gasp escapes your lips as you feel something hard and unmistakable brush against your groin.
It's Sonny's bulge, rock hard and impossibly large, almost like walking into a thick wooden branch, but you know exactly what it is.
Sonny chuckles, a low and teasing sound. "Yeah," he says, his voice laced with promise, "you don't know anything yet, and I'm gonna have a hell of a time showing you."
Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, and butterflies swarm in the pit of your stomach. A wave of arousal washes over you, growing stronger with each passing second.
A faint weakness begins to form in your knees, threatening to give way under the intensity of your feelings.
You whisper, "Not right here," gesturing towards a small, indoor-built shed just a few feet away. "That's the only place in here where we'll have privacy."
Sonny grins, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Say no more," he replies, and in one swift motion, he grabs you by both legs and slings you over his shoulder.
Sonny’s hand gives your ass a gentle squeeze, sending a new wave of excitement through you. You squeal, blushing madly as Sonny carries you into the shed, ready to explore the depths of your desire.
Sonny takes you inside the shed without another word, quickly shutting the door behind you.
The small window built into the back of the shed allows the soft, flickering light from the candles and oil lamps in the greenhouse to filter in, casting a warm, intimate glow throughout the room.
The dim lighting is just perfect, allowing you to see each other's features clearly while maintaining an air of mystery.
Inside, there's a wooden countertop that comes to your hips, and you find yourself leaning back against it as Sonny faces you. His hands begin to roam up and down your waist, his touch both possessive and tender.
Sonny’s eyes flicker with lust and a deep sense of ownership, making your heart race with anticipation. You close your eyes, surrendering to the sensations, feeling your arousal grow with each passing moment.
"Take it off," you whisper, gesturing to your thick mink coat. "Take it all off."
Sonny nods, unable to form words in his state of heightened desire. He helps you shrug off the coat, setting it gently over the countertop behind you.
Sonny’s eyes roam over your supple, soft skin and the delicate fabric of your nightgown, taking in every curve and contour with a hunger that makes your breath catch in your throat.
You gaze back at Sonny expectantly, your eyes half-open and dazed with desire. He wastes no time in slipping the dainty straps of your nightgown off your shoulders with a quick, fluid movement.
The nightgown falls from your body, pooling at your feet, leaving you exposed in only a pair of white, lacy panties and vulnerable in the soft, romantic light.
Sonny's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his breath hitching slightly. The tension between you is palpable, a mix of desire and anticipation that makes your knees feel weak.
You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the intensity of his gaze making your skin flush with a mix of curiosity and unease.
Sonny’s jaw is tight, his shoulders tense beneath his clothing, and you can sense the struggle he's having to hold back, to savor every moment of this intimate encounter.
The space between you seems to shrink with each passing second, the air thick with unspoken promises and unfulfilled desires.
You reach out, your hands trembling slightly as you touch his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt.
Sonny's eyes darken, and he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is both demanding and tender. You respond eagerly, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pull him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him against you.
The shed, with its dim, romantic lighting and the soft, flickering shadows, becomes a world unto itself, a place where nothing exists but the two of you and the intense, all-consuming passion that binds you together.
"You’re so beautiful," Sonny whispers, his voice barely audible as his hands begin to roam up and down your waist, his eyes flickering with possession and lust.
The intimacy of the moment is electric, and you can feel the weight of his gaze, a silent promise of more to come.
"Can I?" he asks, his voice low and husky, seeking your consent.
You blush, a shy smile playing on your lips as you nod. "Of course," you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.
A sly smirk grows on the corner of Sonny's lips as his hands move to your breasts, fondling them gently. For him, this act, which he has performed countless times with other women, is now a thousand times more euphoric and meaningful.
His touch is both reverent and hungry, a stark contrast to the casual encounters of his past.
You gasp softly, a tiny whimper escaping your lips as his fingers brush against your hardened nipples, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.
Sonny's eyes flicker up and down from your body back to your face, ensuring you are not only comfortable but just as willing as he is.
“I’m not sure what you think you’re hiding down there,” you let out a light giggle, gesturing to Sonny’s bulge poking through his trousers.
"Well," Sonny grins, beginning to unbuckle his belt, " it's all yours, y'know."
You bite your lip, watching as Sonny casually tosses off his leather jacket to the ground of the shed. He slips off his belt in a few quick movements and undoes the button of his black trousers.
It's then that you notice how pressing and tight the bulge in his briefs is, almost desperate to be freed.
Sonny grunts softly, which only sends a flare of arousal through your entire body even more.
His hands hook into the sides of his briefs, and with one swift movement, he pulls them down with his trousers to his ankles.
You gasp out loud, your face completely flushed red and heart thundering in your chest.
Standing half-naked in front of you with just a half-done-up, wrinkled dress shirt, suspenders on the floor, Sonny's throbbing, 10-inch cock's tip glistens with precum in the dim light, fully erect.
His shaft is girthy with two blue veins running over the top from what you can see.
The sight of him, so raw and primal, sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine, making your knees feel weak, and your arousal grow stronger with each passing second.
"Too much?" Sonny's eyes meet yours, searching for any sign of hesitation or discomfort.
You shake your head, a shaky breath escaping your lips. "Just perfect," you whisper, your voice barely audible, laced with a mix of anticipation and vulnerability.
Sonny chuckles, a low and teasing sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "But how is it…?" you blush as Sonny’s hands already move up to lift you up into his arms.
You gasp and squeal as Sonny easily straddles your thighs against his waist, the feel of his hard cock pressing against you, sending waves of pleasure through your body.
"I think you and I both know the answer to that question," Sonny says, his voice a low growl as he presses the tip of his cock against your soaked, white panties.
Your body shudders with arousal, the sensation almost too much to bear.
"You're already making a mess for yourself here," Sonny murmurs, his eyes dark with desire.
"Don't tease me," you groan, your voice laced with desperation. "I'm a virgin."
Sonny's expression softens, and he whispers, "It's alright," as he slowly peels your panties off, setting them atop his leather jacket on the ground. "I said I'd be gentle, didn't--"
But before he can finish his sentence, you shake your head, your eyes pleading. "Please, please just put it in me," you beg, your voice a whisper of need.
Sonny grins, his eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and desire. "Easy does it, sweetheart," he says, tapping the tip of his cock against your clit, which is enlarged with arousal.
You whimper, squirming against him, the sensation sending electric jolts of pleasure through your body.
Sonny licks his lips, noticing how your dewiness has smeared with his precum over his cock. "I'll come in nice and slow, and you tell me how you like it," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "We're gonna make a mess, but I don't care."
"I don't either," you whisper, your voice barely audible, laced with a mix of anticipation and surrender.
"So wet and ready for me already," Sonny growls, spreading your legs around his waist as far apart as he can.
The sound of your pussy lips parting is music to his ears, a promise of the pleasure to come.
As excited and aroused as you are, there's an equal measure of nervousness coursing through your veins.
You've explored your own body, teasing and pleasing yourself with masturbation time and time again, but those experiences were focused solely on clitoral orgasms—a familiar territory.
Now, standing on the brink of losing your virginity to a man like Sonny with a much larger than average cock, a mix of anticipation and anxiety swirls within you.
Every part of your body is thrilled at the prospect of taking every inch of Sonny in, your arousal begging for the sensation. Yet, in the back of your mind, a question lingers: ‘How will it fit? How will it feel, especially for the first time?’
His size, so impressive and almost erotically intimidating, sends a shiver of both excitement and apprehension down your spine.
Despite your nervousness, there's a voice in your head that soothes your fears. You trust Sonny, and in this moment of intense, steamy intimacy, you know that he cares more for your comfort and pleasure than anything else.
Sonny’s gentle touch, his attentive gaze, and the way he seeks your consent at every step reassure you that you are in safe hands.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. The dim light of the shed casts a warm, romantic glow, highlighting the curves of Sonny's body and the intensity in his eyes.
You can see the restraint Sonny's exercising, the way he's holding back, ensuring that this experience is as pleasurable and comfortable for you as possible.
As Sonny spreads your legs around his waist, you feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach. You can feel the tip of his cock pressing against you, the promise of what's to come sending electric jolts of anticipation through your body.
You look into Sonny's eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But all you see is desire, tempered with a deep sense of care and tenderness. You trust him, and that trust is your anchor, grounding you in this moment of vulnerability and excitement.
"Easy does it, sweetheart," Sonny murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your nerves. "I've got you. We'll take this slow, and you tell me how you like it." His words, laced with a mix of promise and reassurance, make you feel safe, cherished, and incredibly turned on.
You nod, a shaky breath escaping your lips. "I trust you," you whisper, your voice barely audible.
Sonny slowly begins to thrust the tip of his cock inside of you; his movements slow and deliberate, ensuring that you’re comfortable with every inch.
Sonny only pushes his cock inside of you slowly, and yet you already immediately feel full, your body stretching to accommodate his girth.
A shaky whimper escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and pleasure, as both of you watch his cock begin to fully enter your warmth.
Your body radiates with heat, arousal coursing through your veins, making your skin flush and your heart race.
Beads of sweat slowly begin to form on Sonny's forehead, a testament to the intensity of the moment and the effort he's putting into ensuring your comfort. He enters you slowly, only a few inches at a time, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.
Sonny’s thumb finds your clit, toying with it in hazy circles, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You gasp, your breath becoming shaky and ragged, a symphony of pleasure and anticipation.
You feel a burning sensation as your pussy slowly stretches, the barrier of your virginity giving way. The nerves in your clit, heightened by Sonny's touch, tease a faint orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, helping to ease any discomfort.
The sight of yourself, so full, taking in all of Sonny, sends a rush of passion through your veins, a mix of vulnerability and empowerment.
"Oh my god," Sonny grunts to himself, his voice laced with a mix of awe and desire. "That's only half of me, babe." You can feel the truth of his words, the promise of more, and it sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.
A loud, whiny moan escapes your lips as you clutch onto Sonny, your nails digging into his shoulder. You buck your hips down insistently, eager to take more of him in, wanting to feel every inch of him.
Sonny's eyes darken with desire, and he meets your movements, his hips thrusting forward in a slow, steady rhythm.
