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matildashoney · 2 years

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Anything For You: Part One

MASTERLIST // ANNOUNCEMENT // PART TWO Rating: R (death, violence, swearing, sex) Summary: Francesca Giovanna Cartelli is the daughter of Opal and Giuseppe Cartelli, a huge Mafia Boss in New York in the 1920s, a rivalry of the likes of Al Capone. Harry Styles, the security of the neighboring mafia that the family is allied with, has been a longtime friend of the family and specifically took a liking to their daughter. Francesca and Harry have an easy-going relationship, one without pressure and too much stress, but when there’s a hit put out on Francesca and her father sends her away with Harry to be safe, everything changes. Authors Note: hiiiiiii. this is the first story in two years that is new and i'm really excited to share it! i think it's going to be one you all like (i hope). i have a lot planned for this year, story-wise, and i really hope you're all excited and ready. i'm ready to give writing my all and embark on a new journey with you all. love you all so much. happy reading! x

Francesca Giovanna Cartelli, born 1 August 1900 to Giuseppe and Opal Cartelli, the first and only child of the pairing. Giuseppe’s pride and joy and Opal’s very reason for existing. Giuseppe Cartelli, one of New York’s Finest Mafia Bosses. Opal Cartelli, the wife and devoting lover, caring mother, responsible financial advisor of all things business. Owners of one of the very first speakeasies in New York City and owners of nearly half of the Upper West Side. Francesca Cartelli, perfect and intelligent daughter of the two most strategic mob bosses in the business.

Landmark Tavern on 11th Avenue, New York’s arguably most famous speakeasy, that the Cartelli’s own. Francesca’s second home, more so. Her family’s home is down the street, the neighboring and allied mafia’s security living directly above the apothecary on the third floor. Outside, the walls are made of brick and stone, a painted yellow wall decorating the border. Outside decorum makes it seem innocent enough to onlookers, and yet, everyone that knows, knows. Francesca is comfortable here, safe, and it’s the place where she can dance freely and love loosely, a moment to express herself and live her wildest dreams.

“Frankie Giovanna,” a woman – Maisy is her name – calls from behind the bar, handing her a champagne glass and raising her hand for a toast, “to the most beloved and wanted daughter in mob history.”

“To Me,” she giggles, raising her glass proudly, taking a sip and smirking as she feels a hand grace her back and a fingertip adjust the strap on her shoulder. Francesca turns, facing the man that is standing awfully close to her side. “You shouldn’t be here, Styles.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Francesca. Not when there are many, many, people after you,” Harry Styles, her father’s right hand security guard, says strictly, a tight-lipped smirk on his face as he holds his hand out to offer himself for a dance as he always does. “Spare dance, Miss Cartelli? For an old friend.”

“Hm, I would, but what if my new beau sees, Mr. Styles?” Francesca teases, twirling beneath Harry’s arm and turning into his open embrace, her hand patting his chest playfully. “Charles won’t be very happy with you.”

“The only reason I haven’t killed him yet is because he’s a very nice distraction for you, Miss Cartelli. Easy enough to keep track of you when you are being minded by someone, now isn’t it?” Harry says firmly, his hand resting on her lower back and his other occupied by her own.

“How kind of you.”

“It is my job to keep you safe,” he says with a shrug, not minding the implications of his statement. “I’ll do whatever it takes, or your father will have a bullet in my brain, Francesca.”

“Maybe, I’ll care a little more about what happens to you when you stop calling me by my whole name,” she says spitefully, playfully quirking her brows and squeezing his shoulder. “Obviously, I care now, but I’d care a little more if this were the case. I’m not too fond of the formality of our relationship, Mr. Styles. It’s very, how one might say, annoying.”

“How kind of you.”

“Learned from the best, haven’t I?”

“Don’t act like your mother didn’t raise you to be a kinder soul than that, Francesca,” Harry sterns, shaking his head and leaning in to whisper in her ear. “Don’t act like you didn’t have the biggest interest in me when you were a teenager either. Fancied me a bit, you did.”

“How dare you! I did not!”

“You did so,” Harry chuckles, twirling her around once more and pecking her cheek. “It’s okay, I fancied you, myself, a bit if I’m honest. Isn’t that why I took the job of your minder? To make sure no harm came of your way.”

“Careful with your confessions, Harry. Charles might hear you.”

“Charles is preoccupied with Miss Cavalier, over there, Miss Cartelli.”

Charles was always a bit of a wandering eye, so everyone’s said, and this makes that gossip no different. Francesca believed that his distraction was enough to distract her father from what she really wanted, who she really wanted. It was forbidden, though. Much like alcohol and dancing and everything else The Prohibition stopped the easy access to, her love life was nearly off limits because of her father and all forces influencing such. Francesca didn’t love, even really like Charles, if she was being honest. He was, as Harry had said, a distraction, a way to keep her minded while her father hunted down the Mob Boss that was after his wife and daughter.

“Ah, yes, what a gentleman,” Francesca scoffs, shaking her head and taking a step into Harry, their chests hugging each other, their heartbeats nearly aligning under the smooth jazz playing in the background. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Mr. Styles? Had we been the ones that courted instead, of course.”

��Had we been the ones that courted, instead,” Harry hums, dipping Francesca and holding her head awfully close to his own, “I wouldn’t be dancing with you in front of all these people. I’d be doing something very different, as you cannot live forever.”

“Ah, a Gatsby man. Clever.”

“That’s what I am.” Harry leans down and presses his lips to the tip of Francesca’s forehead lightly, barely enough to feel the ghost of a kiss, but enough to feel the tension rising in the air and the way that they feel for each other, secretly – or not so secretly – as they glide across the floor. More songs pass, more dances shared between the two, when he says, “I have been instructed to take you home promptly at half eleven, Miss Cartelli. I fear it is time to get on our way.”

“Must we?” Francesca whines, jutting her bottom lip and placing her hands in front of her heart. This very well won’t work on Harry, Francesca’s knows this, but it’s the thought and the effort that counts, isn’t it? “One more dance? I’ll even offer a kiss.”

“Tempting as that may be, I would prefer to see another day with you, Miss Cartelli.”

Francesca rolls her eyes and sighs, bidding her goodbyes to the workers and the dancers and the singers and her courting boyfriend who’s taken the interest of a vocalist in the corner of the room. Escorted by Harry, she links her arms in his, ushered through the exit by guards that have known her since before her birth twenty some years ago. Harry walks ahead of her, not for the manner of a man before a woman – which he finds completely ridiculous and outdated – but for her safety. Francesca knows best by know, following closely behind with her fingers laced through his, her head kept down and her hair falling in front of her face.

Blend in, Francesca, Giuseppe always says.

Don’t stand out too much, my darling, Opal encourages.

Most of the street is quiet, which is a pleasantry these days, and gives Harry and Francesca an easy way for conversation on the way home. Francesca speaks of her studies at the college, psychology she’s studying this term, and she’s thinking about taking it again and pursuing a career as a doctor. Harry laughs pleasantly at this, encouragingly, saying that that’s a much better suited career for her than a mob wife.

“I would prefer to be married after I graduate,” she says firmly, taking a step closer to him and walking quickly with his pace. “I’d like to keep my name as a doctor. Cartelli has a certain ring to it, don’t you think, Harry?”

“It sounds lovely for you, Francesca,” he says with a softened smile. He imagines the person she is to marry is richer than he, smarter than he, likely someone she’s met at Landmark’s or at Columbia or even at the local market when they’re going for their soaps and specialties, though he would be lying if he hadn’t thought about pursuing her himself.

Her father would never allow such a thing, though, especially knowing Harry’s track with relationships – so be it because he always put her above his lady, at the time – Giuseppe would never find him suitable to be fit for Francesca, and Harry has come to accept his fate. He will always protect her though, under any circumstance.

Harry has always protected her, which is why the multitude of chatter and the screams originating from where her large brownstone resides begins to worry him. He immediately breaks into a stride, pulling her behind him, hiding her from the horrifying scene ahead of him.

Francesca immediately worries, “Have you heard from Mother, Harry? Maisy hadn’t said that she rung the tavern before we left. She hadn’t told us it’s safe to come home.”

“Styles! Turn Francesca around!”

Francesca instantly recognizes her father’s voice, the duly panicked tone making her heart race and her body shiver with fear. She searches for a sign of her mother, listening carefully for her voice, desperately praying to hear the comforting sounds of her trying to talk her father down from his rage. Maybe someone betrayed him. Maybe someone stole something for the rival Mafia boss. Certainly nothing could’ve happened to her family, not to her family.

Opal Cartelli, lying on the ground with her hand clasped over her stomach, a dark shadow cast around her body, her security guard on the ground nearby, a similar shadow around his head.

“What happened to Mother?”

It’s too late. Francesca can see everything.

“Frankie, dear,” Giuseppe begins to say, stepping around the bodies on the ground and walking towards his daughter and her security carefully. “I need you to go with Harry, okay? I need him to take you somewhere where you’ll be safe.” He wipes his hands on his handkerchief, and under the streetlight, Francesca can see the red stains on his skin. Giuseppe takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead, and Francesca can feel the tears on his skin. “Ti amo, mia luce del sole.”

“Ti amo, Daddy,” Francesca whimpers, a tear slipping down her cheek as her father presses another kiss to her cheek and then turns her around, nudging her to walk the other way. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

“It’s not safe, right now, my dear. In due time, you can. In due time. I love you.”

“Let’s go, Francesca,” Harry says hurriedly, wrapping his coat around her shoulders and beginning to walk her down the street at an uncanny speed, his gun holstered in his hand. He isn’t afraid to use it, Francesca knows this much, and she’s sure that he would die trying to protect her. “Francesca, you can talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say, Harry,” she says under her breath, panting and heaving for air once they reach the apothecary, Harry rushing to find his keys and usher her up the two flights of stairs inside. “Mother, she’s, she’s.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, closing and locking the doors, the bolted locks they installed when the mafia started living in the neighborhood coming to use in moments like these. “Come here.”

Francesca begrudgingly meets his stare, the tears falling helplessly down her cheeks, her hands immediately reaching for his shirt and burying her face in his neck, crying tears of pain and sadness into his chest. Mother, her beautiful, intelligent, kind mother, was lying dead in the middle of the street, with the person that was meant to protect her, protect them.

If Mother wasn’t safe, she surely isn’t.

Francesca looks at Harry with wide eyes, coated in fear and danger and panic, and whispers, “I’m not safe. They’re going to come for me. Harry, I’m next.”

Harry delicately brushes her hair away from her forehead, tucking the stray strands behind her ears and cups her cheeks, making her look at him for a moment, a singular moment, to listen and hear what he has to say. “As long as I’m alive, you’ll be safe, Francesca. Do you hear me?”

Nodding slowly, Francesca blinks back the tears in her eyes, shaking her head and breaking free from Harry’s grasp, wiping her eyes, and quietly nodding as a thank you for the handkerchief offered to her to nurse her cheeks. “I think I just want to go to bed.”

Harry sighs, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, “Um, that’s something we’ll have to share, tonight, I’m afraid. Until I can get another bed. Unless, of course, you want me to sleep elsewhere. I wouldn’t mind.”

“I,” she says softly, running her fingers through her hair and sighing a deep breath, taking the pins out of her hair, and setting them in her palm. “I don’t mind. I just don’t want to be alone.”

Harry nods, holding his hand out for Francesca to take and leading her up the stairwell and into the main bedroom. Outside, the night looms through the parted curtains, Harry quickly walking to close them and draw them shut, peering outside to ensure that no one is lurking around the house. “Stefan is guarding outside. I think we’re safe, now. I want you to sleep, okay? Get some rest and we’ll regroup in the morning.”

“Have you got any clothes I can borrow?”

“Um, yes, of course,” he says, scurrying around his bedroom and finding a spare pair of sweatpants and a shirt, handing it to her gently and ushering her towards the bathroom. “Here you go, love. Go change and we’ll settle you into bed.”

“Alright,” she sighs, walking into the bathroom next door to the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Sucking in a deep breath, she looks into the mirror, her eyes welling with tears at the thought of her mother and her father and the way her family is suddenly so fallen apart. Mother, the matriarch and center of her family, held her and her father together, held their lives together so perfectly, and suddenly, in the matter of seconds, she was gone. “Fuck.”

“Francesca?”

“I, um, I’ll just be a minute.” Hurriedly wiping her eyes, Francesca dresses in Harry’s clothes, clinging to the tightness of the shirt on her chest. Much like her dresses that she wears to Landmark Tavern, the shirt clings to her breasts and falls loosely around her curves. Francesca sighs, shaking her head at the thought of anything comforting her in a moment such as this.

Harry is sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, silently praying with his cross tucked between his teeth when Francesca walks into the bedroom, her dress and accessories held tightly in her hands. Looking at her, he drops the crucifix, standing on his feet, opening his arms, and taking the clothes into his hands, setting everything on the lounger in the corner and walking to where she is standing rather quietly in the doorway. Francesca simply nods silently, knowingly, and walks to the side of the mattress where there is a misshapen pillow and untucked duvet. Harry doesn’t say anything about that being his side.

“You must be tired.”

“I’m exhausted, Harry.”

Harry takes one look at Francesca as she stands anxiously at the side of the bed and knows exactly what she needs – a hug from her mother – something that he very well can’t provide. Harry would have to do, for now. He would have to try. “Would you like a hug, Francesca?”

“I think I do.”

Harry gently lays his hand on her lower back, encouraging her to turn around in his grasp and sighing heavily when her arms circle around his shoulders, a shudder leaving her lips as she tucks her face into his neck and a tear falls down her cheek. All the night’s commotion has finally come to this moment, this overwhelming and outstanding moment, where everything has piled in and over her emotions and finally come to pass.

