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cillivnz · 1 year

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𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐮 𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬 [𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭]

CHAPTER ONE —— AFTERMATH

warnings. angst, gore descriptions, torture, mentions of death, stabbing, shooting; basically your average 14 minutes into a john wick movie.

a/n. occasionally updating the preliminaries post of this series as deemed necessary. all warnings and details would be mentioned in that post. note, this is a slow burn (emphasis on slow). i hope you enjoy reading this short chapter, i promise it’ll get better. this one’s for the anon who wanted angst, i owe it all to you, honey. <3 pardon any inaccurate translations.

notes. Rehneyr Corsioni [OC] — ex-associate of reader’s father. Edgar Corsioni [OC] — Rehneyr’s son.

TRANSLATIONS. mon ange — my angel; tenez-moi — hold me; va te faire foutre — fuck you/fuck off; “Écoute, si tu parviens à répondre, tu seras libre de vivre ce qui reste de ta vie pathétique.” — Look, if you manage to answer, you will be free to live whatever is left of your pathetic life; “Sing, pute.” — Sing, bitch; “Je ne ferais jamais ça.” — I would never do that; “Laisse moi ici,” — Leave me here;

Clustering sounds beside you were your alarm. Your eyes fought to get adjusted to your dimly lit surroundings, in a panic, you shot up from the bed. Bed? You were uncertain of where you were, until you saw a tall figure hulking, with his back towards you. As if sensing your inquisitive eyes on him, he turned around, a solemn expression on his face, plump lips sealed tight, yet his gaze softened at the sight of you. “Good… morning.” He said shaking his head, it seemed like he wasn’t too fond of his words, considering the sun set a few hours ago. You took a moment to look down at yourself, wearing an oversized, white silk shirt, and your panties. “I took the liberty of cleaning you, I’m sorry, ange.” He was avoiding your gaze, looking at the foot of the bed. “It’s okay, Vince.” “I appreciate you.” Your voice was soft, just a whisper lingering in the breeze.

“You need to rest.” He spoke with an authoritative concern. “I can’t, I just woke up.” You let out something along the lines of a chuckle and a scoff. “Lie down.” He raised his brows, a pleading look on his handsome face. “Lie down with me.” You quirked a brow, not anticipating the flush on his cheeks to be so prominent. “If, uh, if that’s what you want, ange.” He dare not look at you while discarding his jacket, slowly climbing beside you in the queen-size bed, long legs almost swinging out of it; the long bed that sufficiently accommodated you, failed to do the same for him.

Perplexity. Life had a way of arousing it, for life is a gland and these shitty plotholes are the hormones it secrets into your bloody life. A day ago, you mourned the loss of your family, this man, one who vowed service to your father, abandoned him when he needed him the most; when you needed him the most — but he’s here now, isn’t he? You should’ve been mad, hell, he of all people knew the degree of your wrath once unleashed, but you couldn’t be mad at your Vince, not when he sank into the mattress, beside you, pressing himself against you, tauntingly gently, reluctant on whether to be a bit selfish and let his arm rest on your waist, close all humane proximity between you two, and let whatever warmth he still possessed, even if it came from the fiery depths of hell he was certain to burn in, creep onto you.

You noticed this reluctance, despite not facing him. You couldn’t, you feared what you’d do once you’d catch those ocean eyes of his staring into the depths of your soul, digging an abyss into it with his piercing gaze, creating his personal hell inside of you.

“Vincent,” you whispered. “Yes, mon ange.” His soft voice whispered. “Tenez-moi.” Finally, the hesitant arm found homage, snakes around your waist, pressing his godly body against yours. The grip was possessive, permanent, and above all, right. Nothing has ever felt so right, to both of you. In that moment you knew, Vincent would fight heaven and back for you, in your name, whatever it takes.

