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stylesharrys · 3 months

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All That You Are | Part 1 [Mafiarry]

Y/N is thrown into her new life as Harry’s wife, and Harry has to learn and prepare himself to take over the New York Famiglia.

A/N: grab yourself some snacks and get comfy cos you're in for a long ride! I really hope you guys love this series like I do <3 p.s. this used to be an OC fic, I have edited to make it reader instead, so if you come across any certain descriptions of the readers hair colour, skin etc. let me know as they were all supposed to be edited out!

Warnings: mentions of blood and violence, sexual themes, mentions of r*pe, swearing, arranged marriage, mentions of alcohol and drug use

WC: 19.5k

Her tears have dried, though they still threaten to spill from her eyes. Eighteen is supposed to mean a party and your first sip of alcohol for a woman of the mafia.

Not for Y/N.

It’s an engagement party and her final social activity as a free woman. As if she could ever have been considered free. Women are never free. Only free for men to fuck and abuse whenever they please.

Y/N has never liked parties and she doesn’t exactly like people, either. Well, the only parties she’s ever attended are those of strict rules and professionalism and, maybe, being locked away your whole life does that to someone; makes you socially awkward and nervous in the presence of boys.

She shivers at the thought of a boy even noticing her, and now she’s engaged to the most attractive Made Man she’s ever heard of.

Her mother stands behind her, stern face and dressed in a tight lavender dress. She zips up Y/N’s cream dress and admires it in the mirror for a moment.

It’s form-fitting, small ruffles across the waist and it ends a few inches above her knees. It’s the most daring and revealing dress Y/N has ever worn, and it bubbles nerves and excitement within her.

Gaia gazes at her through the mirror with a distant look in her eyes. She can remember when she was Y/N’s age, married off to Giovanni. She can remember the fear and terror that consumed her body… that still does.

Y/N frowns. “Are you okay, Mother?”

It’s meant to come out much louder than it does. She sounds like a frail child. She is. Gaia snaps out of her trance and plasters on a smile, but it’s the same smile she uses after Giovanni finishes beating her. It doesn’t sit well in her daughter's stomach.

“You look absolutely gorgeous, figlia,” she tells her.

Y/N keeps her back to her and continues to admire the dress in the tall mirror. At least she’ll look pretty. Gaia brushes the top of her shoulders and twirls her curled locks around her finger.

“Behave tonight. This is more than just an engagement party. We can’t have Stefano changing his mind.” She warns.

She isn’t thinking about the heartache and pain Y/N will have to endure, she’s thinking about the countless nights that Giovanni will abuse her if this wedding doesn’t happen. Y/N nods her head, nerves bubbling in her stomach.

In thirty minutes, she’ll be surrounded by strangers as they judge and prod her. In thirty minutes, she’ll be meeting her future husband; one of the youngest, most dangerous Made Men in New York.

She’s known for two months now, since she got home from school and Giovanni broke the news. She spent the night fighting, sobbing and kicking and begging him not to throw her away like that. Begged for him not to hand her over to a man of such power, who will beat and hurt and abuse her.

Though when she thinks about it, it’s not much different from her current home life. She gave up fighting after he beat her bloody and blue. Her lip is still swollen from it and a soft bruise is hidden under her eye.

It’s lucky Gaia knows how to apply makeup. Y/N supposes she’s had enough bruises and scars of her own to hide over the years.

She thinks she should consider herself lucky, really. Most girls in Y/N’s position never even meet their husbands before their wedding day. At least she will have an entire night to find out who her sick father has chosen and have three years to prepare herself. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

Her eyes meet Gaia’s in the mirror. She hopes to find a hint of sadness in them, a flicker of guilt that she’s allowing her husband to do such a thing to their daughter. Y/N can’t hate her, no matter how much she tries. Gaia doesn’t have a choice in the matter. This is business between her father and the New York Famiglia. She’ll only get a black eye and a bollocking if she tries to intervene.