Mother is gone. Father has sent her away for her safety. Harry is the only person she can trust.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Francesca?”

“You’ll stay in here with me, tonight, won’t you?”

Harry doesn’t dare to lift his cheek from her head, simply humming and rubbing her back gently, breathing in her scent and taking in the warmth that she surrounds him with. From the moment Harry laid eyes on Francesca when she was eighteen, when she was old enough to attend to school and travel out with her friends and, more pressingly, when she was old enough to be a target by the opposing bosses, Harry’s had something for her, an affinity, an affliction, a love. He simply couldn’t describe the way she made him feel, the liveliness that she brought into his life of misery. Francesca’s safety ensured the safety of Harry’s family, as well, and neither was something he was willing to risk. Harry had never loved before, not since he was a teenager himself, and to feel the way he does for her, simply put, was not understandable.

Francesca is his boss’ daughter. There couldn’t by anyone more off limits. And yet, there Harry is, inappropriately imagining what it would feel like to kiss her and hold her safely through the night.

“Harry?”

“Oh, of course, yeah.” Harry coughs uncomfortably and hesitantly releases his grasp from around her, smiling softly at her as she stares up at him. Her hand nervously moves to his face, brushing away a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind his ear. “Thank you, my dear.”

“My dear,” she says with a light giggle, one that he’s familiar with, but certainly not in this tone or time of night, “that’s a new one.”

“Figured I’d give it a go, rather that than calling you by your name every five seconds.”

Francesca lowers her voice as she climbs beneath the duvet, “This is quite true, Mr. Styles. You do have a habit of doing that.”

Harry chuckles lowly, turning around and rummaging through his drawers for clean clothes to wear to bed, taking his time in listening to the sound of her breathing slow and her eyes fall shut. “Get a good night’s rest, love, we’ll be off in the morning.”

“Off where?”

“Off to where they can’t find you, I promise.”

Understandingly, Francesca nods, closes her eyes, and drifts slowly into sleep, Harry’s presence watching her protectively from the doorway surely going unnoticed.

══════════════════

Cape Cod, Massachusetts, 1926.

The Cartelli’s bought a beach house there during the midst of the Civil War, a bit tasteless if anyone asked Opal, but it was theirs, nonetheless. One space that was theirs that no one else knew about it, not even Harry, until he was being called at a bright and early hour (he had an inkling without looking at the clock as the sun was rising through the curtains) by Giuseppe, giving him strict instructions to take his daughter before the sun is fully set in the sky and take her hours and hours away to a house where no one knew the whereabouts. Giuseppe had a maid leave a suitcase full of his daughter’s favorite clothes at the backdoor, a collection of cash and identities and everything they would need tucked away inside, a car already parked behind the apothecary for them to take.

Harry knew what this would entail, creating a fake life with Francesca and making her comfortable wherever they may be. Cape Cod, for now. Forever? Not likely.

Cape Cod is beautiful in the summertime, though. Harry knows this well. He accompanied The Cartelli’s on their yearly vacation there once Francesca was old enough to go to speakeasies in town and needed the protection from neighboring mafias and their bosses, and Harry was her friend, he would always protect her. Harry made that much very clear to Giuseppe from the get-go. That’s why Giuseppe trusted him with his daughter’s life for the last eight years. That’s why Giuseppe is trusting him, right now.

Harry leans against the doorway, questioning whether or not to wake Francesca with a cup of tea or coffee. He’s already had two cups worth by the time he’s made the decision to wake her and give her the option. He’s been pacing around the house, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet, making him awfully uncomfortable with the noise radiating through the quaint home.

“Have you got my clothes from my father? I’m sure of it that we should be heading out quite soon. Sun is nearly up for the day,” Francesca yawns, rolling onto her back and stretching her limbs above her head. Squinting behind the sunlight peering in through the beige curtains – hideous color, she notes – she notices Harry hiding a smile behind his mug. This will be his third coffee this morning, she counts in her head. “Are you preparing for a long drive? That’s your third dose of caffeine, this morning, Mr. Styles.”

“Have you been counting, Miss Cartelli?”

“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to offer your unwanted house guest a cup, more so,” she smirks, sitting upright and rubbing her eyes. Given the circumstance of the previous evening, she felt safe sleeping beside Harry, last night, and wouldn’t mind continuing to do so, if they must, of course.

“Unwanted house guest,” Harry scoffs, shaking his head and setting his mug on the dresser beside the doorframe, walking into the petite kitchen and pouring her a cup. His breath hitches in his throat when her delicate hand splays across his back as he’s pouring the milk, assuming she wouldn’t like hers black the way he prefers, and he quickly recovers, handing her the porcelain mug and gesturing to the tiny table and chairs situated in the corner. “You’re never unwanted in my home, Francesca. You should know that by now.”

“Mm,” she hums contently, taking a sip of the coffee and letting the warm liquid pour down her throat. Harry leans against the counter, his hands holding the faux marble, his eyes intently following her movements. “Do you know where we’re headed? Am I allowed to know?”

“I do,” he says firmly, unwilling to give more information than necessary, “and you’ll know once we get there, but I can’t risk anyone hearing anything until we’re in the car and on our way. Otherwise, you know your father and his demands.”

“Off with your head.”

“Precisely.”

Understandably, she sighs, her eyes fluttering shut with the warmth of the coffee wafting into her senses. Must be best this way, she reasons with herself, not daring to look at Harry and take into account his feelings. He must not be happy with this arrangement – especially not as the most eligible bachelor in New York City. That isn’t something Francesca can worry about, right now. Not when she needs to be on the run from people who are very well set on the intent to kill her.

“Not to rush you, Francesca, but we have to be going any minute.” Francesca hadn’t even noticed Harry had left the room. Looking at him, Harry’s already changed his clothes, new checkered trousers, and a white shirt – his usual – and combed his hair. It looks nice. Harry looks nice, she thinks. “Giuseppe said that we must be gone by ten.”

Francesca looks at the clock hanging above the doorway. The time in question? 09:42.

“Understood.”

“I suggest waiting to bathe until we’ve gotten to where we’re going. It’ll be a long journey. Your suitcase is at the foot of the bed. I didn’t want to search through your things for clothes.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

Harry nods silently, filling his mug once more and taking a seat at the table, leaving Francesca’s empty seat and mug where she left it. Francesca hurries into the bedroom, sorting through the neatly packed suitcase – surely one of the maids did this for her father – and finding fresh undergarments and a neatly pressed skirt and blouse to wear. Francesca was always the more feminine type, and that was certainly shown in her extravagant wardrobe and fancy accessories. Only one of her favorite dresses has been tucked away in the case, and she wishes to thank whoever packed her things for that, for the comfort of knowing she’d have one thing to wear on a night out. If she were to ever go outside again. Harry wouldn’t keep her locked away, would he? They would make new lives and venture out together. Things wouldn’t be so bad.

They wouldn’t be so bad, would they?

By the time Francesca has contemplated her entire situation with Harry and Giuseppe, Harry is knocking on the bedroom door. Ten minutes have passed, he says politely, and they must be getting on their way in a matter of moments. Hurriedly, she readies herself in the bathroom and dresses in her skirt and blouse, brushing her hair with her fingers and letting her curls fall as they may. She digs through the suitcase in a rush, searching for a tiny bag of pins that she may use for her hair after her bath later that evening. Thankfully, she finds just what she’s searching for as Harry knocks again.

Another three minutes has passed. It is now time to go.

Opening the door slowly, the suitcase in her hand quickly taken from her as Harry gestures for her to take the back entrance from the house. He’s in a hurry, she can see, and she doesn’t want to waste time. Giuseppe’s orders are always very strict and timely, and with a purpose, and she knows that there must be people out searching for them as they very well breathe. Harry doesn’t bother locking the doors behind him, merely taking a glance over the house to make sure nothing is out of place and looks in order, this way if anyone comes searching, there is nothing to find. His suitcase is already in the backseat, setting hers alongside it, his coat tucked protectively around his body to hide him away from onlookers – not that anyone could very well make him out with his cap and jacket. Francesca slinks into the passenger seat, hiding her face away from the window and staring at the street she’s grown so fond of. All of it gone in an instant. Mother. Home. New York City.

Harry drives relatively fast for the first hour or two or three. Francesca lost count of the hours somewhere along the way. Minimal conversation and chatter are had without the hum of the car engine and the stir of the radio. Francesca knew that her father had bought this car specifically for their eventual getaway. New radio. New license with numbers that weren’t associated with their name. New antenna. It must’ve been tucked away in a lot somewhere where she couldn’t have found it, because if she had, she surely would have wanted it for herself for school. Now, it’s being used as an escape route from murderous bosses in New York City.

“Giuseppe wants me to take you to the cottage in Cape Cod. The one on the beach?”

“On Oak Street?”

And suddenly, Francesca feels at peace with the forced decision to leave Giuseppe and New York City. At least she’ll be somewhere familiar. At least she’ll have the town and warmth and sunlight and the sand between her toes. At least she’ll have that, the familiarity.

“That’s the one,” Harry says with a hint of a smile. It’s barely there – the smile – but she can make out the curvature of the corner of his mouth. “Have new identities for the two of us, also.”

“Oh?”

“Haven’t been there since you were a kid, Giuseppe said. He, um, influenced, a friend to draw up some signage and paperwork to make it look as though the house was for sale. Our story is that we’ve just married and we’re buying the property.”

“Married, huh?” Laughing for the first time in what feels like days, Francesca wiggles her hand in front of the dashboard and Harry’s face, “And where’s the ring, Mr. Styles?”

“In my suitcase,” Harry says with a pursed smile, patting her thigh and setting his hand back on the steering wheel. “It was my mother’s. I’m meant to give it to the person I fall madly in love with. My epic love, so to speak.”

“And you must settle for me, for now. That’s quite noble of you, I’d say,” she says with a roll of her eyes, hating the pang of jealousy that courses through her veins at the thought of him with another woman. The thought alone sends a shiver down Francesca’s spine. Harry notices.

“It’s not settling for you, Francesca. I’d happily marry a woman like you. Hell, I’d happily marry you. Giuseppe, on the other hand, would absolutely have my head if that were the case. Not to mention, I doubt you’d want to marry me.”

Francesca is taken aback by this, insulted even. “Harry, why would you say such a thing?”

“Because, Francesca, I’m simply a guard for Giuseppe Cartelli and his mafia. I live a simple life, with a simple pay, and I will never be enough for a woman of your candor and your class.”

“That is, quite honestly, the greatest lie I’ve ever been told, Mr. Styles. You’ll need to ask for forgiveness for that one.”

“I apologize, Francesca. Although I do believe it to be true, I apologize for hurting your feelings. I will be more mindful, now, as your faux husband would never say such a thing.”

Opening her mouth to say something, she then closes it hurriedly, realizing without merit that there is nothing left to say.

Cape Cod’s scenery is beautiful in the summertime, she has come to realize. Opal and Giuseppe had only taken her a handful of times in the winter when they were thinking about purchasing the property in the early Winter of 1908. Her eyes dance across the tall, waving grass, the sprinkling sand of the shoreline, and the crashing waves of the sea. Cottages line the shore, tall and wide, small and grandiose, and the one at 12 Oak Street is perfectly quaint enough for a “newly married” couple, as so their story goes. Bushels of flowers line the windowsills, a mailbox sitting on the edge of the drive, the stone pathway leading to the navy-blue front door with a four-squared window making for a perfect entryway.

“What’s our names?”

“Giovanna and Edward,” Harry answers without hesitation, as though he’s been practicing. “Rivers is our last name. It’s French. We’ve just moved from Virginia. You’ll be enrolling in school, tomorrow, to become a midwife. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“May I call you Harry in private? Or are we simply Edward and Giovanna, for now? Until our next move, of course.”

“I would expect you to, and I’ll be calling you Francesca in private. I like your name too much.”

Francesca turns towards the window and away from Harry’s onward gaze, desperately trying to hide the blush on her cheeks. “I do expect you to at least put the ring on my finger, as any fake good husband would do.”

“I would anticipate nothing less, Miss Cartelli,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “Or shall I say, Mrs. Rivers.”

“Hm,” she says with a hum of contentment. “That’ll do, but it makes me miss my last name. Cartelli has such charm.”

“Cartelli has a button man and very many angry people attached to it. Giuseppe included.”

Francesca snorts a laugh, shaking her head and leaning back against the passenger seat, a smile sneaking across her features as the cottage comes into view and the car slowly pulls into the driveway. Harry hurriedly rushes out of the car and reaches into his suitcase, tucking the ring in his pocket and walking towards her side, opening her door, and helping her out.

“For you, my darling wife, Giovanna.”

Harry slides the ring onto her finger delicately and a shiver rolls through her spine, once more. Harry notices, once again.

“Why thank you, Edward.”

Harry chuckles and holds out his hand for Francesca to take, her petite figure jumping onto the gravel pathway and smoothing her skirt with her hands, her chestnut curls falling around her face as she does so. He leans forward, so close she can nearly feel his breath on her cheeks, and tucks her hair behind her ears delicately, intimately. “I’ll get our cases from the backseat.”

Francesca swallows thickly, smoothing over where he had just touched her, so lightly it was nearly unnoticeable, and turns on her heel, walking towards the front door and admiring the two chairs situated in the corner. In another life, Francesca could see herself growing old here, with the love of her life, aging with their grandchildren playing on the beach behind them. Although, much to her dismay, the likelihood of any such thing is unlikely.

“Have you got the key?” she says hurriedly, shaking her head of the thought and blinking away a stray tear that has come to form in the corner of her eye. She mustn’t think about such things at a time like this, not when her life is on the line. Future thoughts are for when she’s safe and secure. Maybe in love with someone, hopelessly and devotedly.