Amidst your sleep, you heard agonising whimpers from behind you. Both of Vincent’s hands were on your hips, like the fullness of them was comforting. “Ange,” He shivered a whimper, grip tightening around your hips, squeezing them in fear, fear of whatever horror he saw behind those eyes shut tight.

“It’s okay, Vince. I’m not going anywhere.” You whispered, fingered grazing the veins on his large hands. He seemed to lean into your touch, crouching so his head could rest on your shoulder. ‘Not now, not ever.’ You meant to say, but you’re never had a way with words, a knotted tongue and a betraying body.

When morning came, so did the hellhounds. Jolting up at the sound of gunfire, your first thought was if Vincent got hurt, but not seeing him in bed with you as you’d requested, somehow, hurt more than what you’d knew a shot to the heart would. Getting up from the sheets in a frenzy, you reach for your 9mm and rush to the window. The sight below was three men circling in on one Vincent. Three armed men, and one Vincent with his weapon on the ground. You aim at the thug on the left — headshot; right, headshot, leaving the big boy with one man to knock down, a piece of cake, considering the boy was 6’4. He looked back at you, a grin plastered on his beautiful face, before he turned to the man in-front of him and tackled the shooter to the ground. “Atta boy.” You yelled out the window, before heading down to assist him.

‘Torturing’ is what an amateur would call it. You, on the other hand, say it like it is. ‘Information extraction’, it is. That’s truly how simple it is, the good ol’ human compliance, cooperation. You wouldn’t want to be a sinful Pinocchio and say you didn’t enjoy it when they didn’t, however. A challenge, hellions and rascals, and you loved brat-taming. Foreseeable, was this sight. A man stripped to the bone, tied in razor blade ropes of bondage, bleeding rivers of crimson at the hands of you and your beloved. Friend. Beloved friend.

“Tell us who sent you.” Vincent demanded, the tone of his voice was enough to snap you out of your sinister daze and let gooseflesh arise. “Va te faire foutre.” The son of a bitch had the audacity to retort. “Écoute, si tu parviens à répondre, tu seras libre de vivre ce qui reste de ta vie pathétique.” You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose in annoyance. The bastard spitting on your face was the last straw for Vincent, who conjured a knife from an apparent holster and grabbed the perpetrator by his short hair. “If you won’t talk,” he said, slashing the man’s throat in one swift stroke, “Sing, pute.”

Fear, for the first time, as the evening sun made feeble attempts to paint the perpetrator’s etiolating face a hue of tangerine, gargling on his own blood, he managed to weakly reveal, “Corsioni,” before leaving this realm, leaving behind no legacy in a maggot’s world, but a mess for you and Vincent to clean.

Rehneyr Corsioni, an associate of your father’s. You remember talk amongst your mother and his wife of a marriage (of convenience) between you and his son, Edgar. “Je ne ferais jamais ça.” You’d scowl at the sound of his name. He had his Russian mother’s face and his Italian father’s eyes, his skin and her hair. A lethal combination, something many a woman has succumbed to in the past, but not you. You had your own plans involving a very mercurial and brooding Parisian boy. His fawn hair, his blue-green eyes; you’d decided to call the colour a shade of Turkish blue. Looking at him now, dried blood splatters tainting his face, you noticed he hasn’t changed much. He was still your Vince, right?

After ridding yourselves of the body, Vincent and you stayed outdoors, staring into the wisteria horizon; at the ravens flying into the greenery and at the bats flying north. “How are you holding up?” He asked you, breaking the silence after minutes of staring at you, a habit you’ve noticed him picking up. “All things considered…” you paused, peering into the sky as if the clouds were etched in your answers. “I’m just glad you’re with me, Vince.” You turn to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

May you be damned for finding solace in this state, but were you really to be blamed when tonight’s the first time he’s lowered his walls? Just enough for you to hop over, or sit atop them prettily. “About that,” he inched away a little, causing you to raise your head, tilting in confusion. “I think you should leave.” He spoke, his words were choked by uncertainty and his brows furrowed at how pathetic he sounded. “What?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “America. Stay there for a bit, lay low, or even find contracts. Laisse moi ici, just until things pacify.”