You can feel him stretching you, filling you, the sensation overwhelming and intoxicating. Your body adjusts to his size, the initial discomfort giving way to a deep, throbbing pleasure.
Now eight inches deep inside of you, you roll your eyes back in pleasure, the sensation overwhelming and intense.
"Good girl," Sonny praises, his voice a low growl as he leans down to kiss both of your breasts, his lips and tongue teasing your hardened nipples.
You let out a breathy moan, your body trembling with anticipation and desire. "More, more. Don't hold back," you plead, your voice laced with a mix of need and desperation.
Sonny grins, his eyes dark with lust, and he gives you a full, wet kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matches your own.
In one swift movement, he sheathes himself completely inside you, all ten inches filling you to the brim.
You let out a loud, half-shriek of a moan, the sound raw and primal, a testament to the pleasure coursing through your body. Sonny chuckles, amusement dancing in his eyes, clearly pleased with your reaction.
"Perfect fit," he breathes, Sonny’s voice a mix of awe and desire as he grips both of your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. "I wanna feel all of you on me."
His words send a shiver of anticipation down your spine, and you nod, your body already responding to his touch, eager for more.
Sonny begins to thrust in and out of you, his movements slow and deliberate at first, allowing you to adjust to the sensation of him filling you completely.
You have to clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the screams of pleasure that threaten to escape.
His cock fills you from all sides and angles, hitting sweet, weak spots inside of you that you didn't even know existed. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, the sensation so intense and euphoric that you feel like you might shatter into a million pieces.
If every single time you have sex feels like this with him, you know you will have to force yourself to quiet down, to hold back the screams of ecstasy that threaten to spill from your lips.
You can already feel the first waves of an orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, the sensation so overwhelming that you know you won't be able to last long.
The thought of having orgasm after orgasm, each one more intense than the last, from Sonny again and again, sends a thrill of anticipation through your body, making you cling to him even tighter, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lose yourself in the pleasure.
Sonny's rhythm inside of you is sensual and slow, each thrust deliberate and measured, allowing your body to become accustomed to the sensation of him filling you completely.
The initial discomfort has given way to a deep, throbbing pleasure, and you find yourself eager for more, your body craving every inch of him.
Sonny's cock slides in and out of you with a wet, slick sound, the friction sending electric jolts of pleasure through your body.
You can feel every ridge, every vein, as he moves inside you, the sensation overwhelming and intoxicating. Your hips rise to meet Sonny's, your movements matching his pace, a dance of desire and need.
Sonny's moans are raw and uninhibited, a primal sound that sends a shiver of excitement down your spine. He kisses you feverishly, his lips sloppy and wet, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matches your own.
Your bodies are pressed tightly together, the heat of his skin against yours, the sweat mixing and mingling, creating a slick, erotic friction.
You wrap your legs around Sonny's waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel him as close as possible. His hands roam over your body, touching, teasing, exploring every curve and contour.
You can feel Sonny's muscles tense and flex beneath your fingers, his power and strength making you feel safe and cherished.
The air is thick with the scent of sex, a heady, intoxicating aroma that only serves to heighten your senses.
Sonny's thrusts become more urgent, his hips moving faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
You can feel the tension building in your body, the pleasure coiling in the pit of your stomach, threatening to explode. You meet Sonny's thrusts with your own, your body moving in sync with his, a primal rhythm that speaks to the deepest, most primal parts of you.
His cock hits that sweet spot inside you, again and again, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body.
You can feel your inner muscles clenching around Sonny, trying to hold him deeper, to keep him inside you forever. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and possession that leaves you breathless and yearning for more.
“O-ooh!” The pleasure builds inside you, a coiling tension that threatens to explode.
Your body tenses, your inner muscles clenching around Sonny's cock, trying to hold him deeper, to keep him inside you forever. And then, with a sudden, overwhelming rush, your orgasm crashes over you, a wave of ecstasy that shakes through your entire body.
You let out a loud, shaky moan, the sound raw and uninhibited, as your toes curl and your legs shake around Sonny's hips.
The sensation is intense, a mix of pleasure and release that leaves you breathless and trembling.
Sonny moans into your mouth, his lips sloppy and wet, his tongue exploring yours with a hunger that matches your own.
Your bodies are pressed tightly together, the heat of his skin against yours, the sweat mixing and mingling, creating a slick, erotic friction.
Your orgasm, so strong and intense, coaxes Sonny's own release, pulling it from him with a force he can't resist. His intention was to pull out, to spare you the risk, but it's far too late. The pleasure is too overwhelming, too all-consuming, and he finds himself lost in the heavenly bliss of your body, unable to think of anything else.
Sonny grunts, a low, primal sound, as he cums deeply, spilling his seed inside you. He isn't focused on cumming inside of you as much as he is on slowing down his thrusts, seeing you pant almost from exhaustion of being fucked for ten minutes straight.
The thought of possible pregnancy or some sort of risk is nowhere near your mind, nor his, as you are both completely entranced by each other, lost in the pleasure each other's bodies provide.
By the time Sonny's thrusting comes to a slow stop, he's still got the entirety of his cock fully buried in you, his body shaking with the force of his release.
He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes locked on yours, a mix of awe, desire, and tenderness in his gaze. You meet Sonny’s gaze, your own eyes filled with a similar mix of emotions, the intensity of the moment leaving you both breathless and speechless.
The shed, with its dim, romantic lighting, casts a warm, intimate glow over your bodies, highlighting the sheen of sweat and the flush of arousal.
"Oh my god," you whimper, your voice barely audible as you attempt to catch your breath and stabilize yourself.
The intensity of the experience leaves you trembling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
Sonny chuckles, a low and teasing sound, and smirks, licking his lips as if savoring the taste of you. "I'm gonna be dreaming about this night for a long, long time," he murmurs, his voice laced with a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.
You blush, avoiding eye contact momentarily, a shy smile playing on your lips. "I just... wow... oh," you moan again quietly, glancing down to see Sonny's cock still buried inside of you.
The sight sends a shiver of pleasure and a twinge of discomfort through your body. "So full and sore and weak," you whisper, your voice laced with a mix of awe and vulnerability.
Sonny plants a gentle kiss on your forehead, his touch tender and soothing. "I took good care of you," he says, his voice a low rumble.
You let out a breathy giggle, a sound of pure happiness and contentment. "You did," you agree, your eyes meeting his, a mix of gratitude and adoration in your gaze. "That was.... something," you murmur, your voice trailing off as you try to find the words to describe the intensity of the experience.
Sonny gives you a wink, a playful glint in his eye. "I'd rather have you in a comfortable bed next time," he says, his voice a low promise. "But we make do."
"We do," you blush furiously, looking around the shed, your eyes wide with wonder.
Never did you think you would have sex here, let alone lose your virginity in such a place.
The shed, with its dim, romantic lighting and the soft, flickering shadows, has become a place of intimacy and passion, a memory you will cherish forever.
As Sonny slowly begins to pull out, you feel a mix of relief and loss, your body already missing the sensation of him inside you.
Sonny tilts your chin up to face him, his eyes searching yours with a mix of tenderness and intensity. He steals a sweet kiss from your lips, his touch gentle and soothing, a stark contrast to the passion that had consumed you both moments ago.
As Sonny pulls out abruptly, you whimper in surprise, the sensation sending a final shiver of pleasure through your body. You nod, your breath still coming in ragged gasps, the aftereffects of your intense encounter lingering in the air.
"And what if..." You begin, your voice a shy whisper as you bite your lip, holding back a smile. "I wanted more?"
Sonny raises a brow, a playful glint in his eye as he hands you your bra and panties, his movements slow and deliberate. "Oh?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "I think you're more than aware now that I can't say no to you."
You blush, your cheeks flushing a deep pink as you slowly begin to get dressed, your body still tingling and hot to the touch from the intensity of your orgasm and the euphoria of being with him.
"And we can't get caught either," you note back, your voice barely audible, laced with a mix of excitement and apprehension.
Sonny grunts, a sound of agreement and promise as he begins to get dressed. "Won't have to care about any of that soon enough, darling," he says, his voice a low growl, a promise of more to come. "I just couldn't resist stealing you away to have you for myself before that."
“What can you resist?” You giggle, fingers idly adjusting Sonny’s suspenders, more to feel him than to fix anything.
Sonny exhales a short laugh, still catching his breath, his grin slow and genuine. “Before I met you?” His shoulders lift slightly as if the answer amuses him. “Not a lot. But now… everything’s different.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks at the way he looks at you, like the world has narrowed to this single greenhouse, this single moment. The two of you stay quiet for a beat, breathing heavy, the lamps flickering around you as leaves sway faintly in the night air.
“How do you feel, sweetheart?” His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, the question sincere. Whatever else he’s wrestling with, your comfort still sits first.
“Good,” you admit, your voice soft and unsteady. “A little too good.”
“Yeah?” A low chuckle leaves him as his arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him without rushing. “Perfect.”
Sonny dips his head, pressing a warm kiss along your neck, just enough to make you shiver. It tickles more than he expects, and you can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes you. “Is this the part where I gotta make sure you get back into bed safe and sound,” he murmurs against your skin, “so I don’t get you in trouble?”
“Something like that,” you answer, arms tightening around him as if letting go might break the spell. “But I don’t want this to end.”
“It won’t.” He kisses your cheek, lingering there, unhurried. “Who says anything has to end?” Sonny's forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, his voice lowering into something steady and sure. “I’m gonna marry you, you know.” The words settle deep, warm, and grounding. “So you can live in this moment with me forever.”
Mafia Wife [Sonny Corleone x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter 6 – Giordano and Corleone.
Read on AO3 / Read Chapter 5 / Chapter Masterlist.
18+, explicit smut read.
“I don’t know what you think you’re suggesting, but I want none of it.” / “Do I have your blessing?”