“Where’s Bruno?” Y/N asks softly, voice hoarse from the way she cried herself to sleep the night before.

She hasn’t seen her brother in almost a week, and she’s beginning to wonder if he’s actually going to show up at the party tonight. She needs his support—not that he’ll ever really offer any. He’s too far up Giovanni’s ass.

Bruno Saccaro is his father's son. Dirty, loyal and merciless. He’s only three years older than Y/N, but every inch of his black heart serves for one thing only.

Murder.

He was initiated at thirteen, just two days after his first kill, where he tortured and maimed a man twice his age before stabbing him in the side of the head with his beloved knife. He’s sick, just like Giovanni.

Though when they were children, he was her protector, the second he took his first kill, he became blood-hungry and protecting his baby sister was at the bottom of his list of priorities. Y/N’s sure she isn’t even on the list anymore. The only thing Bruno cares about is pussy and the Famiglia. She wouldn’t be surprised if Bruno was the one that suggested marrying her off in the first place.

“Business,” Gaia responds. “He’ll be at the party later, don’t worry.” She must sense her discomfort, but even her words don’t soothe her.

Y/N can’t imagine what her brother will be like at the party. Will no doubt have his cock buried in some girl within the first ten minutes. The thought makes her heave. He’s not the brother she used to have. He’s just like their father now.

A soft tap on the door breaks Y/N from her daze and Maria pops her head through the crack in the door. Short pink hair is the first thing she sees and a relieved smile breaks onto her face.

Maria Saccaro. Y/N’s first and only cousin, barely three weeks younger than her and the only descendent of Romero Saccaro, Giovanni’s younger brother and Y/N’s Uncle.

“Auntie Gaia, can I have a moment with Y/N, please?” She asks softly, like butter wouldn’t melt on that pierced tongue of hers.

Y/N almost rolls her eyes at the girl. Her bright pink hair gives away everything anyone needs to know. Maria doesn’t obey rules, she breaks them and finds loopholes just to piss her father off.

Y/N remembers one night when they were ten, when Maria told her she purposely did stupid shit in hopes of giving her father a heart attack so he’d finally die. Six years later and she’s still unsuccessful. Though, Y/N did hear that her Uncle Romero has to watch his cholesterol. Maybe her cousin's insolence is finally paying off.

Gaia hums and leaves the room, not sparing a second glance at her niece, keeping the door ajar and Maria rolls her eyes, flouncing down onto the chaise lounge.

“God, your Mom is such a drip,” she scoffs.

Y/N stifles a laugh and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her mother may be good at makeup but nothing will ever cover up the insecurity in her eyes and three weeks of sleep deprivation under them.

Y/N shakes her head and turns to her cousin. “What did Uncle Romero say about your hair?” she asks, concern swimming in her eyes and Maria lifts her bangs from her face.

There’s a thick purple bruise across her temple and an angry line of stitching down the centre of it. Y/N gasps, hand covering her mouth with wide eyes. Maria shakes her hand in dismissal.

“He clubbed me with his fucking ashtray,” she sighs. “The look on his face was totally worth it, though,” she tries to break out in a grin but Y/N sees right through it.

Maria may act like she doesn’t give a shit, but really, she’s just as scared of her father as Y/N is of hers.

Romero Saccaro, Consigliere to his older brother, Giovanni, and widowed father to Maria. He’s been married twice already in his lifetime. His first wife was killed by his own hands and his second by suicide.

Maria could never blame her Mother for taking the easy way out. She often contemplates it herself. It’s a surprise that he hasn’t tried to marry Maria off yet to form an alliance. Though perhaps it’s for the best that no one has tried. She’s too temperamental, too disobedient. Her husband would get tired of her and give her back.

When an arranged marriage occurs, the husband is promised a beautiful, unscathed wife. While Maria is incredibly beautiful and just as much of a virgin as Y/N, she’s also gobby and dominant. She fights back, and that kind of attitude will get her killed. Maybe Romero does care for his daughter after all. Or maybe his ego is too big for his daughter to ruin.