“’Course I do. What kind of husband would I be without the key to our new house?”

Francesca knows Harry’s playing the part, but part of her wishes this moment was real; that she really had just married the love of her life, her epic love as her mother would call it, and they were moving into their first place. Ideally, Francesca would be out of school, a midwife at the local hospital, her husband in a safe career – a teacher, maybe, finance would be acceptable, too – and the mafia life way long behind them. This may never be the case, though, and she finds herself longing for a happiness that she’s not quite sure Cape Cod or running will ever bring her.

Harry looks at her curiously, and instead, she smiles politely and takes the suitcases from his hands, waiting for him to open the front door. He doesn’t ask questions, simply opening the lock and taking the suitcases from her hands without any regard to the questionable look on her face. He smiles devilishly, a handsome smile, she must say – or think, more so – and her breath hitches in her throat when his hands slide beneath her knees and behind her back, lifting her into his arms and carrying her through the doorway.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Francesca squeaks, gripping onto his shoulders securely, slightly scared of falling and slightly scared that he’ll hear the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. “Harry! Put me down!”

“It’s tradition for a man to carry his wife through the threshold of their home,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “And although this situation is any less than traditional and ideal, I would like to treat you as though you are my spouse, that includes upholding the traditions. As silly as they may be.”

Francesca’s heart swells in her chest, pounding heavily against her ribs and making her feel so significant in such a way that she’s unfamiliar with. Beaus of the past have never treated her with such respect, and although it is fake, there is part of this that feels so real, so genuine.

“Then I will do the same,” she says surely, a genuine smile spreading across her lips. Leaning forward, she presses a light kiss to his cheek, her breath locking in her throat when his face turns and their noses touch. He lightly sets her on her feet, his hands remaining on her hips for a moment too long. “Um, I’d like to take a bath and then go to the market, if that’s all right with you? Would you accompany me?”

“Of course, Miss Cartelli. It’d be my pleasure.” Harry smiles brightly and nods towards the bedroom in the corner, the bathroom a door slightly ajar adjacent to it, before turning around and gathering their suitcases from outside the front door.

12 Oak Street is even smaller inside than it is outside. Windows introduce sunlight to the lounge and the parlor, the kitchen opposite of the fireplace and the entryway. Francesca would enjoy cooking here, that much was clear, with a bay window overlooking the front yard and a newly installed cooker. Adjacent to the kitchen is the singular bedroom, one that she and Harry must share, she now knows, although she is sure her father believes Harry is sleeping elsewhere. Inside the bedroom, the walls are painted a baby blue shade, one that reminds her of the sea. On the bed is a pure white duvet, one her mother must’ve chosen ages ago, and the thought makes her heart ache. Her mother must’ve loved this place, much like she does. Across the hallway, the bathroom is a pleasant shade of yellow, the clawfoot bathtub inviting and warm overlooking the beach behind the house. Francesca sighs, desperately praying the circumstances will change, and she will stay here forever. Home. She would make this home.

“Francesca? I’ll be waiting for you, out here, okay?” Harry calls from the lounge, distracting her from her thoughts and drawing her attention back to what she was doing.

Undressing, Francesca thinks about the moments leading up to this. Dancing at Landmark’s. Mother dying. Harry protecting her in the city. Driving to Massachusetts. Harry’s mother’s ring on her finger. Carrying her in through the threshold. Kissing his cheek. Noses touching.

His ring.

Admittedly, she hasn’t looked at it since Harry put it on her finger. It’s beautiful, she must say. Cut into a beautifully perfected shape, the emerald gem sits on a gold band. Complimenting her olive skin, the gem shimmers beneath the fading sunlight, and the way it sits perfectly on her skin makes her think that maybe in another life, this was meant for her.

This is Harry, we’re talking about Francesca. He wasn’t made for you in another life. He’s your protector, your friend. That’s where we draw the line!

“Of course not,” Francesca says to herself, shaking her head and blinking hurriedly, shoving away the rational thinking. “Harry is my friend,” she repeats to herself, climbing into the bathtub, letting the warm water welcome her aching muscles. “Harry is only my friend.”

══════════════════

Cape Cod’s town center is a quaint, little market town, filled with many shops and Massachusetts delicacies. Fisheries line the shore. The local grocer rings a bell every time a customer pays and passes through. Markets for small goods and household accessories leave their doors open for the daily rush. Floral shops smell of roses and tulips and arrangements in glass vases. Apothecaries smell of herbs and petals. Markets shine of colors with fresh fruit and vegetables through the open windows. All of it coming together so cohesively to build a town.

Francesca could see why Opal and Giuseppe loved it here, loved the town and the people and the artistry that embraced the town’s ambiance. Francesca could see that she would love it here, especially with her friend at her side, accompanying her all the while.

Harry looks to Francesca as they walk into town, hesitantly reaching between their swinging arms and brushing his hand against hers, the rush of electricity pulsing through his veins as their hands meet and her eyes reach his. Do it, Harry tells himself, pushing himself to reach an inch over and simply interlock their hands. Francesca smiles at him softly, turning her head to the road and following the pathway to the town center, adjusting her blouse quickly and smoothing out her skirt before returning her hand to its previous position, waiting rather impatiently for Harry to make the move.

Gathering his courage, Harry does so after what feels like hours – only it was minutes, more likely – interlocking their fingers and squeezing her hand gently as they walk further into town, the bustling of the community milling about the center and the shops making Francesca smile.

Normalcy. That’s what Cape Cod feels like. Normal.

“Have you got any idea of what you’d like to get for dinner? Your father sent us with money to settle us in until I have a job in town.”

“What will you be doing, Ha-,” Francesca catches her words mid-sentence and quickly recovers, “Edward?”

Harry smiles and squeezes her hand. This would take some getting used to, most certainly, “Likely, I’ll be a policeman.”

“That’s dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Being in World War One was dangerous, my dear,” he chuckles, shaking his head and encouraging her to walk forward. “I’ll be fine, Giovanna. You mustn’t worry about me. Worry about school and becoming a doctor. That’s most important. For your safety.”

“Fine,” she concedes reluctantly, her pulse quickening at the feeling of his thumb rubbing against her knuckles softly. Francesca is aware that Harry’s doing it to comfort her, to assure her that everything will be okay. Harry is all she has, right now, and the thought of him being hurt is terrifying. “As long as you’ll be safe.”

“Always.”

Harry and Francesca walk in silence for the rest of the short way to the town center, occasionally squeezing each other’s hands and assuring the other that they’re all right. Francesca’s eyes go wide at the sight of the town, the first moment that she’s really experienced being around other people where she’s safe in what feels like a lifetime. In New York, although everyone in her family and friends and the mafia would look out for her, there was always the lingering sense of danger and fear around her. Would today be the day? Would someone hurt her today? And in this moment, with her hand tucked in Harry’s, in the tiny town center of Cape Cod, Massachusetts, it feels as though no one could hurt her, no one could possibly do so.

“Have you got any ideas on that dinner, yet?” Harry wonders aloud, repeating his question and looking to where Francesca is standing beside him, her figure tucked tightly next to his. She squeezes his hand and smiles, nodding excitedly and hurrying into the grocer, immediately taking a basket from the entryway, and beginning to gather some items. Harry smiles to himself, blushing maybe, and thinks about the first moment he saw her.

The moment everything changed.

•·················•·················•

New York City, 1918.

Crisp air hits Harry’s face as he walks into the speakeasy on 11th Avenue, Landmark’s Tavern so he’s heard it’s called. It’s quite cold for November, the wind chilling his cheeks as he hurries inside and shrugs off his coat. His medals still hang around his neck, his pins from the war stuck to his lapel as he walks to the bar and orders a drink – bourbon, neat. He can feel eyes on him, and the feeling stirs panic inside his chest. His hand lays on his gun in his holster, and he walks further into the speakeasy, and relaxes slightly, laying eyes on the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Hair a deep brown color, curled and soft, her skin an olive shade that he’s only seen in the Mediterranean Sea. She mustn’t be more than eighteen, so much life inside of her and life to live. He swallows back his pride when a man steps up to her, his hand splaying over her lower back and kissing her cheek. Harry reasons to himself that they’re together, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink, the familiar liquid coating his throat. He drank bourbon a lot overseas in the midst of the war, a way to combat the nightmares and the panic of not coming home. His mother was worried, his sister off with her husband and unaware of the fact that he’d gone off to war in the first place. His father had died of Influenza years before his departure, and he was left to care for the family in the only way he knew how – to work.

He takes a seat at the bar, staring longingly at the mysterious woman dancing happily on the floor. Her head adorns a crown of sorts, and he wonders what the occasion might be. Is this her wedding? Is this her engagement? The thought churns his stomach. He’s always been a jealous man.

“It’s Francesca’s eighteenth birthday,” says a man quite near to him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Francesca,” Harry repeats slowly, the syllables dripping from his tongue like honey. That fits her, he thinks to himself, halfway smiling at the man who has now moved a seat over to be next to him.

“Francesca is my daughter. I’m Giuseppe Cartelli.” Harry nods behind his glass. He very well knows that name. Many of the soldiers talked about the Cartelli family overseas. The Cartelli Family is one of the most powerful mafia families in all of New York City, rivals of Al Capone, Giuseppe Cartelli is ruthless. “I assume you’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, maybe a time or two.”

“I’m in search of someone to be a guard of sorts for my daughter. In January, Francesca will be attending Columbia for school. Many, and I mean many, are after her, and I need someone that will lay their life on the line to protect her. Do you understand me?” Harry nods without saying a word. “Compensation will be generous, and your time is valuable, I will never take that for granted. I take it you’re an army man, yourself?” Harry nods again. “Know how to shoot?”

“Unfortunately, yes, sir.”

Giuseppe nods, clapping Harry’s shoulder excitedly and taking a sip of his drink before waving over the beautiful woman on the floor. “Frankie! Meet –”

“Harry Styles.”

Francesca Cartelli lends out her hand, smiling softly when Harry takes her hand and gently kisses her knuckles. Gentlemanly thing to do, she notes in her head for future reference. Handsome, for sure. Francesca smiles and locks his stare. Harry doesn’t move or release her hand.

“Harry Styles. He’ll be your, well, let’s call him your guardian angel, for now. Until you’re safe from everything. It’s best this way.”

Francesca reluctantly takes her hand away from Harry. “Okay, Daddy.”

Harry hesitates for a moment after this, swallows the rest of his bourbon, and then gathers his courage and says, “May I have a dance, Miss Cartelli?”

“Can you dance, Mr. Styles?”

Harry chuckles and nods, taking her hand once more and ushering her to the dance floor, the smooth jazz playing in the background a perfect tune to sway along to. He smiles brightly at her, admiring the way her features shine under the shimmering light fixtures. Her eyes are a honey brown shade, matching her hair, and the golden flecks that shine around her irises entrance him. Francesca doesn’t say a word for a moment or two, allowing Harry to simply take her in and admire her.

Francesca tightens her hand around Harry’s, her arm laid delicately over his shoulder as his hand splays across her lower back, his thumb rubbing her skin lightly. His eyes are beautiful, an emerald shade that dances beneath the moonlight, she’s sure of it. His lips are bright pink and plush, something she’s sure to remember for future reference. Quietly the singers perform behind them, their silence very much looked over by her father as he stares at them intently.

“My father has been scouring every soldier that comes into Landmark’s, tonight. Apparently, some very ruthless men want my head on a silver platter to serve to my father,” she says matter-of-factly, seemingly unphased by the thought of grown men wanting her dead. Maybe she’s used to this by now. Giuseppe Cartelli has been a boss in the Italian Mafia for nearly thirty years.

“I’m just another soldier, then, hm?” Harry says, quirking his eyebrows and twirling her beneath his arm, bringing her back to his chest with a halfway smile.

“I hope not, Harry,” Francesca confesses with a blush to her cheeks. “I must admit, I haven’t liked any of the other soldiers. They’re much too, how would I say this politely, brash, for me. You’re polite, though. Kind, I sense. You wouldn’t want to hurt anyone unless absolutely necessary. How did you ever make it out of the war alive?”

Harry nods to her observations and agrees, “By the skin of my teeth, Miss Cartelli.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” she corrects, shaking her head and giggling with the slight dip that he surprises her with, “Frankie is fine. Everyone calls me ‘Frankie’. Or Francesca if you’d like.”

“Francesca,” he says, the word coming off his tongue so smoothly it nearly makes her shiver. “Beautiful name.”

“My mother named me,” she smiles brightly, and he can tell the affection and the love she has for her mother without having to say another word. “Are you going to take the job, Harry? Of my minder, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t be your minder, Francesca. I would be there to make sure no harm ever comes of your way. I’d lay my life down for you.”

“More or less a minder.” Francesca smiles. “You’d lay your life down for a stranger? You didn’t even have to think about it? You don’t even know me.”

“It’s what a soldier does, Francesca. I protect those that can’t necessarily protect themselves.” Francesca’s face drops and Harry quickly recovers from his previous thoughts. “That and you, might I add, seem like a great friend to have. Great company to keep.”

“Oh, so we’re friends, now, hm?”

“That’s right. Friends.”

•·················•·················•

Grabbing the hefty basket from Francesca’s arms, Harry walks to the counter where an elderly woman is talking to what appears to be her spouse, as his hand is cupping her cheek and kissing her forehead before walking away to a different part of the shop. Harry lays his hand on Francesca’s lower back, nudging her a bit closer to him as they stand behind another woman, her body standing in front of his as they wait for the counter to clear. Francesca’s eyes widen at the sight of a golden band wrapped around his third finger, her gaze travelling between the wedding band and Harry’s eyes on her.