As reckless, notorious and hot-headed as Sonny is, nothing about him tells you or him that what you both share between one another isn't real. Sonny takes the matters of his blossoming relationship with you seriously and to the next level, settling it once and for all. He has no intention on making you wait any longer or question his motives, but it appears that Sonny isn't the only one whose interested in courting you. Surrounded by dangerous men like this willing to throw a life of luxury at you, your life may just promise to turn upside down.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: Biiiig and lovely chapter update for this one!! 🥰❤️ Romance is sooo kicking off next chapter after this! Stay tuned! Please let me know if you want to be on any fic tagslist by commenting on a chapter or chapter masterlist of said fic. You will unfortunately need to redo this if you've changed your username :3 ❤️ If you enjoyed this chapter and my writing/works, you can tip me here on ko-fi if you’d like! You can also tip me via Paypal!
“The underboss’s wife”; that’s who you are, and the whispers of enemies, family and colleagues alike know it too. You’re no stranger to the underworld of crime surrounding you including the one run by the Corleone family’s underboss; Santino Corleone. The streets run red with blood and brutality under Santino’s influence but it’s Santino who feels hit by the thunderbolt at the very sight of you—pushing away his womanizing and notorious unfaithfulness. You unexpectedly find yourself in a position of power balancing your marriage with the fate of the Corleone’s family’s future whether it be through Santino’s infamous brutality or the love he finds amidst the man he claims to be.
If Santino Corleone’s life can be described in one way and one way only, it would be reckless. Sonny has made more reckless decisions in his life than not; fast fists, quick temper, and an even quicker turn of the head whenever a pretty girl walked past. But whatever is happening inside him now isn’t reckless. It isn’t impulsive.
Something is growing heavy in Sonny. It’s certain. It settles into him like instinct, like memory, like fate.
For the first time in his life, Sonny isn’t thinking about keeping things casual or temporary. He isn’t thinking about sneaking out of someone’s window before dawn or lying to save himself trouble. He isn’t even thinking about the thrill of the chase with as many girls as he can get.
He’s thinking about you.
Not just your laugh or the way your hand felt on his wrist while you bandaged Sonny. Not just the sweet way your voice softened when you teased him, or the shy glance you gave him when he brushed your hair back in the orchard.
Sonny’s thinking about you dressed in white, walking toward him. He’s thinking about children—yours and his dark-haired babies with your eyes and the Corleone smile. Sonny’s thinking about a future, not another one-night stand.
It scares him a little, but it thrills him more to know just how certain he is about what he wants.
The Giordanos aren’t just family friends. They’re old blood, just like the Corleones—families tied together by decades of alliances, business, and unspoken promises, even if they are just a few steps away from mafia family business involvement directly.
Sonny grew up hearing your father’s name spoken in the same breath as loyalty, integrity, and honor.
Francesco Giordano is a man no one crosses; not because they fear him or because he believes himself to be better than others, but because they respect and love him.
Francesco is a man who stands tall in every room he walks into. A man who raised his sons to be soldiers in spirit and his daughter to be unshakeable in grace. The Giordano name means stability, Respect, and Resilience.
And that makes Sonny even more certain.
Because you’re not just another beautiful face to Sonny—you’re the living embodiment of everything good that came out of your family.
You’re educated, gentle, perceptive, and brave in quiet ways Sonny has never met before. You don’t flutter around him with girlish fantasies or shallow flattery. You speak to him with your whole self—thoughtful, warm, curious, and grounded.
You’re the kind of woman men build empires for. The kind of woman they swear loyalty to without thinking twice. The type of woman Sonny never thought he deserved.
And while he isn’t possessive of you— Sonny doesn’t want to trap you or dim your light—he can’t fight the ache that rises whenever he imagines some other man touching your hand, courting you, asking your father for permission to take you to dinner.
Sonny doesn’t want to own you. He wants to choose you. Freely, fully, and forever. And he wants you to choose him back.
That’s why the idea of waiting makes Sonny restless. The idea of watching you walk through your garden in that soft pale dress and imagining another man stepping in to claim that future… it makes something in him twist tight and burn.
Not because Sonny wants to cage you—he knows you’re too alive, too bright for that.
But because you’re the first person he’s ever admired enough to dream of matching your life with his.
~~~
Your father, Francesco Giordano, grew up in a world where money and reputation are the only two languages anyone bothers to speak, and he learns early that mastering both is the only way an Italian man can rise in New York without losing his soul.
His grandfather leaves him several neighborhood banks—not enormous institutions, but dependable ones, the kind where middle-class Italian families keep their savings in battered envelopes and handwritten passbooks.
They are the kind of banks mothers trust, where fathers line up on Friday evenings with their pay stubs, where newlyweds open their first joint account with shy smiles, and where widows come in clutching letters in trembling hands. These banks are small, yes, but they are woven into the rhythm of the community, and they carry a name everyone recognizes: Giordano.
Francesco takes that inheritance and doesn’t squander a single ounce of its potential. He modernizes the offices, brings in young accountants who can handle the growing influx of deposits, and quietly cultivates relationships with every shopkeeper, every landlord, every parish priest who ever needs a loan or has a congregation full of people who might.
Francesco’s signature becomes synonymous with reliability—he never overcharges, never loses his temper, never treats a customer like they’re beneath him. And that earns Francesco something far rarer than wealth: steady, unwavering respect.
However, respect in the Italian-American community always comes with shadowed edges, and Francesco learns to navigate those as well. He grows up knowing that men like Vito Corleone don’t simply exist—they shape the city like tides shape the coastline. And while Francesco never wants the life of a mobster, he isn’t naïve enough to pretend that legitimate businesses can remain legitimate without forming alliances in the dark.
As Francesco’s banks grow, so does the need for “quiet understanding”: loans that move without paperwork, accounts that swell suspiciously overnight, deposits made in bundles of unmarked bills.
He never asks questions he doesn’t want answers to, and in return, the mafiosi—especially the Corleones—treat Francesco with courtesy. They trust him to handle money cleanly, discreetly, and without moral lectures. That trust keeps him protected; that trust keeps his banks thriving.
By the time Gabriella is a young woman, Francesco has built a reputation balanced perfectly between two worlds.
To the public, Francesco is an honest businessman—the kind newspapers praise as the backbone of the immigrant economy. To the men behind closed doors, he is dependable, loyal, and fair, the banker who can be counted on when the law must be bent or skirted entirely. It is a delicate empire built on discipline, timing, and the ability to keep his voice low when others shout.
And for all of it, Francesco does not see himself as powerful, only as responsible. Responsible for his family, for his employees, for the community that treats the Giordano name like a safe harbor.
Francesco does everything with care, everything with calculation—because he knows better than anyone that one misstep, one scandal or betrayal, can cost a man not only his livelihood but his life.
Francesco has spent his entire life balancing two worlds that rarely coexist peacefully — the clean, formal one of ledgers and banking halls, and the shadowed undercurrent of New York’s Italian underworld.
His business sits closest to the Corleone and Cuneo families; it always has. Both families protect his banks, even when their interests collide or their tempers flare, because Francesco’s name was grandfathered into respect long before the current bosses rose to power.
Every major family in the city knows the unwritten rule: you don’t touch Giordano’s institutions, and you don’t touch Giordano’s blood. That reverence isn’t born of fear or intimidation — it’s born of reputation.
Despite the influence at his fingertips, Francesco never carries himself like a man who moves money through two separate economies. He’s the sort who shakes hands firmly, looks a man in the eye, and keeps his word even when it costs him.
Francesco’s never been one to brag, nor the type to flaunt his connections. If anything, his restraint is the loudest proof of his status. He works harder than anyone beneath him, arrives before dawn, leaves well after dusk, and signs every document himself because he believes responsibility should never be delegated entirely.
Pressure never cracks Francesco. He’s lived through the olive-oil wars, the early Pacification street battles, the Depression, and the quiet devastation of losing his then-almost daughter-in-law Elena, yet he stands tall every day as if life has simply asked him to prove himself once more.
Francesco’s loyalty to his family is absolute. His principles outshine money, and he’d burn every dollar he’s earned before compromising those values.
To many men, power is the end goal. For Francesco, power is merely the byproduct of doing right by the people he loves. That — more than the banks, more than the influence — is what makes him a true family man in a world constantly trying to test how far one man’s integrity can stretch.
Your mother, Rosa De Luca, entered Francesco’s life like a sun-lit breeze off the Long Island coast — soft, cultured, and carrying with her the unmistakable scent of privilege and refinement.
Born into a family of well-connected socialites, Rosa grows up in a world where dinner tables glitter with crystal stemware, French art critics mingle with wealthy investors, and the value of a last name often outweighs the value of a dollar.
Her parents have built their fortune not through labor or trade, but through connections — investing in ventures simply because they knew the right man at the right table.
Unlike most daughters raised in such circles, Rosa is not vain or idle. She becomes fascinated with art and nature early in life, developing a softness of spirit that sets her apart from the sharper, competitive debutantes she grows up with.
Her parents send her to a private art school for two years, where she studies portraiture, florals, and color theory; the discipline refines her eye and deepens her appreciation for beauty, shaping a woman who sees the world with surprising sincerity.
Rosa’s charm, however, is what truly propels her through New York society. Rosa is one of those rare women who could speak to a senator’s wife about the Metropolitan Opera one moment and kneel in a garden soil bed with neighborhood children the next.
She becomes a social favorite, someone who can be invited to any gathering and make the room kinder simply by being there. That charm eventually lays the groundwork for her family’s investment ties with the Giordano family, whose banking ventures are becoming increasingly influential among middle-class Italian immigrants across the city.
Through these social and financial connections, Rosa is introduced to the Giordanos during an evening function—an elegant spring gathering filled with champagne flutes, string quartets, and businessmen discussing the changing landscape of New York finance.
Francesco falls for Rosa De Luca in a way that feels almost fated. From the first moment he sees her in 1912 at an autumn garden party hosted by one of Long Island’s old families, he is struck by a combination he has never witnessed in a woman before: sharp intelligence wrapped in effortless charm, a quiet confidence softened by an artist’s soul.
Francesco notices her immediately, though not for her beauty alone. What captures him is her sincerity, her ability to listen rather than simply wait to speak, her curiosity about his work rather than the superficial prestige of it.
She laughs easily but never foolishly, listens closely but never blindly. Rosa, for her part, is accustomed to men with polished shoes and polished lies — men who boast about their fathers’ fortunes, men who name-drop as a form of currency, men who want a pretty wife to hang on their arm like a family heirloom.