“Can’t believe you’re meeting your future husband today. Happy fucking birthday,” she mutters out, words laced with venom.

Y/N sighs, shoulders sagging as the nerves come back with full force. “He’s worse than Father. Harry Dellucci kills for fun. At least Father waits until he has good reason to murder somebody… not that it makes it any better,” she mumbles.

Maria stares at her cousin with an incredulous look. “Uncle Giovanni is a fifty-year-old fuck-tard with bigger tits than me,” she begins, trying not to laugh at Y/N’s grimace. “Harry Styles-Dellucci is a twenty-two-year-old God, with a body of a God, the voice of a God-“

“Okay, I get it. He’s God-like,” Y/N cuts her off through a burst of laughter, cheeks flushed and Maria howls that maniacal laugh with her.

“Who’s God-like?” A thick, northern voice booms through their laughter and the room falls silent.

Y/N jumps in her skin out of fear, shrivels into herself as she turns on her feet. A tall, brown-haired man stands before them, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips in a cynical yet playful manner and Y/N’s heart plummets to her knees.

In all of his 6 foot glory, Harry Styles-Dellucci stands tall, thick body clad in a typical oxford suit and Y/N gulps at the hard sight of him.

Harry eyes his future bride. Soft hair curled and twisted into an elegant updo, gentle makeup on her brazen features, but the look in her eyes screams terror. She’s tiny. He knew she was only eighteen, but God, he hoped she’d be somewhat of a woman already. But she isn’t, she’s a child, and Harry struggles to keep that smirk on his lips.

She’s a child.

Mike stands beside him, eyes focused on Maria and her bright pink hair. She catches his intense gaze, the flirtatious smirk on his lips that screams mischief and she blushes, returning the look with false confidence.

Though she may try, even Maria is a blushing mess in the presence of mafia men. No amount of hair dye and secret piercings in the world can ever change that.

“Does Uncle Giovanni know you’re up here?” Maria quips and Harry turns to her, brows raised.

He knows who she is, who all of Y/N’s family and her tiny group of socialites are. He did his homework. He takes in her pink hair, the attitude in her eyes and the way she pops her hip out with a hand resting on it. Definitely the troublemaker.

“Giovanni sent me up here. I want to be alone with my fiancée for a moment before the celebrations begin,” he tells her.

God, his voice drips sex and the sound of it alone has both fear and comfort setting in Y/N’s stomach, and an unrelenting pulsing between her legs. She knows that feeling all too well, though she’ll never admit to it.

Y/N bites back a gasp and clears her throat. Harry watches her nervously twiddling her thumbs. “Is that even allowed? You’re not married yet.” Maria reminds him.

And thank God, Harry thinks to himself. She’s just a child.

“Maria, it’s okay. If Father sent him up, it’s okay. I’ll see you in a little while,” she nods to her cousin but Maria doesn’t want to leave her alone with the notorious Made Man and his right-hand man.

Harry notices her hesitancy.

“Mikey, why don’t you escort Maria downstairs.” His eyes never leave Y/N as he speaks in a slow, dulcet tone, but her eyes remain glued to the floor. Goosebumps break out onto her skin, but she isn’t cold.

Mike silently escorts the young girl out and closes the door behind him, leaving the soon-to-be couple alone. Harry squints at her. She’s curled into herself, fear dripping off her body in waves.

He takes a tentative step toward her, hands in his pockets and retrieves a small velvet box. Harry opens it and offers it to the girl.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

With arms around her middle, Y/N finally looks up at him and his breath is lodged in his throat. She’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. Bright eyes and soft, gentle skin that he wants nothing more than to caress. If she’s this gorgeous now, Harry can’t comprehend what she’ll be like in three years time.