Pacify? What was left to assuage in this city of ruins? “Vincent, there’s nothing left for me here — for us, here.” You began reasoning, eyes flickering from his face, to his hands. When he blatantly refused to meet your gaze, you grabbed one of his hands, the whole of your hand seemingly elfin in his large ones. This act forced him to stare you down, unlike he does voluntarily, from time to time; this instance, you had to force him to look you in the eye.

“I’ve already booked a ticket, an apartment, clothes, everything— you don’t have to worry about none of that.” He tightened his hold on your hand, grabbing the other, too. “Please, Ange. I need you to do this.” He beseeched. Never had you ever seen such a pleading look on his face, agony whirling in his eyes. “For me?”

For him you found yourself on a plane to New York, tears threatening to break the dam of dignity in your eyes and flood away as you reminisce about his arms that wrapped around you the night before, and the way he leaned in but pulled away in the blink of an eye, muttering curses, unheard of by you, but the twitch of his mouth and the tearing up of his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by you.

If your departure meant more to Vincent than he was letting on, why was he adamant on sending you away, and what wrath will the city of Paris go through now at the hands of a man apoplectic with provoked rage? Unfortunately, you couldn’t see for yourself, so, you let sleep cradle your being and drift off to some unconscious safe haven.

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cillivnz · 1 year

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A/N: refer to the sypnosis and preliminaries HERE (i’d consider it important)

PROLOGUE

NOTES:

𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐮 𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬 — 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞

“Qu'as-tu fait, fils ?” - What have you done, son?

Ange - angel

Le Décès - The Death

Rich, and direful.

If the hellhounds of the underworldly assassins were to describe to your family, they’d call you silk-stocking sinister sons of bitches. It was true to an extent, yet the kindness that still beat in your stone cold hearts, making feeble attempts to warm your blood, was unknown to the world, but they knew.

They had a fancy name, but no synonymous life to honour it. They worked under your father, yet your father honoured brotherhood when he knew it was an accord set for life, the life of the progeny, too.

That is how you first met Vincent, the older child of your favourite Uncle de Gramont. Though you were closer to his baby sister’s age, you immediately took a liking to the older boy. Could he have been your first crush? Perhaps, the absurdity lay simply in the rejecting facade the boy had on when you’d shyly offer him to play with your dolls. Either way, you’d found yourself yearning for the de Gramont’s to come over to your Parisian mansion, and moreover, bring their children along.

You had been trained to shoot and stab the minute you asked for another toy. Sinisterly enough, you had soon learned that loading-reloading and shooting with a gun was far more fun than braiding Barbie’s hair; the day you proved to your father, you were indeed his blood. You weren’t allowed fieldwork yet, however; not until you reached the age of 17, but as for your crush, it was different.

As his father’s name and fame spread like wildfire, a poison ivy climbing up a ladder of hitmen, a foe sought vengeance. You were half asleep when the colossal doors to your mansion were pounded by immature hands, threatening to break every block of wood that went into making them, had someone not opened the door. The sight you remember, still lingering like a faded photograph in your memory lane’s camera, was a little Vincent covered in blood. On your father’s questioning, he revealed his father wasn’t the man yours thought him to be. An angry drunk is worse than an absent father, for the pain of memories doesn’t taint your skin with razor deep bruises that a present one embeds.

When they found out his father laid a hand on the little girl, placing her instantaneously in death’s cradle, your own blood ran cold. When your father asked, “Qu'as-tu fait, fils ?” he just replied, “I wish I’d killed him sooner,” wiping away the blood of his father from his face.