Francesco is different in every possible way. He is grounded, self-made, principled, and incapable of pretending to be anything other than what he is. Where other men puff their chests, he humbly introduces himself.
Where other men try to impress her with stories of Europe or expensive trips, he talks about his grandfather’s small banks, his work ethic, his hopes for the future, and his respect for the people who raised him. Rosa, who rarely finds herself impressed, feels something shift inside her that day.
Rosa asks him questions few women ever bother to ask: how he balances loyalty to his community with the strain of business, whether he believes money is a tool or a burden, and whether he has a dream beyond the walls of his inherited banks. She speaks to him like she sees a man, not just an opportunity. It disarms him. And it stays with him.
Their courtship unfolds in measured steps — long walks, shared conversations, Rosa visiting the Giordano home, and winning over Francesco’s mother with her grace and warmth.
Their romance doesn’t erupt — it grows. Slowly. Patiently. Thoughtfully. They begin not as lovers, but as friends who sink into hours-long discussions about art, economics, family, and the future of the Italian community in America.
Rosa finds herself charmed by Francesco’s honesty; he never tells her what he thinks she wants to hear, only what he truly believes. He, in turn, admires her depth — she is a woman raised in privilege, yet she shows none of the arrogance that often comes with it.
Instead, Rosa carries herself with an almost old-world grace and a curiosity about people that makes her irresistibly warm. Their courtship becomes something their families speak of fondly for months: the banker’s grandson and the socialite’s daughter walking the long piers at sunset, attending charity luncheons, exchanging letters whenever work keeps them apart, and never once rushing themselves into a future they both quietly yearn for.
By 1914, the admiration between them becomes something deeper, something steady and undeniable. They marry quietly but beautifully, surrounded by the wealth of Rosa’s connections and the pride of the Giordano family.
By the time Francesco proposes that same year, Rosa is certain — certain — that she has found the only man she could ever marry.
She is just eighteen when she walks down the aisle, glowing with youth and confidence and a kind of radiant joy that softens even the sternest older relatives who initially doubted the pairing.
Their wedding is elegant but not extravagant; Rosa insists upon intimacy rather than ostentation, choosing candles, lace, and soft string music over lavish displays. When she gives birth to their first child a year later at nineteen, their bond only strengthens, solidifying into a lifelong partnership built on respect, devotion, and a shared sense of purpose.
In ways that neither of them fully understands yet, their marriage becomes the blending of two worlds: Rosa’s refinement and social power, and Francesco’s discipline, integrity, and unshakable devotion to family.
Before motherhood takes precedence, Rosa teaches part-time at the same private fine arts school for women where she once studied — a gentle position she adores, surrounded by canvases, color palettes, and young women eager to create.
She reluctantly steps away from teaching once she becomes pregnant and remains dedicated to her children until 1936, when her youngest — the twin daughters — turn fifteen and no longer cling to her skirts.
Only then does she return to teaching a few scheduled classes. Today, your mother no longer teaches full semesters. Instead, she hosts specialized, high-priced workshops and private lessons that young socialite women covet, using her reputation, talent, and status to maintain an esteemed professional life while still prioritizing her grandchildren above all else.
Rosa is the matriarch of the Giordano home — elegant, cultured, affectionate, and fiercely protective — the quiet backbone of Francesco’s world and the origin of everything refined and artistic in the Giordano daughters.
Sonny thinks about both of your parents—how fiercely they protect blood. How much they buried when Elena died, and Sonny knows the stakes because of that.
If Sonny wants a chance with you, he’ll have to face your father like a man—with humility, with honesty, with respect. Sonny will have to show Francesco that he’s not some careless underboss who’ll drag you into gunfire and grief. He’ll have to prove that his love for you isn’t the fleeting spark of a Corleone hothead… …but something steady. Something lifelong and Something real.
And Sonny, for the first time in his entire life, wants to prove it.
~~~
[ Giordano Estate ]
Casio’s voice bursts through the receiver the moment you lift it to your ear, the way only an older brother who thinks the world should spin to his rhythm manages to do after weeks of sending letters to the family estate out of excitement, hinting at a “surprise”.
“Gabriellina!” Casio’s booms, a soft Sicilian warmth rolling through the line even from an ocean away. “Guess who is now—officially, proudly, and magnificently—Harvard-educated, and early?”
You laugh despite yourself, sinking into the armchair near the window of the Giordano estate’s sitting room. “You called just to brag?”
Casio scoffs dramatically on the other end. “Just to brag? I graduate this year, Gabriella. Harvard Law. Do you know how many men in Trapani will choke on their espresso when they hear it? This degree is a form of terror to them.”
“That’s very inspirational, Casio.” You giggle back. “Earliest in your class, too, hmm?”
He laughs again, deeper this time, clearly pleased with himself. Casio always has that effect—equal parts charming and impossible, wrapping sincerity and menace into a single breath.
Casio is the third son, but the one who carved out his identity the fastest. The only Giordano child to be born in Sicily during a long family visit, Casio never let anyone forget it. Sicily shaped him, sharpened him, and fed his ego as much as it fed his ambition.
Even now, while you sit safely in New York, you can picture Casio pacing through the stone courtyard of his Trapani villa, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, tailored suit still immaculate despite the hour because Casio Giordano never allowed himself to be seen otherwise.
Handsome, polished, and mannered—yet beneath that outward sophistication lies the same cruelty he inherited from Sicilian street politics. He wears refinement like a tailored coat, but when he wishes to, Casio can remove it in one swift motion and reveal the brute beneath.
“So,” Casio continues with satisfied pride, “you can tell everyone your brother is going to be one of the most powerful business lawyers in America.”
“And Sicily,” you add teasingly.
“Naturally, Sicily,” Casio agrees. “Half the island already knows me. This is official!”
You roll your eyes, smiling as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You sound unbearable right now.”
“Unbearable? Little sister, I’m a Giordano. We invented unbearable.” He pauses before lowering his voice, that signature dangerous softness slipping in. “And speaking of us… Uh, is everyone well at home?”
“We’re just fine,” you reply. “Mamma’s preparing for a visit. Papà’s in a meeting. You know how it goes.”
“And you?” Casio asks with a tone that sharpens, probing. “Keeping busy, eh?”
“Something like that,” you say, relaxing back. “I’ve been painting, helping Mamma with the garden plans, and—”
“And,” Casio cuts in, sly amusement dripping from his voice, “spending time with… who was it? I heard something from Trapani, you know. Our neighbors’ daughter in Palermo mentioned seeing you with a Corleone on a motorcycle.”
Your heart jumps so hard you nearly drop the receiver.
Of course, news traveled. Of course, Casio heard something—one whisper traveling across oceans would eventually crawl its way into his ear because nothing in this family stays hidden for long.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, horribly and unconvincingly.
Casio hums, low and amused, like a lion circling prey. “Mm. You do. And don’t worry, Gabriellina, I won’t interrogate you. Not today, at least. Today I’m basking in my glory.”
“That’s a first,” you mutter under your breath.
He hears it and laughs, loud and delighted. “Be happy for me, Sorellina.”
“I am,” you say honestly, because you truly are. “Congratulations, Casio. Really.”
There’s a moment where his bravado softens, just briefly, the way it only ever does with family. “Thank you, little sis. You know I’ll come home soon. Mamma wants a big dinner, and Papà wants to talk business. But mostly—mostly, I want to see you.”
Your chest warms. As ruthless as Casio can be with his teasing and boasting, he’s always been fiercely loyal to you. Protective in a way that could either save your life or burn the world down around you.
“When are you visiting?” You ask.
“In two weeks,” he says. “So behave until I get home. No trouble. No secrets.” He pauses, voice dipping knowingly. “And beware the handsome men on motorcycles.”
“I’ll try.” You bite your lip, cheeks warming. “Goodbye, Casio.”
“Ciao, Gabriellina. Don’t forget to tell Papà I called.”
You hang up, heart fluttering from his attention, his pride, and—more nervously—his suspicion.
It’s not Casio you’re worried about, as if anything, he’ll just want to vet Sonny and reach out to his contacts in Sicily first before trusting anyone else’s word, but if Romeo ever found out about Sonny Corleone, the entire East Coast might feel the tremor.
You set the receiver back into its cradle and exhale, feeling oddly proud of Casio despite the trail of bruised egos and broken men he leaves behind in Sicily.
Harvard Law. Business specialization. A dangerous mind sharpened even further. Casio always finds a way to astonish.
You turn toward the sitting room—and freeze.
The front door is open just a few inches, pushed in casually as though the house belonged to whoever stepped inside. Light from the foyer slants across the polished floor, and then a tall figure strolls in with all the arrogance of a man who has never once been told “no” in his life.
Emilio Barzini.
His stride is smooth, shoulders relaxed, a faint smirk already set on his mouth as though he’s arriving at a party thrown in his own honor.
Emilio doesn’t knock, doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t even look around to see if he’s intruding. He walks in like he’s always had the right.
‘Of course, ’ you think, stomach tightening.
These are the guests your mother has been anticipating. If the Barzinis are here, your father is no doubt in his office entertaining the senior men. But Emilio—young, ambitious, and far too bold—is here alone.
“Gabriella,” he says warmly, as though he’s greeting an old friend rather than stepping uninvited into your home. Emilio’s eyes flick over you with a strange combination of interest and appraisal. “Long time.”
You straighten instinctively, spine tall, chin lifting a fraction. The polite hostess act stays rooted firmly behind your ribs; all you offer him is caution.
“Why are you here?” Your voice is level, but your fingers curl slightly at your sides. “And why are you walking into my home without being announced?”
Emilio spreads his hands lightly, that smirk widening. “Why wouldn’t I be here? I’m a guest. Your mother welcomed my family. Doors tend to stay open for us.”
“No one told me you would be coming.” You state back, unamused.
“That was intentional.” Emilio steps closer, invading just enough space to hint at his confidence but not close enough to touch you. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“That you did,” you say, the edge of sarcasm slipping through despite your best effort at restraint. “But why?”
Emilio tilts his head at you like a man who can’t quite understand why his intentions aren’t being accepted with gratitude. “What do you mean, ‘why’? I want to see more of you, Gabriella.”