Being so up close, he sees her properly. The perfect slope of her nose, the sparkle in her distant eyes. He can see the sparse dotting of freckles across her nose and cheeks beneath the thin layer of makeup, the twitch in the arch of her shaped brows, the fullness of her painted lips.

Y/N takes the box from him slowly. The golden band stares right back at her, a thick diamond sitting in the centre and she lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s beautiful,” she forces herself to mutter out but Harry can see she’s trying to bite back a sob.

It is beautiful… but it’s plain, generic. A wedding ring should be personal, should mean something. Harry takes it from the box and gently reaches for her hand. Her skin is warm, even softer than it looks and his lips twitch. Y/N purses her lips. His fingers are rough and cold as he slides the ring onto her finger and just like that, she’s his.

The ring hangs heavy on her hand. A golden cage. She bites back another cry.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, hands close to her chest again and Harry tilts his head.

He can read her body like a book and he’s only known her for a few moments. There’s fear in the way she holds herself, but now her eyes are void of emotion, like she’s suddenly completely coming to terms with what will happen. Like she’s accepted it — like she’s empty.

Y/N looks back down to her feet and a strand of beautifully curled hair falls into her face. Harry reaches to brush it back, wonders if it’s also as soft as it looks, but she flinches back and he stills. Harry frowns. What has Giovanni done to the girl?

“Y/N,” he speaks softly, regarding the girl with a tone he’s only ever shown to his mother and sister.

The sound of her name slipping from his lips has her peering up at him, crystal eyes boring into his emerald ones and his heart leaps.

So fucking beautiful.

He reaches a hand against her face again and caresses her warm cheek. She flushes under his touch but doesn’t flinch away.

“Are you scared of me?” He asks.

Y/N gulps and lets out a shaky breath. “You’re a Made Man. You kill and you torture. Of course, I’m afraid of you,” she breathes and it’s the first proper sentence she’s directly said to him… that she’s afraid.

Harry remains quiet, letting himself revel in the sound of her voice. Silky soft, just like her skin and hair.

He dips his face down so he’s level with her. Even with her four-inch heels, he still towers above her, Y/N’s eyes level with his clavicle.

“I kill and torture those who deserve it, those who betray me,” he tells her. “But you are going to be my wife, Y/N. And fear has no place in a marriage.”

She dares to gaze up at him, his face stoic as she notices the sparse hairs that coat his chin and upper lip and she wishes she could read what he’s thinking, like he can read her. Her eyes are dazzling up at him, thick and dark lashes fluttering beneath the thin coating of mascara on them.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

“I’ve never not been afraid,” she admits and she isn’t sure why she’s telling him.

What if he uses the knowledge to prey on her? What if he laughs in her face? She doesn’t know why she tells him, but the bubbling in the pit of her stomach stops when she does. The confession burns something in the pit of Harry’s stomach and it’s only now that he notices the subtle discolouration beneath her left eye.

Bruises.

His thumb brushes over the soft skin and she shudders, tries to shy away but he keeps her head in place.

“He won’t hurt you anymore.”

Harry’s cocky smirk is gone as he peers down at her, a promising glint in his eyes and she’s never heard anything so tender and honest. She wants to believe him, that he won’t hurt her anymore. But she isn’t Harry’s wife yet, so Giovanni still has free reign over what he does to his daughter, no matter what Harry tries to promise.

Y/N nods her head and takes a step back. She avoids his gaze and Harry knows she doesn’t believe him. The wedding isn’t for another three years. Three years of being under Giovanni’s hold and dreading the day they’re bound for life.

He never asked for this marriage either, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make his wife’s life a living hell. He’s seen the pain and torture Stefano inflicts on his Mother and in early years, on his sister too, and he’d rather be slaughtered than to inflict that same pain on another so undeserving.

He always promised himself that whether he marries for love or for the Famiglia, he’ll never lay a hand on his wife. Never do anything to hurt her.