That was the last you saw of Vincent for a while, a petrifying thought, haunting memory to reminisce about. It ached — the look on his face, etched in your brain, a whip to your soul — the bloodshot eyes, staring at your father, in anger, exhilaration, a head held high drooping at the sight of little you in your night frock, jostling down the stairs at the commotion, descending faster at the sound of his voice, only to see him saturated in the blood he slashed out of his wrongdoer. Le Décès.

“Le Décès,” were the first words that escaped your father’s knotted tongue. An initial whisper, then an affirmation, and the look of guilt and shame on Vincent’s face at the sight of you was replaced by pride, finally, acknowledgment.

Vincent soon became Vengeance, Le Décès. Replacing his father’s position in your father’s life, you finally got what little you always wanted; having him close to you. Living under the same roof, going to the same events, killing the same people.

However, little you would be saddened to see this change in him. He didn’t talk to you, doesn’t tell you scary stories, make jokes about drinking too much tea before an assignment, pay attention to your words — all he does is stare at you from afar — no matter the time or the day, you’d always catch those Turkish blue eyes fixated on you, perhaps he feared if he stopped looking, you, too, would disappear from his life, just a petrifying thought, haunting memory to reminisce about.

Still, the two of you worked closely.

The Parisian Bonnie and Clyde; you soon earned notoriety in the underworld, proving yourself to be worthy of your name. Ensorceler, bewitcher of men, playing the aortic strings of their hearts like they’re wooden harps. They labelled you a sex symbol, you could only scoff at such vulgar truth. The blood rush you felt when it flowed for you, made the kill poetic.

You weren’t some slaughtering maniac, no. This was art, you were an artist before an assassin; with blades for brushes and crimson on your canvas. A femme fatale exhibiting that it’s her world, you’re only living in it because she lets you. After all, the lioness overpowers the lion in the only animalistic instinct genetic in them; hunting.

You didn’t flee when your family was assassinated. Vincent wasn’t there to protect you, for whatever reason it may have been, he wasn’t there, out of all the days he couldn’t have been. An army of shooters was taken down by you, had it not been your family they were after, you’d have joked about being Tony Montana, and then you became him.

You wreaked enough havoc for a century of cleaning supplies to work on, but wouldn’t it have been easier to leave, altogether? That’s what you did. Packed whatever sentiment was left in your seemingly meaningless clothes, now. Shed tears on your father’s insensate corpse, clinging to his blood soaked suit. You were a devoted daughter, every kill, every drop of blood you shed, you shed in his name. Yelling, screaming, you let your tears burn your bloody face. Now, you called out for help; after slaughtering every maggot that crawled into your home thinking they could devour you, you cry for help when life detaches from your father’s soul, your mother’s; you cry for Vincent.

As if the chant-less summoning worked, a hand rested on your shoulder. Your head snapped in the source’s direction, vision still blurry from the acid running down your face. “Vince…” You cried, softly, letting those strong arms carry you. The blood, the horror sight, the ruins, none of it mattered to you once he came. He came. He was going to take the pain away, you knew it.

When you were kids, you fell off while riding your bicycle on a stony path about your house, gashing your knee. Vincent saw you fall from a distance and was immediately on his feet, running towards you. “Don’t cry, ange.” He would coo softly, even as a child he was so much taller, bigger than you. He’d wipe away your tears, pointing where you’d fallen and say, “Look how many ants you killed.” And you’d laugh, forgetting all about the blood and the scars to come.

Thankfully, surprisingly, never has your body ever been tainted, despite how close you are to death every day in your life; a finger in the beak of the Hanged Man, always. Vincent’s taken hits for you, and something tells you he’d continue to.

“Ange, I promise you, I will avenge you.” Ange, he called you that after an eternity. “I will be your vengeance.” He said, before carrying you away. “I will be your vengeance.” His words ringing into your ears, etched into your mind along with the image of him as a child, murdering his father for vengeance.

Vengeance.

Que l'enfer se déchaîne, que les ravages se fassent et que la vengeance soit délivrée.

Let hell unleashed, havoc wreaked and vengeance be delivered.

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