“No.” The refusal is immediate, sharp, instinctive. “I don’t know what you think you’re suggesting, but I want none of it.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his features, then something else—something too close to entitlement. “You don’t know what you want,” Emilio replies, voice low, coaxing, as if he thinks this line has worked on other women before.
You take a step back. “I know exactly what I want. And it isn’t you, it isn’t anything to do with you.”
He laughs, soft and patronizing, which only makes your pulse spike in irritation. “You’re spirited. I like that.”
“You’re not hearing me.” You narrow your eyes. “You should have picked up the hint between us back at the greenhouse.”
“Oh, I hear you,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean I believe you. I do like the sound of ‘between us’, though.”
What neither of you know—what Emilio fails to realize while he performs this arrogant little dance—is that someone else is within earshot.
Romeo stands just around the corner in the hallway, half-shrouded in shadow, hands curled into fists so tight the knuckles strain white. His breath comes slowly and controlled like a man fighting instinct.
Romeo recognizes Emilio’s voice instantly. He knows that tone—the same oily confidence the Barzini men wear like cologne. And Romeo has never been fond of Emilio, let alone any other mafia man—especially not now, especially not with the way the bastard is looking at you.
His chest tightens, a protective fury rising so quickly it’s dizzying. Romeo listens, torn between barging in and snapping Emilio’s neck against the nearest wall, or waiting for the right moment to intervene without embarrassing you in front of the company.
But every word from Emilio makes the decision harder.
You stand your ground with all the fire of your parents combined. Emilio stands there with all the entitlement of his family’s name, and Romeo feels himself losing patience by the second.
He leans forward slightly, hand already sliding toward the pocket where he keeps his switchblade, just in case this conversation crosses a line.
And knowing Emilio? It’s about to.
Emilio tsks lightly. “You don’t know what you want, Gabriella. That’s the thing.”
“Yes, I do,” you fire back. “I said no.”
Emilio keeps advancing, warming to his own delusions. “Since the day I saw you painting in that greenhouse, I’ve already spoken with my father. I want to court you.”
You stare at him, horrified and insulted in equal measure. “You want to court me? You barely know me.”
“These things take time,” Emilio insists. “How can I make you trust me when you refuse to see me?”
“Why don’t you take no for an answer?” You snap. “You want a relationship with me? It’s one-sided. You’re the only one who wants this.”
Emilio rolls his eyes in frustration, stepping closer until you instinctively lean back. “I’ll decide who wants what,” he mutters. “I’ll talk to your father today. It doesn’t have to be a secret.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” You tell him firmly. “My word is final. And if you think my family will change the answer for you, you’re wrong.”
That touches a nerve. Emilio’s face twists.
“There must be something wrong with you,” Emilio says, jaw tightening. “If you see something in that street, gigolo and his motorcycle instead of someone like me. Think about your family’s reputation.”
“You’re delusional,” you hiss back.
Romeo’s entire body stiffens where he stands, his fist curling so tightly that his knuckles crack. He watches Emilio lift a hand toward your cheek — slow, possessive, claiming something that was never his.
The moment Emilio’s fingertips are a breath away from your skin, Romeo steps out from around the corner at that exact moment.
“If you touch her,” Romeo growls, his voice low, cold, and deadly steady, “I will break your fucking hand.”
Emilio jerks back in shock, the color draining slightly from his face. And for the first time since he walked in, you feel the tension in your chest loosen — because Romeo looks ready to kill.
Romeo moves in like a shadow at the end of the hallway, silent and razor-still, the way only a man who has seen too much violence too young can be.
He’s the second-born son, the one who never fully came back from 1934 when Elena died in his arms on a rain-slick street during the Olive Oil War.
Romeo never remarried, never even pretended to try. His grief calcified, and from it grew a man who protects his family with a cold, surgical precision that unnerves even other men in the life. He may not speak of Elena anymore, but every instinct he has toward Gabriella is shaped by the hole her death left inside him.
That instinct becomes a live wire the moment he hears Emilio Barzini’s voice drifting from the sitting room.
Emilio turns only when Romeo’s shadow overtakes the room. Romeo doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to. He simply walks forward until he stands between them, expression carved from stone.
Emilio freezes for a beat, then forces a smirk, lifting his brows in mock surprise. “Oh? We’ve got an eavesdropper.”
Romeo doesn’t blink. “It is my right to hear everything.”
“How much is everything?” Emilio asks, though his bravado is straining now.
Romeo’s stare doesn’t waver. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Emilio. When are you going to learn that?”
Emilio scoffs, crossing his arms. “I can’t have a moment of privacy with Gabriella?”
Romeo gestures toward Gabriella with a tilt of his head. “Why are you asking me? She’s right there, and I heard her tell you no.”
Emilio’s jaw tightens, and the smile drops. “You’ve got other things to worry about,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “Your little sister here is messing around with Santino Corleone. Don’t you think she should be with a respectable man?”
“As if you’re that man?” Romeo replies with sharp, disgusted clarity. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge the mention of Sonny. “You’re a made man who wears danger like cologne. There is no way in hell I’d ever let you near my sister.”
Emilio steps closer, jaw set. “What are you going to do about it?”
Romeo doesn’t hesitate. He moves forward until their faces are inches apart, voice dropping low enough that even the walls seem to hold still.
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
Emilio’s throat bobs. He glances once at Gabriella, back at Romeo, and realizes—slowly—that he is in the wrong house, facing the wrong man, and pushing the wrong woman. His bravado wavers.
“It is,” Romeo says, stepping forward again, forcing him back further. “Get out.”
Emilio leaves with one last glare in Gabriella’s direction, then disappears down the hallway toward the front of the estate.
Silence falls in his wake.
Romeo stays where he is, breathing hard through his nose, fists clenched. Gabriella looks at him—relieved, shaken, and grateful all at once. Her brother finally turns toward her, softening.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
You nod, crossing your arms. “Yeah.”
Romeo stares toward the door Emilio exited through, voice low and simmering. “I’m not letting him—or anyone like him—close to you again. He’s not supposed to be here.”
“His father is,” you murmur to yourself, “and nobody’s told me a thing.”
“No, he isn’t.” Romeo furrows his brow in confusion. “Emilio came by himself. His family isn’t the one visiting.”
“What?” You blink, “then who?”
“The Corleones,” Romeo answers as you feel your heart sink into your stomach, swarming with butterflies. “They’re moving to the Corleone mall in Long Beach this week. They’ve come here to speak with Father.”
“Oh.”
Romeo studies you in silence, the words he just delivered—The Corleones—still hanging in the air like smoke.
You can feel your entire body react at the sound of Santino’s name. It’s in the way your shoulders lift, the faint but unmistakable spark in your eyes, the breath you didn’t mean to hold. And Romeo sees it. He sees all of it.
A slow, knowing heaviness settles across his expression as he folds his arms. “Gabriella,” he says quietly, “you’re seeing Santino Corleone, aren’t you? Like that bastard said?”
You hesitate, because saying it aloud feels like stepping over a threshold you can never retreat from. But lying to Romeo isn’t just impossible—it’s pointless. So you nod, your voice soft. “Yes… But it’s not just that.”
Romeo lifts an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”
Your heart climbs right into your throat. You swallow, pulse pounding, and force the truth out before you can talk yourself out of it. “I think I’m in love with him.”
The reaction isn’t dramatic. There’s no outburst, no lecturing tone, no attempt to scold you. Romeo simply stands there, staring at you with an expression that balances between heartbreak and dread.
Romeo barely knows Sonny personally, but he knows what Sonny is. Underboss. Heir. A man shaped by violence and responsibility. A man who carries danger in his pockets like spare change, and Romeo has lived long enough to recognize the pattern.
A man with a life like Santino’s doesn’t accidentally bring death to a woman he loves—danger follows him like a shadow, and sometimes, as with Elena, it strikes without warning.
“Gabriella…” Romeo begins carefully.
You step in before he can continue, lifting your hand slightly. “I don’t want to be lectured, Romeo.”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand. “I’m not going to lecture you. You’re not a child; you’re a grown woman. You can make your own choices. I’m just—” He pauses, searching for the right words, his voice quieter when he finds them. “—I’m your older brother. And I worry because I know exactly what comes with a man like Santino.”
You don’t respond, but you don’t have to. The concern in his face tells you he knows you’re listening.
Romeo shifts, leaning a shoulder against the wall, his voice low. “I know you care for him. I can see it. I can hear it in the way you talk. But loving a Corleone isn’t the same as loving a banker or an artist or any other man in the world. You’re stepping into something dangerous. Something that doesn’t forgive mistakes.”
“I know what his life is,” you murmured back.
“Then you know what I’m asking.” Romeo’s tone gentles, but the edge of fear remains. “If you’re in love with this man… do you want to be his wife? Do you want to tie your life to someone who could get you killed without even trying?”
Your throat tightens. “Let me decide that.”
Romeo knows when you’ve closed a door in a conversation; he’s known you since birth. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to force your hand. Instead, he steps closer, resting a hand on your shoulder with a gentleness he rarely shows anyone.
“I will,” he says. “It’s your future, and you’re the only one who can choose it.” His voice lowers, darkening into something that feels like a vow etched into stone. “But understand me, Gabriella. If something happens to you because of him—if Santino Corleone puts you in the ground, even by accident—then I will decide something too.”
Your breath catches.
Romeo’s eyes harden into the same steel you’ve seen only a few times in your life. “If you die because of him, I’ll make sure Santino doesn’t live long enough to regret it.”
The room falls silent. Not threatening—protective. Terrifying in its sincerity.
Romeo pulls you into a brief, fierce embrace, one hand cradling the back of your head the way he used to when you were little. “I just want you safe,” he murmurs. “Safer than Elena ever got to be.”
And when he pulls back, there’s no anger left—only fear… and the unmistakable love of an older brother who would burn down New York to keep you breathing.
~~~
The Giordano estate is unusually still when Sonny Corleone arrives dressed in a charcoal suit and a matching tie, his curly hair combed out neatly more than anyone has seen it.