Harry wishes to change many things when he becomes Capo, but what men do to their wives can never be one of them. Once married, the woman becomes the man’s possession, and not even a Capo dei Capi can decide what husbands do to their wives. Willing or not.

Y/N doesn’t say anything on the matter though, she knows how it works and she’s too couped up in her own thoughts. She doesn’t want to argue back, so she bites her tongue and remains silent.

She doesn’t want to be one of those submissive housewives that keeps a nice house and their husband's bed warm. She doesn't want to be silent like her Mother. But she has to be realistic, and in her unfortunate luck, she’ll never be able to marry for love. She'll never have the freedom of going anywhere without a guard, or have a job or go to college. She'll never make friends with women her age, or go clubbing and sleep around a little.

She’s his possession.

Her life was signed away the day she was born. Hell, Giovanni started seeking eligible husbands when she was still in the womb, it didn’t matter that they were already in their 20’s at the time. She’s considering herself lucky that Harry is only four years older than her.

She’s come to terms with it. Of never being able to make any decisions for herself. Of never having freedom. Of never feeling loved or safe. She’s spent her whole life in denial, hoping, praying that a fairytale Prince would crash into her life and sweep her off her feet, take her away from the mafia and the pain. She’s always known better, but maybe now it’s only just sunk in.

She glances back down at the golden cage on her finger. A beautiful ring to bind her to a lifetime of misery.

“Our fathers think it’s best if we arrive together.” His rugged voice cuts through the silence again.

Y/N clears her throat and nods her head, patting down the soft material of her dress and it clings to her body even tighter than before. Harry stifles a groan at the sight of her round hips and straightens his back. The longer he watches her, the less childlike she looks.

He offers his hand to her, palm outstretched and Y/N gawks at it like it’s from another planet. His fingers are adorned with intricately styled rings and he almost forgets she’s probably never held a man’s hand before.

He’ll be her first everything and the thought alone makes him twitch in excitement. She takes his warm hand with a hidden blush on her cheeks.

When they arrive at the doors, all eyes are on him and her. Hushed whispers echo through the ballroom, talk of her beauty and how he’s going to corrupt and break her. Harry smirks at the attention, he always has been one for the spotlight, but Y/N cowers into herself.

Her grip on his hand becomes tighter but she doesn’t notice it. Harry doesn’t say anything.

He tightens his hold on hers just enough for the reassurance she needs. Harry leads them both into the ballroom, soft music playing from the little string quartet in the corner and it looks like a fairytale wedding.

But it’s not.

It’s a forced engagement party for an arranged marriage that she doesn’t have a choice in. Harry had the choice of who he could marry, he wasn’t going to complain about the situation when she wasn’t given the same.

The party consists of uncomfortable dancing, heavy alcohol and Y/N and Harry’s families subtly digging at the other. She’s been tucked under his heavy arm for over an hour, a third glass of champagne in her hand and she bravely ignores the warning look on Giovanni’s face.

He told her before the party she was allowed two glasses at most. She knows what happens when she disobeys him, yet she finds herself finishing the third glass and reaching for a fourth.

Harry notices, too. He squeezes her hip each time she finishes a glass. It’s not a warning, nor a recommendation to stop. It’s a reminder of what Giovanni will do if she continues. It’s his way of trying to protect her while he can’t just yet. She ignores it, nonetheless. Maybe a good beating might make her feel a little more alive.

As his cousins leave their side, she lets out a deep breath and her shoulders relax with her exhale. Before Harry can say anything else, a broad figure is making its way over and he feels Y/N stiffen beside him again.

He reaches down for her hand, their fingers bumping and he loops his pinkie finger around hers. The touch doesn’t go unnoticed by the guest as he holds his hand out for Harry to shake.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” his gruff voice speaks and Y/N peers up through her lashes.

Dante Vitiello, The Boss.