“Couldn’t be married to you if I didn’t have a band myself,” he says, a smirk playing on his features as her cheeks flush a different shade of red.

“I suppose you’re right, Edward,” she says, yawning tiredly and leaning into his chest, her eyes fluttering shut until they hear a ‘Next!’ called from behind the counter. “Hello. How are you doing, this afternoon?”

“I’m well, my dear, and yourself?” the elderly woman greets, a smile plastered on her face as she carefully writes every item in the basket and begins to mark how much they would owe at the end. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new into town? I’m Rosemary Arthur. That’s my husband, David.”

Francesca smiles and steps forward, easing into her role and the story they’ve set for themselves, Harry easily follows suit and closes his mouth. “I’m Giovanna, and this is my husband, Edward. We’ve just moved in down the street. We’re at 12 Oak Street.”

“That’s the tiny cottage on the beach, Ro! Beautiful house. Perfect home to start in,” Mr. Arthur says from the assortments of fruits, sorting through the apples and taking the bruised ones into a basket to take away.

“Newlyweds, I presume,” Mrs. Arthur smiles, nodding towards their left hands and the way their rings sit perfectly on their fingers, not too tight, not too loose. “Have you got any children?”

“Oh no,” Francesca giggles without thinking, and when Mrs. Arthur’s face falls slightly, she quickly says, “Not yet at least. Our wedding was only a week ago.”

“How long was your engagement?” Mrs. Arthur asks nosily, the elderly woman turning to Harry for a moment and sharing the amount of the groceries. Harry pays her quietly, expecting her to ask Francesca the question. Mrs. Arthur’s eyebrows furrow together curiously when no one answers. “Edward?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Arthur,” Harry apologizes swiftly, his hands beginning to feel warm against Francesca’s back, his cheeks surely heating with embarrassment. “Our engagement was only six or so months.”

“Quickly married, then, yes?” Mr. Arthur says, a gravelly voice echoing through the tiny shop as he walks towards the front counter where they’re all congregated. “Must’ve been keen to get a ring on this lovely lady’s finger.”

Harry notices the blush on Francesca’s cheeks and smiles, encouraging the conversation by saying, “Look at her! A ring was a must! Otherwise, someone would’ve come right from under my nose. I very well couldn’t have that. I’m in love with her. I wouldn’t want to see her with anyone else.”

Francesca looks at Harry with wide eyes and sighs, her heart swelling in her chest against her will at the thought of someone going through this much trouble to protect her. Harry must love her to some capacity, shouldn’t he? He must feel some sort of affection for her, to be willing to go through such lengths to make sure she’s safe. Surely, Francesca feels something for him.

And what is it that she feels? Honestly, she’s not quite sure.

“My husband and I would love to hear the story of your engagement. Wouldn’t we, David?” Mrs. Arthur says suddenly, pulling Harry and Francesca from their gazes and back to reality. “It reminds him of when we were young, once.” Mrs. Arthur wraps their groceries in the basket and slides it over the counter for Francesca to take. “David’s engagement plan had fallen through four times before he could truly ask me to marry him. One thing after another kept getting in the way, but he never gave up on the idea of marrying me. He kept trying until I could say ‘yes’. I admired that about him. Quite obviously. Look at us, now. Forty some years later.”

“Of course, you liked it. My Ro loved the chase, way back when,” Mr. Arthur grins and continues, staring lovingly at his wife from behind the counter and wrapping his arm around her shoulder, kissing her head sweetly. “Mind telling us about your love story? That would truly make our day. Then, of course, you can be on your way. Surely you’re exhausted from a day of travel.”

“Of course,” Harry smiles politely, taking the basket from the counter and setting it on the ground by their feet. He takes Francesca’s hand and interlocks their fingers, squeezing her hand for comfort. “I met Giovanna when I was away for The Great War. Giovanna was given a soldier to write to, myself, and I was her writing accompaniment. Upon weeks of conversation, we had agreed to meet at the dock where I would be let off, where everyone’s family and friends would be greeting their loved ones. I was searching for her, and mistakenly, we had bumped into each other. It was love at first sight. Our affections for each other were much more than what I could have ever imagined, and we fell in love in a hurry. Our lives were forever changed by each other, and it couldn’t have been possible to love another person more than we loved each other. Granted, her father approved of me quickly, so it didn’t cause much trouble to be together. He knew that I would do anything to protect her, no matter the circumstance.”

Rosemary and David nod knowingly meanwhile Francesca looks at him curiously – it’s like he’s imagined this story before; as though, he’s envisioned what this version of their life could have been like.

“Giovanna’s favorite flower is a yellow tulip, she revealed to me one day in a letter, and so I took us to a garden in Upstate New York. Sunflowers and tulips and roses grow in large arrays of colors, and I knew that she’d fall in love with the sight. Our lunch was had in the middle of this field, and when she was walking through the yellow tulips, and I stopped her, took her hand, and asked for her hand in marriage. I said, ‘Marrying you would be the greatest honor I’d ever be fit to do.”

Francesca stares at Harry incredulously, swallowing thickly as tears well in her eyes. Harry knows that her favorite flower is a tulip? Rosemary and David coo at the faux newly married couple, thanking them for their story and wishing them a lifetime of happiness as Harry gathers the basket and squeezes Francesca’s hand to nod towards the exit. Harry bids the two a goodbye, Francesca leading the way out of the grocer quietly, unsure of what to say. Outside, the sun has begun to set, and the watch on Harry’s wrist reads, 6:31.

“Must be getting back for dinner, my dear,” Harry says softly, switching the basket in his hands and grabbing Francesca’s other hand, their fingers slotting through each other’s perfectly. “Given that we both have a busy day tomorrow, we can come back to the market in the evening and grab anything else we might need for the house.”

“Of course,” Francesca hums, too caught in her own thoughts to have anything to say. Harry notices this quickly and squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Yes?”

Harry peers down at her as they walk towards their house, her eyes cast on the pavement and her feet stepping lightly over every crevice in the walkway. Her silence is deafening. “Are you okay, Francesca?”

“I’m slightly confused, that’s all.”

“Confused?”

“How is it that I know nothing about you, Harry, and yet, you know everything about me?” she says without thinking twice, stopping in her tracks without questioning her bluntness and the clarity behind her words. “I want to know more. I want to be your friend. Not simply you as mine. That’s not right. Nor is it fair to you.”

Harry sighs and nods, squeezing her hand and encouraging her forward. “What do you want to know, Francesca?”

“Tell me about your family, about your life. Why did you choose to go to the war? Have you ever been in love? Do you wish you were still in New York with my father and our friends?”

Questions never bothered Harry, until they were questions that he wasn’t quite sure how to answer. How do you very well tell the person you’re in love with that you’re in love with them when it is strictly forbidden? How could you do that?

“My mother and father met in 1890. Mother fell in love with Father easily and Father was in the war, and it made sense to get married quickly. Mother would have been a housewife and Father a cook for the army, and everything was well and good. Mother had my sister, Jo, then she had me, and Father was in and out with the various wars and the army being sent around the nation after the Civil War. In 1903, Father fell sick with Influenza. He died shortly after, leaving me in charge of the estate and everything when I was old enough. That was honestly a bit much for me. I enlisted in the army to get away from my responsibilities. I was a coward, Francesca. I didn’t want to be responsible for my sister and my mother.” Harry doesn’t dare to look at Francesca’s face, for the fear of her disappointment cloaking her features. He couldn’t bear to have her be disappointed in him. “It was when I was in the war that I learnt what true bravery is, sacrificing yourself for another person. I came back alive, I was lucky. I promised myself I would do what it would take to protect my family and my friends.” He lets out a breath that he had been holding in his chest. “I met you that first night I came back from Europe.”

“Me?”

“It was your eighteenth birthday, Francesca. Giuseppe approached every man in the bar that was a soldier to see if you’d hit it off with any of us to be your guardian. I suppose I was your lucky match that night.”

“Ah yes, I remember that now. I remember it well. Daddy called you my guardian angel, so to speak. He was certainly right in that regard. I surely wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Harry shivers at the thought. Francesca notices. “I don’t wish I was in New York with your father and our friends,” Harry answers honestly, reaching into his pocket and scrambling for the key to the house. “You are my friend. I would do anything to protect you. I know it feels as though you don’t know me, Francesca, but I promise that you do, that you will. I trust you. That is more for me to say than anything else.”

Francesca is pleased with these answers, with the glimpse of Harry’s past and present that she seems to have been given in this moment. And yet, there is one lingering question that is bothering her that she can’t seem to shake. “Have you ever been in love, Harry?”

Harry swallows thickly. Love is a touchy subject. “Yes.”

“Oh,” she says, jealousy beginning to swallow her whole. Jealousy of the sense that she has never had the opportunity to fall in love, to feel so deeply for someone that she would give her entire life for their safety, for their health, for their happiness. Given her situation, she may never be able to feel that, and for that, she’s jealous. “What’s it like? To love someone?”

“Consuming,” Harry says softly, firmly, opening the front door and gesturing for her to walk inside. “Love is all consuming, Francesca. It swallows you whole. Every moment that you are living, you are living for the other person and yourself. Happiness is no longer your own, you share it. It’s the most powerful magic that exists in the world because it is something so indescribable, that it may never make sense to the naked eye. Love is magical and lovely; it is every pleasantry known to man.” Harry stops for a moment and pauses, “Love, though, when it’s taken from you, is the most devastating. It takes your heart and pulls it in a million different directions. It shatters you and makes you whole again. Having loved and been in love is the greatest gift and the worst curse, as you will never know something so tender and great in all your years. Love is epic, Francesca. Epic and extraordinary.” Harry shuts the front door and locks it, walking into the bedroom with Francesca following behind closely.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Would you ever want to be in love, again?” Francesca furiously shakes her head and waves her hands in the air, excusing and apologizing for her own question. “I’m so sorry. I take it back. That was horribly rude and invasive of me. I shouldn’t have asked such a thing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Harry carefully walks to where Francesca is standing and lays his hands on her shoulders, shaking his head with a smile and gently encouraging her to look at him. He says her name delicately, as though it’s a word that’s only meant to be spoken by the utmost holy of ordinances. “Francesca.”

“Yes?” she whispers in return.

“I already am.” Harry smiles softly, and nods his head, walking towards where their suitcases have been unpacked and their clothes are in the wardrobe. He walks towards the wooden fixture, grabbing his pajamas and walking out of the room, the bathroom door creaking shut behind him. Francesca sucks in the deepest breath her lungs can take, unsure of what to say.

Did Harry Styles just admit that he loves her? That he’s in love with her? Is that even possible? Does he realize what his words have quite possibly said?

On the edge of the bed, Francesca takes a seat, shaking her head and quite possibly contemplating running to the beach and sinking her feet in the water to feel something other than the heat that is rising through her skin. Her whole body is on fire with the thought, the thought of touching him, of kissing him, of feeling his skin on hers. Coursing through her veins is every temptation she has ever felt, every thought to kiss him, or tease or fall in love.

It’s Harry. She can’t. That’s strictly forbidden. Forbidden. Off limits. Father would have a field day and have his head on a silver platter. Gun to the brain. That would be a disaster.

“Bathroom is all yours,” Harry says, breaking her thoughts and smiling softly. He can see that she’s deep in thought, and the thought of it being about him makes his stomach churn with nervousness.

Harry understands why Francesca is so nervous. Hell, he’s nervous. Giuseppe would certainly kill him if he found out Harry was in love with Francesca. He is meant to protect her, not to be in love with her, especially not to want to have a relationship with her. Classic forbidden romance, only, this time, it is one that could never be possible. Not in this lifetime, anyways.

Harry watches as she walks into the bathroom and begins to pace around the bedroom, nervously wondering if he should have said such a thing to her. There’s no way that she’s in love with him. There’s simply no way. Her heart was set on a pretentious, all-too-classy, rich man in the city, with a life in a brownstone and children.

How could Harry give Francesca anything that she really wants?

Harry immediately stops pacing when Francesca enters the room, his heart sinking at the distraught look caught behind her eyes. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Francesca Giovanna Cartelli, what do you want out of life? Tell me what you want out of life, and I will do that for you. I will give you everything and anything. Just, tell me what that is.”

That’s the moment that she knows what to do. Grabbing Harry’s cheeks bravely, Francesca kisses him, pressing her mouth to his with conviction. Harry only takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to realize what is happening, before his hands are circling around her wrists and holding her hands to his cheeks. His eyes flutter shut with the feeling, the way her mouth feels on his, so pure and perfect, soft and delicate. Moments pass with the two simply basking in the way this feels, nothing moving beyond their lips on each other, the night passing through the open windows.

Minutes travel by before Francesca pulls away breathlessly, Harry’s hands holding hers against his face gently, his eyes a softened shade of green that she’s never seen before. Her thumb rubs his cheek, basking in the way he’s looking at her.

“What?”

“Why’d you do that?” Harry asks curiously, his voice barely above a whisper. This is forbidden, whether they be in New York City or hundreds of miles away. He shouldn’t be kissing her.

“Many reasons,” Francesca says boldly, her voice staying at the same volume of his. “Firstly, because if anyone ever proposed to me in the way you told Mr. and Mrs. Arthur, that would be the way I would say ‘yes’. In a heartbeat. Secondly, for sharing parts of yourself that you haven’t shared with anyone else. Thirdly, I want everything you can give me.”

Harry grins at that, a victorious feeling overwhelming him. “And the other reason, Miss Cartelli?”

“Well, that’s a reason for another day, Mr. Styles.”

Fourthly, Francesca thinks to herself, I’ve always wanted to do that.

Harry nods respectively, his eyes travelling between her eyes and the bridge of her nose and her mouth. “May I ask one thing before bed, Francesca?”

“Anything.”