Sonny comes alone — without Tom, without Clemenza, without bodyguards trailing behind him. That alone tells anyone knowing of his visit that he’s serious about handling this for himself. A Corleone rarely travels without protection, yet Sonny walks up the front steps as if nothing in the world could touch him.
You’re halfway down the second-floor hallway when you hear the butler greet him and escort Sonny toward your father’s office.
Curiosity gets the best of you. You slip into the shadows near the far end of the hallway, where the sconces don’t quite reach, and watch through the railing as Sonny is ushered inside. The heavy doors close with a solid, final sound.
Your heart is pounding. You wait until the butler is out of sight, then hurry barefoot across the hallway, careful not to make a sound. You press your ear gently against the polished mahogany door, hands trembling against the doorknob.
Inside, your father greets Sonny warmly but with the authority of a man who has survived wars, banks, and betrayals.
“Sonny,” Francesco says, rising from behind his desk and offering his hand. “It’s good to see you. How is your father doing today?”
Sonny’s voice is steady. “He’s doing well, thanks.”
“And speaking of,” Francesco says as he sits back down, “he did not accompany you today?”
“No,” Sonny answers. “He knows about my meeting with you today, but I came to you directly. Man to man.”
“Man to man,” Francesco repeats with a small, amused huff. “Very well. Would you like a drink?”
“I would,” Sonny replies.
You hear the clink of glass, the soft glug of the bottle as your father pours. Anisette — the sweet smell of it drifts faintly through the cracks of the door.
Francesco hands Sonny a glass and says, “I know you’re here because of Gabriella.”
“For Gabriella,” Sonny corrects immediately.
Your heart ricochets inside your chest. You lean closer, breath held.
“I’m here to ask for her hand in marriage,” Sonny says.
There’s a pause — a full, stunned beat — where even the air in the room seems to hesitate.
Francesco blinks, almost stunned. “You want to marry my daughter?” Francesco asks, turning the words over carefully, as if weighing them for cracks.
“Yes,” Sonny replies. No stutter. No doubt. No hesitation.
“And is she aware of this?” Francesco asks, settling into the leather chair behind his desk.
“She will be,” Sonny says, “when I get down on one knee and ask.”
You cover your mouth with your hand. You have to. You feel your knees wobble.
Francesco chuckles under his breath, taking a slow sip of the anisette. “I admire your straightforwardness, Sonny. You don’t want to make this a business meeting — I understand that.”
“It’s personal,” Sonny answers. “Everything between Gabriella and me is personal.”
“It hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Francesco says. “I’m glad you came to me sooner rather than later. You’re not the first man to take an interest in her, but you might be the last. Gabriella has never shown interest in other… suitors. You’re a different story.”
You feel warmth bloom in your chest. You didn’t know your father paid such close attention.
“But you’re also a gangster,” Francesco continues. His tone shifts — not hostile, but sharp. A father’s blade hidden inside velvet. “So, tell me, heir of Don Corleone… why should I let my daughter marry a dangerous man like you?”
There is a silence thick enough to crush the air in the hallway.
Then Sonny answers — voice steady, low, and sincere, sounding more like a man than he ever has in his life.
“I’m dangerous to everyone except her.”
You swallow hard, heart hammering against the door.
“I was born into this life,” Sonny says. “I didn’t choose it, but I work in it. I can’t pretend otherwise. I support my family. But Gabriella brings out something in me I’ve never had before. I’m not here to own her. I’m not here to trap her. I’m here because I want her for the rest of my life. I want a wife. Her. I want children with her. I want to build a family, and one that lasts.”
Francesco is silent again — the kind of silence that comes from being genuinely struck by a man’s truth.
“And I’ll protect her with my life,” Sonny finishes quietly. “Whether she says yes or no, whether you approve or not — that will never change.”
Your father lets out a slow breath, the sound of a man who knows the stakes of this conversation better than most.
“Sonny…” he begins, voice deepened by memory and fear, “I buried my son, Romeo, over something like this, and he’s still alive. I saw what this life did to the woman he loved, and I saw him die a thousand times in his mind every day following that.”
“Elena,” Sonny says respectfully, understanding the gravity.
“Yes,” Francesco replies. “Elena. I will not bury another child because of a man’s enemies.”
“I would die before I let that happen,” Sonny answers, firm. “And I want you to know that from my own mouth, not my father’s.”
There’s a long quiet — the deciding kind, the breath before a verdict.
“I appreciate your honesty,” Francesco says finally. “But you know this cannot be taken lightly. Gabriella is not a girl anymore. She’s my daughter. My heart. If you want to marry her, if you want my blessing, you will have to prove to me that you can keep her safe — and keep her happy — in a world that swallows women whole.”
“I know,” Sonny says. “I’m ready to prove it.”
And in the hallway, pressed against the wood, you feel tears prick the corners of your eyes — because no man has ever fought for you like this. Not like him. Not like Sonny.
Francesco studies Sonny closely, fingers drumming once against the rim of his glass, waiting for the younger man to explain how he imagines protecting a woman like you while belonging to a world soaked in danger.
Sonny straightens his shoulders, smoothing a palm over his tie with the kind of anxious confidence only a man in love can produce. “By being honest with you,” he begins, voice steady as he takes a sip of his drink. “My family and I are moving into the Corleone Mall compound this week. It’s a closed circle—only our homes, no outsiders. Top-of-the-line security, twenty-four-hour guards, reinforced fencing. Every inch of it is built with protection in mind. One of the estates there… I want to share it with Gabriella. I want it to be our home.”
Francesco raises an eyebrow but says nothing, letting him continue.
“She’ll be cared for better than you know,” Sonny promises. “And I won’t take anything away from her—the things she loves, the things that make her who she is. Her art, her work, her independence. She’ll have an escort with her wherever she goes, discreet, invisible unless needed. She won’t lose her freedom to be herself.” He pauses, just long enough to show sincerity, then adds, “And as my father-in-law, the same protection extends to you and your family. If you ever needed anything, anything at all, you’d weigh my name and my father’s behind you. With respect, sir… I won’t deprive you of your daughter. I want to bring your family closer to mine.”
Francesco leans back in his leather chair, absorbing every word with a thoughtful seriousness.
“My father is prepared to negotiate business with you,” Sonny continues, “but this—” he gestures between them “—this isn’t business for me. Still, I want to offer a dowry worthy of Gabriella.”
Francesco’s lips pull into the faintest hint of a smile, amused and curious. “And that is?”
“A million dollars in cash,” Sonny answers without flinching. “For her alone. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of gold and diamond jewelry. Her own private estate in the compound. I want to build her a greenhouse too, something beautiful, better than anything she’s worked in before. And I want her to have the finest cars—a brand-new Cadillac and a chauffeur she can trust. My family will cover every expense of the wedding. All of it.”
For the first time, Francesco looks genuinely taken aback, the kind of surprise that comes not from greed but from recognizing earnest devotion in a man he expected to be reckless.
He takes a slow sip of his anisette, savoring the warmth before speaking. “I see,” he says quietly. “That is indeed worthy.”
“Do I have your blessing?” Sonny asks, his voice lower now, but firmer. It is not the voice of the hot-headed underboss so many men fear—it is the voice of a man who knows exactly what and who he wants.
Francesco holds his silence for a moment, simply watching him. He studies the conviction in Sonny’s eyes, the sincerity in his posture, the unusual tenderness in his tone when speaking about you. And he recognizes something familiar—something he once felt when he first courted Rosa.
At last, he nods. “You do. But,” Francesco continues, his tone warming into something almost mischievous, “I think we should tell Gabriella that as well.” He pauses, glancing toward the office door with an amused glint. “In fact…” He chuckles under his breath. “I believe she’s just right outside.”
Your heart leaps into your throat.
You scramble back from the door as silently as you can, but the moment you take your second step, the office handle turns. The door swings open, and Sonny fills the doorway—broad shoulders, perfect suit, deep brown eyes locking instantly onto yours.
You freeze. Sonny’s expression softens into something radiant, something unmistakably yours.
Your heart skips a full beat. Then another. Your eyes are wide like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, and the heat that rushes to your cheeks could warm the whole hallway.
Sonny’s expression softens immediately. That brash, swaggering confidence you overheard just moments ago melts into something warmer, something meant only for you.
“You were listening,” he says quietly, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. It’s not accusatory. It’s not annoying. If anything, he sounds almost pleased.
Your lips part, but no words come out at first, and that only makes his grin widen.
Francesco steps up behind him in the doorway, folding his hands behind his back. His voice is calm but amused. “Come inside, Gabriella. Since you’ve heard everything already, you might as well join us.”
Your father’s tone only makes the embarrassment worse, but you obey, stepping into the room as Sonny moves aside to make space for you.
Your pulse ricochets through your ribs as you look between the two men — your father composed in his chair, and Sonny standing tall beside the desk, handsome and devastating in his dark suit.
“Hi,” you manage, your voice soft.
Francesco gestures to the empty chair beside Sonny’s, still chuckling. “Hi, sweetheart. Have a seat.”
You do, smoothing your dress over your knees, unable to meet Sonny’s eyes for a moment because if you do, you know you’ll forget how to breathe.
“I assume you’ve heard everything Sonny has said,” Francesco begins, watching you closely. “That’s quite all right.”
You nod. “I… yes, I did.”
Sonny doesn’t wait for permission — he turns toward you, eyes locked fully on your face now that the truth is out in the open. “Then you know why I’m here,” he says, voice low but steady. “I want to marry you. And I meant every damn word I just said to your father.”
Your breath catches. Hearing it directly — not through a door, not muffled by oak and distance — but from his mouth to your ears, hits you like a warm rush of wind.
Francesco clears his throat. “Gabriella,” he says gently, “this is your choice. I gave my blessing. But nothing happens unless you want it.”
The room goes quiet. Sonny’s jaw is tight, but not from anger — from anticipation. He’s standing so still, as if any sudden movement might scare you off. For the first time, the fiery, explosive heir to the Corleone throne looks… hopeful.
“Do you want this?” Francesco asks again. “Do you want him?”
You finally lift your eyes to Sonny. He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world — not a possession, not a prize, but a future he’s already imagined a hundred times over. You see the sincerity in his expression, the weight of every promise he made laid bare.
Your voice trembles, but the truth steadies it.