“May I … Could we,” Harry hesitates between each sentence, unsure of what to say. How could he politely ask to kiss her again? And again? And again? Instead, Harry sucks in a deep breath and brings his mouth to hers, desperately praying that she’ll understand exactly what he’s saying. And when she kisses him back, when her lips move intricately against his, he knows that she understands. Harry smiles against her lips, not saying another word.

“Mhm,” she says instead, brushing her thumbs along his cheekbones sweetly before dragging her hands away regretfully, taking a step away from his chest before she’s tempted once more. “One day.”

“One day soon?”

“I sure hope so.”

Harry smiles widely, his cheeks indenting with a dimple that she’s never noticed before this as he turns on his heel and shuts the bedroom door, taking his gun from the dresser and laying it on the bedside table on his side, closest to the door. Harry watches intently as she releases the pins in her hair, gently brushing through the curls and tying the ribbons on her silk trousers. Her routine is so simple, so mundane, Harry wonders if there is a version of it with himself included, with a shared bath and a kiss goodnight. Harry wonders if he would ever be up to par with such a woman of class and poise, her innocence too pure to be ruined by his past. His curiosity has always gotten the better of him, of his mind, and in this moment, he reaches out and touches her shoulder, smiling beneath the moonlight as she stares at him with tired eyes.

“Francesca.”

“Yes?”

“You never answered my question.”

“I believe I kissed you instead,” she says with a giggle. “I thought that would suffice for what I wanted.”

Harry sighs peacefully and traces a heart along the back of her shoulder, “I suppose it does. For now.”

“Have you got any other questions for me, Mr. Styles?”

Harry sighs, “Have you ever thought about getting away from all of this, Francesca?”

Looking at him with confusion, unsure of where the conversation is heading or what it is about, Francesca ponders, “From what?”

“The Mafia, everything.”

“Of course, I have. Many times.”

“Do you detest being in it?” Harry does sometimes. Harry sometimes wishes he died in the war. Harry wishes these things until he realizes that he wouldn’t have met Francesca if any of the previous were to have happened. “Do you wish to have a different life?”

“No,” she says solemnly, thinking carefully about her answer. “I wouldn’t have met you if I wasn’t in it, right? I wouldn’t have met, quite possibly, the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Right.”

“I’m okay with running,” Francesca admits, settling beneath the duvet and laying her head on the pillow, her eyes looking up at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling around her brain. “I’m okay with running, so long as I have someone to run with.”

I’ll run with you, Harry wants to say, I’ll run with you until I can no longer feel my feet. “Understood,” he says instead.

“Have you begun to hate it yet, Harry?”

“Hating something would require me to not be happy with it,” he says, lowering himself to his pillow and laying back, not daring to look at her and succumb to the pressure of wanting to kiss her. “I’m also okay with running, especially when I’m running with a friend.”

Francesca smiles, once more for the day, turning onto her side and letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding for most of their conversation. Exhaling and taking a new breath, she shuts her eyes and whispers, “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Francesca.”

Under the shining moonlight, the two fall asleep peacefully, basking in the warmth radiating from each other and the way they feel, knowing that maybe, just maybe, their chance at true love is not long lost and forgotten.

#mafia!harry #harry #harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic

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matildashoney · 2 years

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Anything For You: Part Two

Masterlist // Announcement // Part One Rating: R (death, violence, swearing, sex) Summary: Francesca Giovanna Cartelli is the daughter of Opal and Giuseppe Cartelli, a huge Mafia Boss in New York in the 1920s, a rivalry of the likes of Al Capone. Harry Styles, the security of the neighboring mafia that the family is allied with, has been a longtime friend of the family and specifically took a liking to their daughter. Francesca and Harry have an easy-going relationship, one without pressure and too much stress, but when there’s a hit put out on Francesca and her father sends her away with Harry to be safe, everything changes.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Plymouth, Massachusetts is warm this time of year, a nice breezy weather where the women can wear their skirts and blouses and the men begin wearing shorts around town. Harry wearing shorts always provided a nicely toned view of his tattoos that he received in the British Navy, a very nice treat for his companion to admire as they drive the short distance from their house to school every day, not that that goes unnoticed by him. He enlisted in helping the American Navy recruit men for any upcoming wars rather than the police, finding the men at the station brash and likely to be enemies. Offices were down the road from Francesca’s school, perfectly safe distance for her to be herself and still have an eye kept on her at all times, making the near hour long ride every day worth the hassle. Harry would be getting his own office soon, and by this time next week, Francesca would have her degree in the mail and would be working at a pediatrician’s office in town. Everything, seemingly, was working in the best direction.

That is, it was, until today.

Catherine hooks her arm into Francesca’s as they walk through the hallways into their last laboratory class of the semester. Graduation ceremonies will be held relatively soon, but Francesca has yet to decide if she wants to participate, with everything going on in her life, it seems unfitting of her to walk across the stage with only Harry in the background cheering her on. Francesca misses her mother and father dearly and wishes there was contact to them in some way shape or form. Harry knows this and has tried to mend the heartache that fills her with friendship, but there’s only so much he can very well do.

Catherine sits beside Francesca at the laboratory, smiling brightly with a very impressive engagement ring sitting prettily on her ring finger. Her boyfriend had just proposed a few nights ago, and they’re already planning the wedding with big venues and flowers and dozens and dozens of guests. Francesca can feel the pang of jealousy washing over her as she talks so intricately about the day.

“Have you decided if you’re going to walk, Gia?”

Francesca snaps out of her trance of jealousy and smiles politely, “I don’t think I am. I think Edward is going to take me away for the weekend instead.”

“Oh, that’s such a shame! Have you got an anniversary coming up or something?”

Momentarily, Francesca pauses, unsure whether or not Catherine is a safe person to share her secret with. Surely, they’ve grown close over the last three months, and Catherine has shared more personal details about her life than Francesca thinks she’s ever shared with anyone. Catherine is a bit of an open book in that regard, and Francesca admires that, because she certainly couldn’t be. Not with everything going on. That feeling does make her miss a normal life, though, a feeling of safety to share details about herself with friends that her parents hadn’t known, that her courters hadn’t ever heard of. Mary Scott was her best friend back in New York City, the one that knew everything about her, that knew she fancied Harry (even though she never said the words) and they hadn’t seen each other in months, now. Francesca misses her, misses having someone like her around. Maybe, Francesca is searching for that in Catherine. Maybe that’s why she decides to tell her about her life, in that very moment.

“It’s just, it’s not safe for me to be at a graduation, right now,” Francesca admits solemnly, hiding her face behind her hair and scanning her eyes around the room. It’s empty. They’re the only two in the laboratory, right now. “Can I tell you something, Catherine? And you have to promise me that you won’t say anything to anyone about it, though.”

Catherine takes Francesca’s hands softly and squeezes them together in hers. “Of course, Gia. Anything! That’s what friends are for.”

“This is more than a silly, little secret, Catherine. This is my life.”

“Of course, Giovanna.”

Heaving out a heavy breath, Francesca blinks away a tear and sputters out, “I’m on the run, Catherine. There are people out there, a lot of people, that want me dead, that want Edward dead for protecting me.” Catherine looks at Francesca with such shock and disbelief, that Francesca worries she won’t believe her. Catherine squeezes her hand encouragingly, and she continues. “Giovanna isn’t even my name; Edward isn’t his name. All of this is a lie. All my records with the school are real but they’re under strict order not to give or release any information if it’s not to me or Edward. My father, my father is the reason for all of this, and although I love him, I can’t believe this is my life. I’m so tired of running. I’m tired of hiding, Catherine. I want to be free. I want to go into town and not worry about who’s lurking around the corner or who potentially knows who I am. I want to get married, like you, and have a real wedding with my friends and family and I want to have children with the love of my life! I want to grow old somewhere and have roots and a family. I have none of that. I have lies and deception and a life on the run,” she blurts everything out in a hurry before anyone can hear her, tears falling out of her eyes without her allowance. “I can’t walk at graduation because it’s not safe for me to. I’m not even sure I can stay in Cape Cod for much longer. I have a feeling they’re coming on to us and they’ll find me soon.”

“Giovanna,” Catherine sighs, wrapping her arms tightly around her friend and hugging her tightly, embracing the girl she thought she once knew. “I’m so sorry, dear. I am. Is there anything I can do? Is there anything we can do to help you and Edward?”

“Keep this a secret? Don’t even tell your fiancé. Anyone that knows can put me in danger,” Francesca sighs, wiping her eyes and turning to face the front of the classroom. “It’s nice to finally tell someone that I can trust.” Catherine nods and squeezes Francesca’s hand comfortingly, assuring her in silence that her secret is safe between them.

Catherine and Francesca don’t talk the rest of the lecture, listening carefully to their professor speak about graduation and the ending of their semester and their completion of their degree. Outside of their classroom, Harry is waiting, leaning against the car with a smile on his face and a gun holstered in his pocket, his eyes wide as he notices Catherine nod solemnly towards him and hug Francesca a bit tighter before walking towards him. Harry knows in that instant. He knows by the look on her face, the look on Francesca’s face, and the unshared looks between the two that something was said that shouldn’t have been. His anger twists in his stomach, and he knows he needs to control himself until they get home, until their thirty-minute drive is over and they’re not in the car, but something about Francesca telling their secret to a stranger without talking to him about it first irks him – maybe it’s because he has no idea who she is and what she does and what she is capable of. He certainly doesn’t know who she knows.

“Catherine, hello,” Harry smiles, maintaining a straight face and kissing Francesca’s cheek as she walks towards the passenger side of the car and opens the door. “How are you?”

“I’m well! Thank you so much for asking,” Catherine smiles falsely, and Harry can tell she’s hiding something by the way she’s staring at Francesca and pursing her lips in a tight line. Harry could always tell when people were lying, it was one of his greatest strengths in the British Navy. His leaders and commanders trusted him because of that. “I have to go, I’ll see you at Graduation, Gia!”

Harry doesn’t say a word as he gets in the car. Harry looks at his companion, his partner in this version of their story, someone he thought was his friend, and shakes his head, turning the engine and starting the car, angry and frustrated at the situation. Over the entirety of the way to Cape Cod, she remains silent, unsure of what to say to him, uncertain of what is going to come when they walk in the door of their home. His hand doesn’t even brush against hers like it normally does when they’re driving home, the radio isn’t playing, the conversations about work and school aren’t had. All of it, everything that made their lives feel normal, feels so out of touch and out of reach in this moment. Francesca knows that Harry knows. It’s impossible not to. Catherine’s incessant lying and Francesca’s nervous stares gave everything away. Harry knows everything and he’s certainly going to be angry at her and yell. That’s what Francesca is dreading the most, perhaps. Hearing Harry yell at her might be worse than hearing Father yell.

Harry walks into the house first, his fingers running through his hair frustratedly. Francesca follows suit, shutting the door and leaving her notebooks on the table next to the front door. His lips purse together as he thinks, his hands rubbing over his face as he paces up and down the hallway, his feet marking the floorboards, his breath panting between his open mouth.

“Say something, Harry,” she says finally, crossing her arms in front of her chest and sighing into the vacant air, her head aching with the thoughts of what is to come of their conversation.

“Francesca Cartelli, are you serious?” he says incredulously, shaking his head and letting his hands fall to his side, smacking his thighs and feeling his voice begin to raise with every word. “Do you really want me say something? How about this? How could you have told someone?”

“Excuse me?” she gulps nervously, shaking her head as she takes a step towards him, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Harry, what are you talking about? I haven’t told anyone.”

Harry shrugs off her touch. “Cartelli, you told someone our secret. You told Catherine.”

“How do you know that?”

Harry exasperatedly puffs out his cheeks and lets his arms flail around his body, his eyebrows furrowed together as he spits out, “It was written all over your face, Francesca! I knew as soon as you stepped out of the lecture hall, and I saw the tears on your cheeks.”

“Catherine is my friend, Harry! She wouldn’t tell anyone!” she yells back, taking a step away and sinking into herself, feeling her emotions swell into her brain and the tears well in her eyes.

“You don’t know that, Francesca! You don’t know who she knows! You have no idea who she could tell and who could come after you!”

“I’m not stupid, Harry!” she cries, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks helplessly and her hands angrily wiping away the tears from her cheeks.

Harry’s heart sinks with the sight of her tears and he immediately softens his tone. “I am here,” he breathes, sighing into his hands and letting out a frustrated moan. “Francesca, you, are here to be protected. Have you forgotten that?”

“No. Of course I haven’t! I just wanted a friend, Harry. One friend that I could be honest with. I didn’t tell her our names. I just briefly explained what our situation was like. I didn’t give details.”

“Francesca, you’re acting like a naïve, little girl.” Harry turns around and walks into the kitchen, pouring himself a drink of the whiskey sitting on the counter and sipping it resentfully. Harry looks at Francesca with a straight face, saying harshly, “You’re making my job a living hell, here.”

“Ha,” she scoffs, flailing her arms, and smacking her hands against her thighs as she raises her voice to reach his tone, “I’m making your job a living hell? This is my life that we’re talking about, Harry. I haven’t seen my father, I haven’t mourned my mother at all, I haven’t seen my city. I’m lost in all this, Harry! I don’t know who I am without all those things! I have no idea who I am in all of this.”

For the first time in months, Francesca has said it out loud. Lost. Francesca is lost in all of this, unsure of where she’s going and what she wants, what she can have.

“Lost? You have me! I’ve been here the whole time!”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want other friends, Harry! That doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel normal.”

Harry looks at Francesca with a spiteful glare and says strictly, without any emotion working through his words, “Normal was never in your cards, Francesca.”

Rolling her eyes, Francesca wipes away a stray tear on her cheek and mumbles, “Thank you for that.”

Harry takes a moment to compose himself, taking a sip from his glass and wiping his hands on his knees. “Francesca, I am trying to protect you, and you’re making my job more difficult by sharing these things with other people that we don’t know.”

Tucking her lips between her teeth, Francesca sighs and lets out a heavy breath she’s been holding in since the beginning of their argument, “I need to go for a walk.” Her eyes are glossy, and the air is thick with tension as she speaks. “I need to leave.”

“Where will you be going?” he questions hurriedly, standing from his seat and walking closely behind her as she strides towards the front door. Outside, the sun is already beginning to set, and the townspeople are beginning to make their way home for the evening. Usually, everything is shut down by seven or eight in the evening, and everyone is at home for the night by then. “Town isn’t safe for you to walk around by yourself.”

“Nowhere is safe, Harry! Haven’t you realized that by now?” she cries, running her fingers through her hair and reaching for the doorknob, a sigh of frustration passing through her lips as his hand grips her wrist protectively. “Leave me alone, Harry. I’m serious.”

“Francesca,” Harry softens, his heart breaking at the sight of the tears that have stained her cheeks. “Let’s talk about this.”

“I said, leave me alone, or I’ll call my father to come get me.”

Harry drops his hand and takes a step away, the threat of Francesca calling Giuseppe much greater a threat than her walking around the town for merely an hour or two. Francesca leaves without saying another word, without blinking in Harry’s direction, and he can feel his heart shatter into splintering pieces as soon as she walks out the front door.

Honestly, it shouldn’t have been impossible to have known that he was in love with her before that point, before the moment she was two feet out the door and walking into town without so much as a sweater to keep her warm from the misty ocean breeze, because all the signs were there. To Francesca, though, it was like looking at him with blinders on. There wasn’t a way to tell outright that the person he was referencing months ago when he said he was in love was her, and it would be simply obnoxious to assume, downright unladylike. So, Francesca walks. Francesca walks along the shoreline and passes by the closing shops and stops at the pier, where there are fishermen packing their things for the day and their wives are calling them from the edge, ready to embrace them after a long day’s work and tell them they love them.

Francesca imagines a life where that would be her, where she could be the doting wife caring for the husband. Ever since being on the run, having children of her own has been out of the question, but she can envision herself caring for the children at her office like they’re her own, all the sickly children that come in wishing for a sucker and a sticker with their mothers. Harry would come home after a long day at the office, and she’d kiss him and ask him how his day went, even though he likely wouldn’t share the gory and boring details. Harry would kiss her sweetly, offer to assist her in making their supper, and they’d relax with the radio and dance around their quaint little home, or maybe they’d watch the box that everyone’s been talking about. Either way, their life would be peaceful and loving, everything she’s always wanted.

Thump.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” she instantly apologizes as she runs into a man walking in the opposite direction. Her head picks up slightly to make out the face of her neighbor, Antonio Enteralgia. Harry had introduced them to him on their second day in town when he was working on his car in the drive. “Antonio, hello.”

“Hi, dear,” he says, setting his fishing pole to the side of the pier and his tackle box on the ground. “Is Edward nearby? It’s a long way from where you should be this late.”

“I know. I needed some fresh air.” Francesca knew that Antonio was old-fashioned, and he certainly wouldn’t approve of her being out so late by herself. He reminded her of her father in a way, protective in nature, yet kind when approached by the right people. “I hadn’t realized I walked this far until I made it to the pier. I should be getting back, now. I’m sure Edward is worried sick. I’m sorry for running into you.”

“I can take you home, Giovanna. It’s no worry at all. Come with me.”

Nodding graciously towards Antonio, Francesca turns on her heel and begins to walk towards the edge of the pier alongside her neighbor. Over the next twenty or so minutes, their drive into town is silent, with the hum of the engine filling the car’s echo. Antonio talks about his wife and daughter, and Francesca stares solemnly out the window. Antonio’s analog clock reads, 7:45, meaning that she’s been away from Harry for nearly three hours.

Harry must be worried. Harry must be angry.

Getting out of the car with their neighbor’s assistance, she thanks him quietly, embarrassment on her cheeks, and walks the short distance to their house, knocking quietly on the front door. Immediately, Harry comes to the door, hesitantly reaching for the doorknob. “Harry, it’s me.”

Harry swings the door open, “Thank God.” Harry pulls Francesca inside, wrapping his arms around her tightly and kissing her hair instinctively, ignoring the guilty feeling in his chest when he does so. He grabs her face, cupping her cheeks roughly and says, “Don’t ever do that, again. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you. Okay?”

Harry lets go of her face and shuts the door behind her, pushing her inside and towards the kitchen, “Not okay! God, Francesca, if something happened to you, I couldn��t live with myself.”

“Harry, why do you care so much? Especially since I make your job hell?”

Harry sighs, “I didn’t mean that, Francesca. I was angry.”

Francesca shakes her head, “That surely makes me feel better. Thank you.”

“Francesca,” he says slowly, walking towards her and taking her hands in his, “listen to me. I will do anything to protect you. That means laying my life on the line. I need you to help me, so that we both may live.”

“Why, Harry? Why do you want to protect me so badly?”

Harry lets her hands go and groans, running his hands over his face and turning on his heel as he walks away from her. He turns dramatically and shouts, “Because I love you! I’m in love with you, Francesca! I have been since the very first time I saw you in that bloody speakeasy!”

“You what?”

“God damnit! I love you,” Harry yells, shaking his head and letting his hands hit his thighs like earlier, a similar fashion to how he’s behaved when he’s upset and angry. Francesca has only seen this side of him a handful of times. “I love you and I want to see you alive. I want to see you happy. That’s my only motivation in this. I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about the protection. I don’t care about any of it. I only care about you, Francesca. And it would ruin my life, it would ruin everything about me if you weren’t around. I do this all for you!”

Francesca looks at Harry with astonishment, her eyes wide and her heart swelling so deeply in her chest that she’s unsure of how to feel, how to properly express how she’s feeling. Francesca has never felt a love like this before, has never felt love in a romantic way before. All that she feels is this epic version of a love story that she’s never experienced before. “You love me.”

“Yes. Yes, of course I love you. Haven’t I made that abundantly clear? You, you, Francesca Giovanna Cartelli are my epic love that I have so desperately wanted all my life, that I fought for in the war. That’s why I gave you my mother’s ring. That’s why I was the one to bring you out here. That’s why I’m risking my life for you. Because I love you!” Harry says dramatically, puffing out a breath when he’s finished with his speech and staring at her, waiting for her to respond with something, anything.

“I love you, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“Harry,” Francesca says softly, stepping forward and standing in front of Harry quietly, bravely grabbing his cheeks and pressing her lips to his. “I love you, too. I do.”

Harry leans his forehead against Francesca’s, running his hands along her sides and holding her tightly, his arms circling around her waist, “Don’t ever scare me like that, again. It will kill me, Francesca.”

“Promise.”

“You are my life, Francesca.” Harry blinks slowly and licks his lips, trying to emphasize what he’s saying to her, because he means it, wholeheartedly, “Understand that, please.”

Francesca nods, “I do, I understand.”

Harry sighs and takes a step back, running his hands over Francesca’s face and shoulders, “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I just went on a walk, Harry. I’m not hurt. I only saw Antonio. Antonio actually drove me home.”

“I’m making sure. That was kind of him. I’ll thank him tomorrow for making sure you found yourself home safely. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

“’Cause you love me,” she smiles, a blush finding a way onto her cheeks as she tucks her chin to her chest, a smile itching at the corners of her mouth as he tucks his finger under her chin and encourages her to look into his eyes. “More than I thought you loved me, if I might add.”

“More than I’ve ever loved another person, ever,” he swears to the highest power listening, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing her against his chest. “My epic love.”

“And you, mine.”

Harry sighs again, and Francesca looks at him inquisitively, cocking her head to the side, as he leans his head back against his neck with annoyance. “That wasn’t how I wanted to tell you.”

“I don’t mind,” Francesca says to assure him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and running her fingers through his hair softly. “How did you want to tell me?”

“More romantic than that,” he admits, swaying their bodies quietly under the shining moonlight shining through the window. “Not by arguing with you.”

“Can’t always get what we want, now can we?”

“All right, all right, Francesca,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head and leaning in towards her, kissing her sweetly and soaking in the heavenly feeling of her mouth on his. “I love you, my darling Francesca. My epic love of all time.”

Francesca smiles widely, giggling happily in Harry’s arms as he twirls her around in the middle of their quaint, little house. Cape Cod feels safe, warm. It’s home, so to speak. For once in Francesca’s life, there is something that makes sense. Harry, Harry makes sense.

Francesca Cartelli celebrates her graduation from medical school on the beach, as opposed to inside the school where hundreds of people could hear her name be called across the stage. Harry decides it’s safest this way, and as asked, Francesca complies. Graduation gowns never suited her anyways, she says to him, and Harry laughs at that with a kiss to her cheek as they walk from the town square, but he knows, deep down, that she is disappointed. He does his very best to make up for the fact that she can’t have a normal life, a normal graduation, a normal friendship with anyone nowadays, even with Catherine, with whom she has still stayed in contact with post-graduation. Harry made her the singular exception after doing some digging around at work and coming to the realization that she, in fact, was an innocent girl in the mix of all this. Catherine Helms is simply a naïve friend to Francesca, also determined to keep her safe at all costs. And for that, Harry is grateful.

“Could I have another drink?” Francesca wonders from the beach blanket, her olive skin tanning nicely in the sun. “For the way to the ocean. The water is calling my name, I think.”

“You’ll get caught and get us all in trouble, Francesca,” Harry warns, shaking his head and keeping his flask hidden in pocket, away from prying eyes. He’s noticed that the neighbor, Antonio, has been a bit more watchful of them lately, and he’s certainly keeping his eyes on him. He doesn’t need anything getting back to Giuseppe. God forbid. It might end his whole life. “I’d rather not have a bullet in my brain because my girl is caught drinking on the beach.”

Lifting her head from her towel, Francesca smirks, “Your girl, huh?” Harry is lying face down on the towel beside her, his face turned towards her as he lays on his hands. His left hand adorns a wedding ring that she wishes she put there; instead, he delicately slides it on his finger every morning before giving her a kiss and leaving the house. Laying there with him, in the hum of the Saturday afternoon rush, everything feels eerily calm, like this is how it was always meant to be – just the two of them. Francesca leans over and kisses Harry’s arm, smiling brightly at him as he puckers his lips and waits for her to kiss him. She does so, happily.

“That’s what you are, my darling.” Harry smiles at her, a smile that, over the last few weeks, she’s become accustomed to seeing. His face is always hardened when he arrives home from work, Francesca’s come to notice, complaining that the cadets aren’t listening, the officers and lieutenants don’t know what they’re doing. His lips are pursed in a straight line and there are wrinkles lining his forehead, that is until he sees her. Until he sees Francesca waiting in the living room with a mug of tea, listening to the radio, humming along to everything he’s saying. He suddenly stops, smiling this undeniable grin, and walks towards her, kissing her mouth sweetly and mumbling that he’s happy to be home. Because that’s what she is. Home.

“Will you come in the water with me?” she wonders innocently, laughing quietly to herself when his arm slings over her waist and brings her into his chest, kissing her shoulder and neck. Her voice lowers to a whisper, ensuring that only he could hear her. “Harry, I’m talking to you.”

“As you can see, I’m a bit preoccupied, Francesca,” Harry laughs devilishly, pressing his lips along her skin and making his way towards her mouth. “I am simply enamored by you.”

“Anyone on the beach could tell,” Francesca smirks, turning her head slightly and capturing his lips by hers. “Come swimming with me.”

“Fine, fine,” Harry concedes, shoving the flask beneath his shirt and standing on his feet, holding out his hands for Francesca to grab and help her upright. “Let’s go, my love. The things I do for you.”

“Oh, I know.”

Harry and Francesca walk to the ocean together, the waves hitting against their legs as they walk into the water hand-in-hand. Francesca’s skin shivers with goosebumps, Harry laughing at her reaction and rubbing his hands along her arms to warm her. She looks at him affectionately, smiling brightly, and kisses his cheek as though to say ‘thank you’ without saying a word. He knows. Francesca immediately warms to the ocean, diving in and letting the water wet her hair and playfully pulling Harry in along with her, his body laying lightly on hers as she floats along the sea.

And for a while, Francesca and Harry say nothing, simply basking in the sunlight and the silence between them and the children laughing and the parents shouting and the couples kissing around them. Quiet is peaceful, and Harry likes it that way. Until, of course, Francesca starts thinking aloud.

“Do you want children?” she asks, very evidently asking him. Her fingers are brushing through his hair, his arms wrapping around her waist and holding her against his chest, her legs wrapped around his hips. “Like, in the future, I mean.”

“Honestly, I’ve never thought that far ahead, Francesca. Maybe I did when I was in love before you, but now my priority is to keep you safe, from everything. I don’t think children bode well in the mix of that. Especially when we won’t know if we must move or stay on the run for a while,” he says very seriously, as though he’s thought about it before. Francesca believes that he’s thought all his answers through before she’s even asked the question. “Do you?”

“Not particularly,” she admits, and for the first time, she feels as though the answer is taken for truth. “I’ve never seen myself quite fit to be a mother. I’m quite selfish in what I want. I want you to myself.”

“That’s quite all right. I like having you to myself, anyways,” Harry hums, smirking as Francesca slides his sunglasses onto his head, her eyes meeting his. “I just want you to have the life you want, Francesca. That’s what I’ll give you.” He can tell that she’s thinking carefully about what she wants to say. “Say what you’re thinking, my love.”