“Yes,” you say with confidence, furiously blushing. “I want him.”
Sonny exhales, just once, sharp and relieved, like he’d been holding his breath from the moment the door opened. A slow, genuine smile blooms across his face — the kind he doesn’t show anyone but you.
Francesco leans back in his chair, satisfied. “Then it’s settled.” He points toward Sonny with a warning gleam in his eyes. “But understand this — if she is ever hurt because of your world, your choices, or your enemies… You and I will have a different kind of conversation.”
Sonny doesn’t flinch. “I know,” he says. “And you have my word — I’ll die before I let anything happen to her.”
You swallow hard at that, heat prickling behind your eyes.
Francesco stands, extending his hand to Sonny. “Then welcome to the family… son.”
Sonny shakes his hand firmly, but his eyes never leave you. As soon as their hands part, he steps straight to you, lowering his voice to something only you can hear.
“You should’ve seen your face outside that door,” he murmurs, smirking. “You look real cute when you’re caught eavesdropping.”
Your blush deepens. “I wasn’t— I mean— I didn’t mean to—”
He cuts you off with a soft chuckle and leans just a little closer, his cologne drifting over you, warm and familiar. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Now you know how serious I am.”
Your father pretends not to hear it, turning back toward his desk, but there’s a faint, knowing smile on his face.
Sonny stands directly in front of you in his charcoal suit, broad-shouldered, handsome, breath-stealing, his tie loosened just slightly from the intensity of the conversation. His eyes lock onto yours immediately, and the smirk that curls across his mouth could melt iron.
Without a word, he takes another step toward you.
Then Sonny Corleone — the man feared across New York, the man who walks into gunfire without blinking — drops to one knee in front of you.
You gasp, your hand flying to your mouth as your eyes go wide. “Sonny…” you whisper, trembling.
He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a small black velvet box. Your father watches with a grin of paternal amusement and approval at his desk.
Sonny flips the box open, and the overhead chandelier catches the diamond inside — a princess-cut, five-carat stone that glitters like sunlight on water. It’s overwhelming. Beautiful. Impossible.
“Gabriella…” he begins.
“Oh my god, stop,” you breathe, on the brink of tears, your hand still covering your mouth.
Sonny laughs softly, looking up at you with that crooked, devastating smile. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, darling.”
Your heart thunders in your chest as he continues, voice warm and playful and so full of devotion it brings tears to your eyes.
“We can run away together whenever you want,” Sonny says. “I’ll take you on my motorcycle to every greenhouse in the world if that’s what you want. I just want you with me. Always.” Sonny lifts the ring higher. “Will you marry me?”
You let out a breathless giggle — half sob, half joy — and glance between Sonny and your father before nodding wildly.
“I will,” you say. “Yes. I will.”
A relieved, brilliant grin spreads across Sonny’s face as he slides the ring onto your finger. The diamond gleams so brightly it almost looks unreal.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, admiring it — admiring you.
Francesco chuckles and claps his hands together. “Well, well,” your father says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are full of surprises, Mr. Corleone. A surprise visit, a surprise proposal… there’s something different about you, isn’t there?”
Sonny rises to his feet, still holding your hand as he turns the ring slightly to watch it sparkle. “I said the same about your daughter,” he replies smoothly. “But I gotta keep myself predictable… for her.”
Your father laughs, shaking his head as you stand there with Sonny’s hand warm around yours, his eyes burning with affection — you can barely breathe.
You’re Sonny Corleone’s fiancée now, and he looks at you like he’s already planning the rest of forever.
if the dad’s best friend trope where he knew reader since they were born and immediately have feelings and attraction the minute reader turns 18 has no haters that means i'm dead
The other day I politely returned the question “how are you doing?” at a driver who asked the same of me, and he replied “oh, you know, same soup just reheated” and I can’t stop thinking about that
chandler bing x reader | suggestive content | slow burn
Summary: You offer Chandler some incentive to quit smoking-- and then you follow through
a/n: based on season 1 episode 3, the one with the thumb!
masterlist
------
March 20th, 1994
You were curled up in the armchair beside the orange couch, sipping lukewarm coffee and flipping through a zine you’d grabbed at that record store near campus. Monica, Phoebe, Ross, and Joey were spread out across the couch, half-listening to Rachel ramble behind the counter about something a customer had done earlier that day.
It was peaceful. Calm.
Until you caught a faint whiff of smoke.
Your eyes narrowed. You looked up-- just in time to see Chandler casually lighting a cigarette.
Monica shot up from the couch like she’d been electrocuted. “Oh my God, Chandler!”
“Seriously?” Joey said, recoiling like someone had just waved a fart in his face.
“Put that out,” Ross barked, waving a hand in front of his nose. “You’re not even supposed to smoke in here!”
“Ugh!” Phoebe fanned the air dramatically. “Chandler, come on. You’re gonna get cancer, and then we’ll all feel like jerks for yelling at your urn.”
Chandler rolled his eyes and took a drag. “Wow. Judgment and a guilt trip. You guys should start a band.”
“Oh my god,” Monica groaned again, waving toward the window. “Go outside!”
“Hey, this is so unfair!” Chandler protested, gesturing with the cigarette like it was on his side.
“Oh yeah?” you said, finally lowering your zine with a look. “What’s unfair--lung privileges?”
“No! I have one flaw, and suddenly I’m public enemy number one? Meanwhile, Joey cracks his knuckles every five seconds like he’s trying to summon Captain Planet--”
“Hey!” Joey protested again.
“--and Ross,” Chandler went on, “acts like he’s narrating a PBS documentary every time he talks.”
Ross sat up straighter. “I articulate. It’s called having a command of the English language.”
“And Monica,” Chandler added with a flourish, “has that weird little snort when she laughs. Like a piglet getting tickled.”
“I do not snort,” Monica said indignantly.
"You totally do,” you muttered into your mug.
“Oh, and you,” Chandler turned to you, finger pointed. “With your whole ‘I’m better than everyone because I know the exact day every Bowie album dropped’ superiority thing. And that weird food ritual where you never finish your plate. You eat 85% of a sandwich and then abandon it like it said something offensive.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t have to explain my sandwich habits to a man who smokes indoors."
“God forbid someone smoke a single cigarette around Miss Precision Sandwich Eater of 1994.”
“Say that again when you’re hacking up a lung in your thirties,” you shot back. “We’ll see who wins then.”
there's a pause.
“…So, does the knuckle cracking actually bother everybody?” Joey asked, eyebrows raised.
Ross looked slightly guilty. “Well… I could live without it.”
“Okay but is it, like, ‘quirky habit’ annoying,” Joey pressed, “or like… Phoebe chewing her hair annoying?”
Phoebe blinked, mid-chew, and immediately pulled her hair out of her mouth.
“Don’t listen to him, Pheebs,” Ross said gently. “I think it’s endearing.”
Joey turned to him, mockingly sincere. “Ohhh, you do, do you?”
Monica snorted--actually snorted--and immediately covered her mouth, eyes wide.
Chandler just grinned. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing wrong with enunciating,” Ross said stiffly, crossing his arms.
“Indeed there isn't.” Rachel imitated Ross from behind the couch, then glanced at the espresso machine. “I should really get back to work.”
“Yeah,” Phoebe muttered, “before someone accidentally gets what they actually ordered.”
“Oh-ho-HO. The hair comes out and the gloves go on,” Rachel snapped.
The entire room descended into chaotic, overlapping bickering.
You got pulled into it-- snarking and sparring like it was second nature. You accused Monica of weaponizing passive aggression. Joey said you were just bitter because you were always cold. Ross tried to quote Latin. Phoebe said she liked your 80% sandwich thing. Rachel asked what a Bowie was, earning herself a death glare from you.
And somewhere in all that noise, Chandler was gone.
You scanned the room, eyebrows pinching. The door was still swinging slightly on its hinge.
That bastard.
You sighed, stood up, and slung your cardigan tighter around your shoulders as you made for the door.
“Where are you going?” Rachel asked, coffee mug in hand.
You didn’t look back. “To go kill the Marlboro Man.”
And just like that, you disappeared after him, zine abandoned, door shut behind you.
You caught him halfway down the sidewalk, leaned casually against the window, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like he was trying out for a 1940s heist film.
“Smooth escape,” you said, approaching him.
He glanced at you sideways, amused. “Thank you. That was my own version of smoke and mirrors.”
“Clever.” You folded your arms. “So what’s it gonna take to get you to quit?”
He puffed once. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve already had five guilt trips, three lectures, and a surprise intervention this week. None of it worked.”
You shrugged. “Alright. What if I sweeten the deal?”
Chandler raised a brow. “I’m listening.”
“If you go a full week without smoking…” You tapped your chin. “I’ll buy you that vintage Batman comic you’ve been hunting for. The one with the misprint cover.”
His eyes lit up slightly-- then narrowed. “Tempting. But not tempting enough.”
You nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll throw in those black licorice things you like that taste like regret and despair.”
Chandler took another drag. “Closer.”
You stepped in, lowering your voice just enough that only he could hear it. “If you can go one week without a cigarette, Chandler… I’ll show you my boobs.”
He froze.
The cigarette fell from his fingers and hit the sidewalk with a tiny hiss.
“…A week, you said?”
You smirked. "I'll even provide the nicotine patches."
He looked genuinely conflicted for a second-- then sighed dramatically and stomped out the cigarette.
“Fine. For the sake of my lungs… and your very generous offer-- I accept.”
You beamed. “See? Bribery works better than judgment.”
Chandler shook his head with a crooked smile. “God, you’re dangerous.”
You leaned in, already walking backward toward the coffeehouse. “Only when properly motivated.”
He watched you go, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, trying not to look too smug-- or too flustered.
March 24th, 1994
Chandler looked like a man on the edge.
He sat on the couch with a cup of coffee (his fifth), hunched over and twitchy, leg bouncing like a nervous rabbit. You were sitting on the floor in front of him, sipping iced tea and pretending not to notice how he’d muttered “kill me” under his breath at least twice in the past ten minutes.
Joey leaned back in the chair beside the couch, squinting at Chandler with cautious admiration. “Dude… not to jinx it, but… this is, what, day four?”