Hesitating for a moment, she takes his silence to be muster the bravery to say what she’s thinking, “I wish I was the one that put the wedding ring on your finger. I wish we were really married, not faking it with fake names and a fake house. I wish this was real. More permanent.”

He sighs and maneuvers one hand around her body and runs it through his hair, pushing a stray curl away from his forehead. He leans his forehead against hers and whispers, “This can be as real as we want it to be, darling.”

“It’ll never be real if we’re not really married, Harry. If we’re not really living. We’re hiding, right now. Hiding from the mafia and the people that want me dead and more importantly, we’re hiding us from my father.”

Harry sighs and drops his chin to his chest. “I’m only hiding us because I fear your father will have an adverse reaction to us announcing that we’re seeing each other, dear. I would hope that one day I may marry you really, and I can’t very well do that if I have a bullet in the brain.”

“I just want you,” Francesca sighs, sliding his sunglasses back to his eyes and leaning her forehead against his own, their lips barely brushing against each other. It’s dangerous, very dangerous for them to be this public about their affection, but in a moment like this, where everything else is uncertain, the certainty of their love feels securing and safe.

“You have me, my dear. I am telling you the utmost truth about that. You have me until the day I die. Whether that be tomorrow or fifty years from now.”

Francesca breathes in and impulsively presses her lips against Harry’s, kissing him deeply and passionately, forgetting everyone that is staring at them in the ocean, namely their intrusive neighbor who seems to want to know more and more about them than any normal neighbor would. Francesca kisses Harry and doesn’t care who’s watching, for once in her life, not caring about the consequences of her actions. All Francesca wants is to kiss Harry, the man of her dreams, and feel his body on hers.

“Francesca,” Harry breathes against her lips.

“I like it when you say my whole name,” she murmurs, smirking against his lips. “Have I ever said that before? I know I say I hate it, but it sounds so sweet coming from you.”

“Trust me, honey,” he mumbles, adjusting his swimming trunks with a grunt. “That’s nothing compared to what will be coming out of my mouth.”

“I want you to take me somewhere,” Francesca whispers seductively, smiling to herself as Harry shuts his eyes and swallows thickly. “I want you to do all the things you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

“Only place I can take you is our house, darling, and that’s not nearly good enough for your first moment like this.”

“Anything we have is good enough for me, Harry. Anything you have is good enough for me.”

“Is that so, Miss Cartelli?”

“It is so, Mr. Styles.” Francesca leans in towards Harry’s ear and kisses his jaw teasingly, saying beneath her breath, “Take me home.”

Harry nearly rushes to carry her out of the water, his swimming trunks much too tight around his legs as he grows hard between his thighs. Francesca laughs loudly, drawing attention from onlookers and passerby, ignoring the harping stares of their neighbor from across the pathway. Harry hurriedly gathers their belongings into the bag they brought with them, not daring to leave behind the flask that was tucked between their clothes. Francesca dresses herself in a hurried fashion, meeting Harry’s speed, and grabs his hand before he can walk away without her. Harry looks back, and impulsively kisses her, not caring about what anyone has to say.

Francesca believes they could cut the tension between them with a knife on their walk home. Harry locks the gate behind him, setting their belongings on the outside dining table and unlocks the back door with a haste, laying his hand on her lower back and ushering her inside before anyone passing by could stop them from doing exactly what has been on their minds for weeks, since their confession of love and since they began sleeping between the same sheets.

Francesca turns around and immediately falls into Harry’s arms, his hands grabbing her cheeks and kissing her deeply, with the utmost passion, saying everything that he’s failed to say until then. Harry gently tugs at the end of Francesca’s shirt, daring to ask for permission to take it off. Francesca nods slowly, swallowing her words, and lifting her arms for him.

“Are you nervous?” he says softly, trying to read the expression on her face and make sure that she’s alright with what they’re about to be doing. “We don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, Francesca.”

Her hand brushes through his hair and lays gently on his neck, her mouth pecking his cheek assuredly, “Harry, I know you’ll take care of me. I’m not nervous.”

“I love you,” Harry tells her firmly, as though she wouldn’t believe him if he said it any more softly than his usual tone. He nudges his finger under her chin and lifts it to make their eyes meet, saying, “More than anything. You know that, right?”

“I know, and I love you. I trust you.”

Harry takes Francesca’s hand softly, kissing her knuckles, leading her into the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. He walks towards the window to draw the curtains closed, and says, “I don’t want anyone to see you how I’m about to see you.”

“Could sound a bit selfish if you say that to the wrong people.”

Harry looks over his shoulder and draws the curtains shut, a smirk playing on the corners of his lips. “Call me selfish, then, because I’m not one to share.”

“Come here,” she says from behind him, delicately pulling her skirt from her waist and unfashioning her bathing suit from her torso.

He quickly stops her, “You’re not meant to undress yourself, my love. That’s for me to do.”

“You’re taking quite a while, Mr. Styles, and I’m beginning to grow impatient.”

Harry snorts a laugh and wraps his arms around her midsection, kissing her deeply and running his hands along her half naked body. He’s never touched her like this before, felt her skin so raw beneath his fingertips. Out of every sensation on their skin, each is new and unfiltered, going unscathed by any thoughts or fears. It feels so forbidden, so, unlike him. Even when Harry was in love before this, before Francesca, before the war, he never touched a woman like this, especially a woman that he was not betrothed to. He nearly stutters in his movements, the excitement beginning to get to his brain.

“I want to take you to bed, my dear.”

“No one is stopping you.”

Harry scoops his arms beneath Francesca’s knees and back, lifting her in his arms, smirking when she squeaks in reply. Instinctively, she hides her face in his neck, giggling loudly when he playfully tosses her onto the mattress, yanking his shirt off his torso and laying it in the middle of the floor with hers. He pauses for a moment, basking in the heavy breathing and the tension in the air. “Are you sure about this? I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do, Francesca.”

“More sure than anything else before.”

“I love you,” Harry says, walking towards the bed and climbing above her, his hands holding his weight on her body and his hair falling against her forehead, “so much.”

“I love you.”

Harry and Francesca kiss. Deeply and passionately. More than either of them has ever felt before. It’s like the world stops in that moment, and the only thing that matters is him and her and what they feel for each other and how it will be the most epic love story ever told.

Harry and Francesca make love. Slowly and lovingly. Easing into the motions and feeling everything that each other has to offer. It’s then, when Harry is at his deepest point inside of Francesca and her legs have fallen loosely around his waist and his face is tucked inside her neck, heavy pants breathing against her warm skin, that Harry and Francesca know there’s no going back to what was. Harry and Francesca have set their epic love story into motion.

Harry and Francesca have changed the trajectory of their lives forever.

Outrageous banging on the front door. That’s what wakes Harry from his peaceful slumber with Francesca tucked into his side. Francesca is still naked, having fallen asleep so peacefully after making love beneath the shining moonlight, Harry – who had slipped away for a glass of water throughout the night – adjusted his trousers and shirt and delicately closed the bedroom door, ensuring that she might stay asleep in the midst of the chaos that was about to ensue.

Only one person knew of their location. Only one person knew where they would be and who they were. Only one person could possibly be here.

Unless.

Giuseppe Cartelli is standing at the front door when Harry walks through the wooden hallway. Harry sighs of relief, only to suck in a harsh breath when he notices the artillery held at Giuseppe’s side. He calmly – although in sheer panic inside – opens the front door, gesturing for her father to step inside, his hand turning on the lights of the foyer to greet them.

“Giuseppe, what’s wrong? Have they found us?”

Giuseppe is fuming, foaming at the mouth when Harry says ‘us’ and immediately lifts the gun to his head. “I told you to look after her, to keep her safe! Not to have sex with her, Styles! Tell me, what’s stopping me from putting a bullet through your skull, right now? Hm? Anything?”

Harry swallows thickly, “I’ve kept my word, haven’t I? I’ve kept her safe. I’ve made sure no one came in contact with her, while also making sure she has a good life. That’s what you asked me to do.” Harry knows that he’s already made up his mind, shaking his head and falling to his knees. “It appears that you’ve already made up your mind. Fine. Put a bullet through my skull, Giuseppe, but I upheld my end of the deal.”

“My daughter sleeping with you wasn’t part of the deal, Harry. Last time I checked, the deal was, you keep Frankie out of harm’s way, I keep your family safe. That was our deal, Styles.”

“How did you even know, Giuseppe? It’s not like Francesca and I have it plastered everywhere! Who told you? Who saw us?” Giuseppe looks at Harry and looks to the neighbor’s house through the window. “Fuckin’ Antonio.”

“He kept his eye on you. Made sure you two were safe. There I am, in New York City, worried that my daughter is being chased, while I should’ve been worried that you’d be sleeping with her!”

Harry’s voice is raised, and he’s sure that he can hear Francesca rattling about in the bedroom in search of clothing. He hurriedly begins speaking, worried that she won’t have enough time. “Had Antonio not ratted us out and you barging in here, no one would know! Francesca is an adult, capable of making her own decisions. Francesca sleeping with me was of her own accord.”

“One more word out of your mouth and this bullet is going straight through your brain,” Giuseppe threatens, cocking the gun and loading a bullet into the weapon.

“I don’t care what you want to do to me.” Harry gulps, swallowing his nervousness. “I know you, Giuseppe. You made up your mind long before you came here to talk to me. You want me dead. I’m a threat to you and your family because I make your daughter have a voice in what matters. I’m done playing the part. I have lived my life; I have loved an epic love. One worthy of dying over. Just, let me tell Francesca that I love her. That’s all I ask of you.”

Harry’s eyes flutter shut at the hushed sound of her voice, her feet bare and creaking against the wooden flooring. “Daddy, don’t do this.” Francesca’s voice is coming out hushed and soft. “Daddy, please.”

Giuseppe doesn’t turn away from Harry. “Frankie, there is a car outside. Get inside it.”

“No.”

His head immediately turns towards his daughter, “What?”

“I won’t. I won’t let you hurt Harry,” Francesca takes a step forward dangerously, ignoring Harry’s intense glare and warning blinks. “Harry’s been protecting me for months. He’s done everything you asked. Don’t hurt him. Don’t go back on your word.”

“My word means nothing, Frankie. Better you learn that now than later.”

One step forward. One step towards Harry. Francesca can barely make out the scratch that’s bleeding on his forehead. “Your word meant something to Mother. Don’t let that go in vain, Daddy.”

“Don’t bring your mother into this!”

“Mother has everything to do with this! You were her epic love, Daddy. You did no wrong in her eyes. You were everything to her, despite all the bad you did, all the bad you do. Can’t you see that’s how I feel about Harry? Daddy, I love him.” Harry suddenly looks at Francesca. Love is something they’ve felt, but never said to other people, only each other. Unspoken words that were left unsaid in the midst of the messy sheets and sloppy kisses. Francesca steps forward again. “Don’t take my epic love away from me.”

Giuseppe looks his daughter in the eyes, trying to gauge whether or not she’s trying to spare the man’s life for her sake or his. “Harry Styles is not your epic love, Francesca, you’re only twenty-six.”

“Mother met you at eighteen!”

“Mother and I were very different.”

“How so?”

“You’re not fit to be in love, Francesca.”

“You sent me to live with Harry because someone, somewhere has a death wish for me. Harry became my friend, and yes, I fell in love with him. Maybe that’s because he was protecting me, or maybe it’s because he was my only friend, or maybe it’s because there’s something between us that I very well can’t explain! Either way, how dare you take away my chance at a great love like what you had with Mother because you don’t see me fit to be in love. That’s cruel, Daddy, and Mother wouldn’t stand for it.”

Giuseppe nearly drops his gun at that, but quickly recovers. “Mother wouldn’t want to see you walking around sleeping with every man you’ve met, Francesca.”

Harry scoffs uncontrollably. Harry’s chuckle and smirk earns a smack to the lip with the heel of the gun.

“Happy to report it’s only been Harry, then, Daddy.” Francesca jumps forward, now, laying her hand on her father’s, trying desperately to break where the gun is sitting against Harry’s temple. “Harry’s good to me. He is. I love him and I love the little family that we have together, even though it’s a secret. I love him, Daddy. Don’t take this away from me.”

“Family?”

“Me and Harry and,” Francesca looks away from her father and looks down, her stomach laying flat as her hand cups the underside. Harry looks at her incredulously. He certainly hadn’t expected her to say that, and he certainly didn’t know if she was telling the truth or not.

Francesca couldn’t be pregnant. Logistically, she couldn’t be. For a multitude of reasons. Namely and primarily, because Harry hadn’t finished inside of her, to start with.

Harry keeps a straight face to maintain composure, to try and follow through with the lie. Giuseppe clearly believes her when he says, “Francesca Giovanna,” in his strictest tone yet.

“It just happened, Daddy. I love Harry. I do. Harry loves me, too. He does, and you must see that. Can’t, you can’t hurt him, or else you’re hurting me.”

“Get up,” Giuseppe breaks. “Get up, Styles.” He swallows thickly, “I’m not going to kill you, today. My daughter just spared your life.”

“Well, sir, I would, but I fear with a gun to my head that that may be a trap.”

Francesca looks Giuseppe in the eyes, her eyes a carbon copy of his own, and wishes one last time, “Daddy, put the gun away, please.”

“Fine.” Giuseppe Cartelli, for what very well could be the first time in his life, puts his gun away without firing. “Get up, Styles, before I really do something.”

“Are you okay?” Francesca says hurriedly, holding out her hand and gently tracing over Harry’s face, eyes the blood beginning to spread at the temple and slightly on his bottom lip. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt, Harry.”

Harry gently cups her cheeks and whispers, “My love, I’m fine.”

Everything is quiet for a moment, Francesca wrapping her arms tightly around Harry’s neck, repeatedly kissing his cheeks for comfort, his hands splayed across her lower back, holding her tightly to his chest and wishing now, more than ever, they were alone to simply rest.