“Day four and seventeen hours,” Chandler said, rubbing his face. “Not that I’m counting. But also I definitely am.”
Monica walked over with two fresh mugs. “I’m honestly impressed. I didn’t think you’d last this long.”
Phoebe nodded. “Yeah! You’re usually all talk and zero follow-through. It’s very inspiring.”
“I hate all of you,” Chandler muttered. “And I hate this coffee. And I hate the air. And my lungs feel too clean.”
You patted his thigh like he was a feral cat. “You’re doing great, champ.”
Rachel came over from the kitchen with a knowing smirk. “Okay, but seriously--what’s the real reason you’re actually doing this? You didn’t even quit when Monica threatened to replace your cereal with celery.”
Chandler hesitated.
You looked down and busied yourself with a cracker from the coffee table.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Wait… wait a minute. You’ve never made it four days unless something’s in it for you.”
Joey gasped. “Oh my god. Are you getting paid?”
Monica stared. “Did you bet on your own lung health?”
Chandler opened his mouth. Then closed it.
And then Ross-- who had just emerged from the bathroom with a face like he’d walked into something he shouldn’t-- sat down on the arm of the couch.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Oh!” Phoebe beamed. “We’re figuring out why Chandler quit smoking.”
Ross raised a brow. “Wait. Still? You’re on day four, right?”
“Four days and seventeen hours,” Chandler corrected.
Ross tilted his head. “Why? Did someone die?”
Phoebe leaned toward you suspiciously. “You did something, didn’t you?”
You raised your brows, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joey pointed back and forth between the two of you. “Wait a minute. This is just like that one time--remember when he stuck to that diet for a whole month because that girl from work promised him a peek at her--”
“Boobs,” Chandler blurted. Then winced.
The room went silent.
“What?!” Ross was scandalized.
You took a slow, measured sip of your drink.
“…So,” Monica said slowly. “Let me get this straight.”
“Please don’t get it straight,” Chandler muttered.
“You promised to quit smoking,” Phoebe said.
“And she said if you made it a week…” Joey’s voice trailed off as he nodded in admiration. “That’s… actually genius.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Wait, is this, like, a scheduled thing? Are we counting down to Boob Day?”
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Can we please stop talking about my tits?”
Ross looked like someone had just set his coffee on fire. “Yes, thank you! I didn’t even know this was on the table!”
Phoebe, unbothered, turned to you. “But wait, so--was it, like, part of a larger strategy? Did you offer anything else first?”
You nodded, dry. “I tried candy and comics. Nothing worked.”
Rachel leaned over the arm of the couch, grinning. “So if he makes it to seven days…”
“He gets the view,” Joey filled in.
“You don’t have to narrate it,” you deadpanned.
Phoebe tilted her head thoughtfully. “But technically, she’s still in charge of the reward. That’s so powerful.”
“I mean,” Monica said, licking her spoon, “you could just change your mind. Or make it conditional. Like, no boobs unless he also gets a haircut.”
You made a face. “Okay, first of all, I would never make him get a haircut.”
Everyone turned toward you at once.
You immediately added, “Not because I like it or anything. I just--he’d look weird with, like, short hair. His whole thing would fall apart.”
Chandler grinned. “My whole thing?”
You shrugged, sipping your tea, ears turning pink. “Yeah. Like, your sarcasm wouldn’t hit the same if your hair was too neat. You’d lose your edge.”
Phoebe tilted her head. “So you do like his hair.”
“No,” you said quickly. “I respect it. Like a… cultural artifact.”
Joey pointed at Chandler. “Your hair is a museum piece.”
Rachel cackled.
Chandler looked mildly stunned but definitely pleased, while you resolutely avoided his eye.
Ross, still trying to catch up, gestured vaguely in the air. “But--so what if he doesn’t make it? Do you just… revoke the boobs? Or is there some kind of punishment clause?”
You gave him a flat look. “Ross. There were never any boobs. That’s the whole incentive.”
Monica laughed so hard she nearly spilled her yogurt.
Chandler slumped into the couch cushions like a man accepting his fate. “This was supposed to be a quiet, dignified week of personal growth.”
You mockingly patted his thigh. “Aw. Poor baby. You’re just trying to better yourself and everyone’s obsessed with your hypothetical sex prize.”
Chandler looked at you with pained affection. “You’re evil.”
“I’m effective,” you corrected.
Monica clapped her hands once. “Okay, now I need to see if he actually makes it to day seven.”
Phoebe nodded solemnly. “For the sake of nipples everywhere.”
March 27th, 1994
Chandler was sprawled on the couch like he’d just survived a hostage situation.
He looked pale. Grumpy. Deeply betrayed by the world. He was also seven days cigarette-free.
You were curled next to him, one leg tucked under you, gently running your fingers through his hair--part comfort, part victory lap. His eyes were closed, head tilted toward your touch like a cat soaking up sun.
“You know,” you said, voice light, “you’re shockingly tolerable when you’re detoxing. I expected more weeping.”
“I did weep,” he mumbled. “In the frozen food aisle. Over a bag of peas. Maybe some eggos”
You snorted.
Monica entered from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. “It’s almost time!”
Phoebe and Joey followed, each holding a cookie in one hand and buzzing with anticipation. Rachel leaned against the counter, arms crossed and smirking.
“I still can’t believe you made it seven days,” Rachel said.
“Neither can I,” Chandler groaned. “Everything smells better. Food tastes better. I feel emotions now. It’s terrible.”
Monica set the mugs down. “Timer’s got thirty seconds left.”
Ross glanced at his watch, nodding. “Ah, the final countdown. This is better than any sports game.”
“I swear,” Chandler said, eyes still closed, “if someone lights a match and I inhale by accident, I will throw myself out the window.”
You smiled down at him. “Oh, come on. You’ve been a delight. Moody. Cranky. Deeply dramatic. But a delight.”
Phoebe held up a cookie like a microphone. “So, are you ready for your prize?”
Joey leaned in with a grin. “Do you have a speech prepared?”
Chandler sighed. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far. I’d like to thank spite, coffee, and her boobs for getting me through it.”
Ross chuckled softly. “Her… boobs? Not exactly the typical quitting incentive, but hey, whatever works.”
The timer dinged.
A beat of silence. Then the group exploded into applause.
“Seven days!” Rachel whooped. “No cheating, no sneaking?”
Monica narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t just, like, sneak one in the hallway, right?”
Chandler raised a hand like he was swearing into court. “I swear on Joey’s cholesterol levels.”
Joey nodded solemnly. “That’s sacred.”
You gave Chandler’s hair a final ruffle, then stood up with a satisfied stretch. “Well then. A deal’s a deal.”
Chandler bolted upright. “Wait. Now?”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, are we actually doing this?”
“I mean,” Phoebe said brightly, “we were here for the buildup.”
Monica raised a hand. “Nope. No way. You two take that weird sexual tension to your room like civilized roommates.”
You turned to Chandler with a grin and wiggled your eyebrows. “Shall we?”
He scrambled up from the couch like he was being offered backstage passes and a winning lottery ticket.
Rachel covered her eyes. “This is too weird. I live here now. I need walls.”
Joey called after you, “Make it count, man!”
Phoebe added, “Don’t blink!”
Monica just groaned. “Please don’t scar me emotionally.”
You pulled Chandler toward your bedroom by the wrist, looking completely smug. “Come on, Bing. Let’s get this over with.”
“Romantic,” he muttered.
“Oh, you’re gonna cry. Guaranteed.”
“I already did. Over the peas, remember?”
You disappeared into your room with him stumbling after you, clearly overwhelmed but absolutely not protesting.
You shut the door behind the two of you and turned slowly to find Chandler standing in the middle of your room like he’d just wandered into a holy site. Hands in his pockets. Jaw slack. Trying very hard not to stare at your chest but clearly already halfway to heaven.
“You okay?” you asked, eyebrow raised.
“I’m great,” he said quickly. “I’m fine. I’ve never been better. I’m just--uh--trying to process that I’m in your room for boob-related reasons and it’s not a hallucination brought on by nicotine withdrawal.”
You took a slow step toward him. “Still want the reward?”
He nodded so fast it looked like whiplash. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything. And I’ve wanted things. Pizza. Sleep. Parental approval. But mostly pizza."
You circled him, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing up his sleeve. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Born ready,” he said, then added quickly, “unless this is a trick. Is this a trick? Are you gonna hit me with a water balloon or something?”
You laughed softly and stopped in front of him. “No trick.”
Then, with complete calm, you reached behind your back.
His eyes widened.
You unhooked your bra under your shirt, sliding the straps slowly from your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor with a light, traitorous thump.
Chandler made a sound that could only be described as a prayer.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here, right? You’re trying to kill me. This is a slow, beautiful murder.”
You shrugged one shoulder, innocent. “I thought I’d give you a preview. You’ve earned a little anticipation.”
“I will write songs about this moment,” he said, eyes locked on you like you were a mirage.
Then, finally, you gripped the hem of your shirt.
Lifted it. Slowly.
His breath caught audibly in his throat.
You held it just long enough to drive him insane, then raised it fully--bare, lit softly by the lamplight behind you.
Chandler didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Then--finally--he exhaled, a stunned, reverent whisper:
“…Thank you.”
You laughed--not at him, but softly, surprised, like his sincerity had caught you off guard.
“Wow,” you said, tugging your shirt down as you reached for your bra. “That was unexpectedly polite.”
He didn’t move. Just stood there, dazed. Giddy. Slightly ruined.
You passed him, casually patting his chest like a congratulatory coach. “You did good, Bing.”
“I’m in love,” he said automatically, then winced. “With the moment! The moment. Not you. That’d be weird. Haha.”
You paused in the doorway and glanced back at him, smug.
“Oh, don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “You’ve got about three more weeks of clean lungs before I flash you again.”
He pointed at you helplessly. “You’re evil.”
"Proud of you, Bing. Still a menace, but now a smoke-free menace." You said, walking out, leaving him completely shell-shocked in the middle of your room, muttering under his breath:
Being an adult woman is just like “oh my tummy hurts” “oh my head hurts” “oh the burden of being alive is so heavy today” and then carrying on with your day.