Almost eerily, the telephone in the kitchen begins to ring. Giuseppe quickly recovers from his thoughts, “Stay here.” Harry and Francesca nod, trying to listen to the conversation from the room next door and barely making out the words, “Alright, okay. I hear you, Stefan. Goodbye.”

Francesca steps away from Harry and immediately rushes to her father’s side, “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

Giuseppe ignores Francesca’s hurried, fearful question, and looks to Harry, determination and maybe even the slightest bit of fear in his eyes and says, “Harry, you love my daughter?”

Harry steps forward. “More than anything. I would lay down my life for her, Giuseppe. She’s everything to me. You must know that.”

“I need you to take Francesca far away from here.” Giuseppe doesn’t dare to look at Francesca, if he does, he will crack. He looks Harry straight in the eyes and swallows thickly, using his most even tone to say, “You will take her far away; you will marry her. Change her last name. Change everything.”

Harry and Francesca both tilt their heads in confusion. “What?”

“If you love her and your child, you will do this for them, do you understand me?” Giuseppe takes a step forward, laying his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “If you respect me, you will do this for me.”

“But Daddy!”

“No, Frankie! They’ve raided our house and killed everyone guarding your whereabouts in my office, in our home. They found out that you’ve been staying here with Harry. They know you’re here. They’re coming for you both. You don’t have much time.”

“Daddy, I don’t want to go. I love it here. I want to stay.”

“I know, I know,” Giuseppe says softly, turning around and kissing Francesca’s forehead softly. “I love you, Francesca. Love you more than anything, but you must go. Mother wouldn’t want you to get caught in all this.”

“Francesca,” Harry says daringly, reaching out and grabbing her hand gently, “darling, we must go. It’s not safe here, anymore. They’ll be here before we know it.”

“I can’t leave my father behind, Harry!”

“He’ll be okay. We’ll write and send photographs. Father will be okay. Get to the car. Let me grab some things you’ll need.”

“Daddy,” Francesca cries, wrapping her arms around her father’s midsection and hugging him tightly. She doesn’t know when she’ll see him again, and the thought of it terrifies her. Harry in her life or not, she needs her family.

“Go, Frankie! Listen to Harry.”

Harry pries Francesca from her father’s hold, grabbing her cheeks and whispering, “Through the back entrance, my love. Go straight to the car. Go.”

“Harry, don’t be long. They’ll come for you, too.”

“I’ll meet you; I promise. Francesca, you won’t be alone.”

Francesca runs outside and to the car, suddenly feeling very afraid and exposed to the world. Her clothing is modest, she dressed what felt to be appropriate for hearing her father booming at her lover in the corridor, and yet everything feels to be a bit too much for someone on the run. Hurriedly, she locks the doors, sinking into the seat and trying to breathe in and out as smoothly as possible. This all happened so quickly, so absurdly fast. There’s no way this is real.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Francesca nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound.

“Open the car, my love.” Harry is standing outside her window. Francesca opens the door and takes a breath for the first time in minutes. “Here, a sweater for you.”

Francesca looks down and notices the gun holstered to Harry’s hip, “You have my father’s gun.”

Harry sighs and brushes a stray hair away from her cheek reassuringly, “He’s okay, dear. Giuseppe has people on the way and is friends with the coppers here. They’re on their way, now. But they’ll try to take you if we don’t hurry soon.” He shuts her door quietly and hurries around to the driver’s seat. Getting in and starting the engine, the first thing he does is takes her hand in his, holding it tightly to comfort her. His left hand still adorns the faux wedding band, as does hers.

For some while, Francesca is silent, simply staring out the window with tears on her cheeks, her temple cold against the cool glass. Harry doesn’t say a word, simply letting her feel her emotions and bask in the silence until she’s ready.

“Harry, I have no one left.”

Harry sighs deeply, “I know it feels that way, but you have me, Francesca. You’ll always have me.”

“Mother is gone,” she whispers, barely above her breath, as though someone is listening to her unspoken truths. “Father can’t contact me.”

“Obviously the situation isn’t ideal, but you have me, and we’ll find a way to keep in contact with your father. I promise that we will.”

Francesca doesn’t say anything for a moment, gathering her courage. “Harry, I have to tell you something, before you think too much of it, and I feel horribly for lying to you as our world falls apart.”

“Darling, you don’t have to say anything. I know.”

“You know?” she says confusedly, finally turning her head to stare at him. “Harry, I’m not actually pregnant. There’s no baby. I just, I didn’t know how else to get my father to leave you alone.”

“I know, my dear. I know.” Harry squeezes her hand and kisses the back of it sweetly. “There’s no way you could be pregnant, I knew you were lying. I could tell.”

“I just, I had to say something to make my father lose his guard a bit, to get him to put the gun down.”

He sighs knowingly, licking at his bottom lip that has finally stopped bleeding. “That was wrong to tell him that, Francesca. Now, you and me, we have even bigger problems. We will solve them, though. Together.”

“Why is that?”

“Because,” Harry breathes out, shaking his head and tightening his grip on her hand and the steering wheel. “He’s going to expect you to send photographs and things of a child that we don’t have. Family that we haven’t started yet. Although I know your intentions were pure, this may have caused more harm than good for us in the long run.”

“I, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted the gun to be put down. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“I know, my love, I know.”

And the rest of the remaining day is driven in silence, as the sun rises over the mountains and the trees sway in the wind. Francesca looks behind her, noting the degree tucked between the suitcases that Harry always had packed away in their wardrobe as a “just in case” precaution. Francesca never believed him when he said they might need it one day.

Francesca never believed that things would get this bad, that she and Harry would have to run away again, and yet here they are, driving to an unknown destination on that dreaded day.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Harry and Francesca found themselves settling in a quaint, little town about ten minutes from Oregon’s center. It had everything they wanted – the police force for Harry, the pediatricians’ offices for Francesca, the flower fields and the large patches of land, the space to roam and grow and feel as though they weren’t stuck in hiding, rather, making a new life for themselves. Harry’s time in Germany with the British Mediterranean Fleet led him to good standing with the force and Francesca felt safe knowing that he was working to protect the city, and more importantly, to protect her. Francesca was graciously accepted into a new practice in town, her degree hanging proudly in her office with her name and shiny new nameplate. Francesca has yet to change her last name legally, but that isn’t to say that she’s not anticipating doing so. She knows her safety and her life rests in the hands of Harry protecting her, and the thought of marrying him is not so unappealing. After all, they’re madly and deeply in love.

Francesca and Harry’s routine is nearly the same every day, apart from the days they go into town and have dinner with their friends that they’ve made around the neighborhood. Harry, who still wears his wedding band, and Francesca, who still wears Harry’s mother’s engagement ring, have admittedly told people that they’re married simply to avoid the questioning of a young couple living together before they’ve properly dated, engaged, and married. Harry finds that he’s taken much more seriously as a married man. Francesca, who goes by Mrs. Styles, at the office, finds the same. Marriage, although something they’ve begun to talk about more seriously, has always seemed so farfetched from reality, that neither of them fully believe that this is a decision that is being made on their own, which may be the very reason Harry has waited three months since running from Cape Cod to properly propose.

Harry has a plan. Maybe that’s a bit of a gracious term to be saying, but he has an idea. An idea that he believes will work well.

Harry, upon entering the master bedroom while she bathes for the evening, takes the engagement ring from her nightstand, and tucks it away in his pocket for safekeeping. He knows that he wants to use it, again, to properly propose this time, but the only way he would be able to get without her knowing is if he’s made her think she’s lost it. Obviously, a terrible rouse, but it would have to do for this time, for this occasion. Francesca would forgive him in the long run – or so he wants to believe – and it would be worth it to see her smile knowing she’s a properly engaged woman. Harry knows that’s what she wants, and he is willing to do anything to give that to her. After all, Harry promised her that he would give her everything.

It doesn’t take more than twelve hours for Francesca to realize that ring is missing.

It’s early in the morning, after they’ve made love all night and rested very little, when Francesca wakes and turns to her bedside table to do her daily routine of sliding her ring on her finger and her medallions around her neck – the medallions that her father gave her at her christening when she was just an infant – and when she realizes the ring isn’t there, she begins to worry. Francesca checks the drawers, beneath the glass plate that typically holds her jewelry, beneath her bed, wondering if she and Harry had knocked it over when they were rolling beneath the sheets. Her heart sinks to her stomach when she realizes that it’s nowhere to be found, and she wonders if she left it at her office by accident, in the little plate by her notepad and nameplate where she usually tucks her ring to avoid it being snagged on her rubber gloves.

Francesca is nearly ready to burst into tears when she hears the door creak open and sees Harry’s face poke through the door, presumably to see if she’s awake.

Harry interrupts her thoughts with a cup of coffee and a bright smile, “Good morning, my love.” The sight of Harry alone comforts her enough to dry the tears that have welled in her eyes. Surely, she must’ve left the ring at the office. That’s the only other place she’d left it. She’ll retrieve it on Monday, and everything will be fine. “Coffee?”

“Good morning,” she hums, tucking the duvet around her naked chest and moving her legs beneath the sheets to allow him to sit beside her. Their Sundays are typically like this, calm and easy, and she prefers it that way. It reminds her that for once in her life, she, Francesca Cartelli is a normal person. “Thank you.”

“Is everything all right, dear?”

“It is, I’m fine, I just,” she sighs, taking a sip of her coffee and setting it on her bedside table. “I must’ve left my ring at the office. I don’t like leaving it there, and I swore I brought it home with me, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere, and that’s the last place it could be.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it at the office, my love. Not something to worry about today,” he assures her, smiling warmly and kissing her forehead. Her lips pucker at the sensation, waiting for the kiss that would jolt all her nerves and wake her up firmly for the day. Harry chuckles and happily obliges, kissing her sweetly and not once, but twice, before pulling away. “I’d like to go to one of those flower fields, today, if you’d like. We’ll have a picnic and spend the day there.”

“Ooh, that sounds lovely. What time did you want to leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready for the day, my dear. No rush. Have your coffee, steal your kisses, get yourself ready. I have some work to attend to in the office and then I’ll be ready.”

Francesca nods and takes another sip of her coffee, smiling at him from behind her mug. Harry knows they’ve been talking about going to the flower fields all summer, but have yet to go because of their busy schedules, so the thought of going isn’t drawing suspicion from his lover, more so, the distraction of not knowing that her ring is in his bedside table is eating away at her. “I love you,” she says suddenly, setting her coffee down and draping her arms over his shoulders.

“I love you more, Francesca,” Harry grins, maneuvering their bodies slightly so she’s laying back down on their pillows and he’s hovering above her. “Love you more than life itself.” He kisses her delicately, as though she may break if he kisses her too deeply, and he chuckles when she whines and kisses him harder. “Made me love life again.”

“I did?”

“Very much so.”

Francesca smiles and lightly kisses Harry once more, basking in the sunlight peeking through their curtains and the way his body feels on top of hers, her hands running through his hair. Her heart is pounding against his ear, and the rhythm makes his eyes flutter shut. He could fall asleep like this, in the comfort of her arms. He does, most nights, not caring what that would say about his masculinity or manliness. Harry didn’t mind what that would say about him, all that mattered was what Francesca thought and how she felt, and, in that moment, she felt more in love with him than ever before, in their tiny cottage in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon, right along the beach, where their lives had only just begun with each other and for the rest of their days.

To love is to consume you, and by God, was Harry consumed by Francesca’s love.

Harry and Francesca walk hand in hand through the flower fields, admiring the tulips and the roses and the sunflowers blooming in the warm summer air. Francesca is wearing her favorite dress, the one with embroidered suns and moons on the skirt and the plain baby blue silk bodice that accentuates her chest and her olive skin. Harry is in his most famous Sunday Best, his leather shoes and khaki shorts and a neatly ironed shirt that Francesca insisted on re-ironing this morning to ensure that it matched her own outfit. Carrying the picnic basket (with the ring tucked inside), Harry leads Francesca through the fields, settling in the patch of the park that overlooks the flowers and the sunshine is beating down on the grass and the wind is brushing through their hair just right. Harry lays the blanket down gently, smiling brightly at his lover as she basks in the sunlight and the breeze and the way she feels with the love of her life by her side.

Harry knows he’s going to do it any minute, and so when Francesca turns around and Harry’s on one knee with the engagement ring held between his fingertips, the gasp that leaves her mouth makes him chuckle, and the “Harry, what are you doing?” makes him smile brightly.

“I’m doing what I’ve wanted to do since the day you turned eighteen, Francesca, since I saw you in Landmark’s Tavern, since we danced together and I knew it was love at first sight,” Harry says surely, as though nothing has been more certain for anything in his life. “I have never been so sure of anything in my life, nor have I have ever loved anyone as much as I love you. I’m not perfect with my words and I’m not sure where our lives are headed, but I want to do everything with you.” Francesca’s hand covers her mouth as Harry continues to speak, the excitement and love in her eyes enough to make him continue. “I’ve imagined this proposal a dozen times over the last ten years, and I would do anything for it to be perfect for you. I would do anything to make your life exactly what you want it to be.” Harry sighs happily and takes her left hand, lifting the ring to her finger, “Would you do me the absolute honor of marrying me?”

“I’m surprised you even have to ask,” Francesca grins, holding her hand out and excitedly waiting for Harry to slide the ring onto her finger. “It would be an absolute honor to be your wife.” Harry slides the ring onto her hand and stands on his feet, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his lips to hers, kissing her deeply. “I’m so excited to be your wife.”

“And I am just as excited to have you as my wife,” Harry smiles, kissing her cheeks and squeezing his arms around her midsection. “For real this time.”

Very much for real this time.

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