People quaked in Harry’s presence, but in Dante’s? There were hardly any survivors. He’s a ruthless killer, initiated at the age of 11 after he killed a man with his bare hands. Y/N supposes that’s where he got his nickname from; Dante ‘The Vice’ Vitiello. She shudders under his gaze. She doesn’t know the man, only the stories that brave souls dared to chatter.

But Harry… Harry knows Dante. He trained with him when he was younger and they both thought themselves as friendly colleagues, a few stressed nights often sharing one another's company in Harry’s club, surrounded by a few women that they tended to pass around.

They had a bond, one Harry knew would always secure his position as future Capo and Dante always knew Harry would come through. Then there’s that one thing they both have in common; a mutual hatred for the fucked system their ancestors put in place; arranged marriages, the presentation of the sheets, disrespecting women.

Harry thanks him as Dante addresses Y/N, palm barely open as he offers a soft hold. She takes his hand and Dante brings it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He can feel her body stiffen further but it’s tradition. He drops her hand gently and she curls closer to Harry again. Even in the mere hours of knowing him, she seeks comfort in his embrace.

Harry says nothing.

Dante doesn’t look back at her. Though she appears much older than just eighteen, he’s nearing thirty and the last thing he wants is to make her even more uncomfortable. Besides, he remembers how he felt when the last Boss kissed his fiancée’s hand and eyed her up like a piece of meat, all those years ago.

“I’m sure Stefano and Giovanni will talk to you later about the arrangement but I’d like to let you know in advance,” Dante begins.

His accent is much thicker since the last time Harry saw him. He’s a typical Italian man. Tall and broad, dark hair, structured face and a well-maintained stubble.

“The wedding is set for October 16th…” he turns to Y/N, “... two weeks after your twenty-first birthday. The wedding will be here, again, and after the formalities and traditions, the next day you’ll both go back to New York.” All three wince at the sugar-coated mention of the bloody sheets but Y/N is the only one that makes it known.

She zones out after that, too caught in her own thoughts. Harry’s attractive, undeniably, but it doesn’t make the idea of having to sleep with him on their wedding night any easier.

Maybe if he was a family friend that she grew up with and was forced to marry, it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d have that bond of trust and familiarity with him, but that’s not the case. She doesn’t know him, therefore she can’t trust him. Every man in her life has beaten and abused her. Every man apart from Gomez.

Her eyes flutter across the hall in search of him. Now that she’s thought of him, she doesn’t remember seeing him since he came with her to the Saccaro Mansion. She searches and searches until she finds him standing off to the side, hands folded in front of him.

His dark blond hair is swept back in a formal quiff and his suit is tight on his body. Y/N doesn’t shudder when she looks at him, instead, she finds a sense of relief and safety wash over her.

Antonio Gomez has been by her side since she was born. He was Giovanni’s right-hand man when he first became Capo and was trusted with the job of protecting his little baby girl when she was born.

Gomez was only twenty when he was trusted with her life and had vowed to himself to always protect her. She still remembers the first time Giovanni hit her. She was five and had dropped her water on the rug.

She remembers the sting of her Father’s hand across her chubby face and the way Gomez ran for him, pinned him against the wall. But she remembers the sound of Giovanni’s gun exploding as he put a bullet in Gomez’ thigh as a warning. He never protected Y/N from him again, despite how much he wanted to.

“Y/N?” she hears Harry’s drawled voice call her name and she snaps her eyes away from her guard and back up to her fiancée.

“I need to speak with my Father. Would you like to come or join your family?” he asks her quietly and she reaches up to scratch at the bridge of her nose, a nervous habit, when she realises their pinkies are still linked.

He lets go and she clears her throat, taking a small step back and patting down the dress that hasn’t given her the confidence she hoped it would.

“Uh, I’ll go see Maria,” she mumbles with pursed lips and awkwardly walks past him, not standing around long enough for him to reach down and kiss her cheek in a polite manner.

Instead, he watches her walk away to her gushing, pink-haired cousin who has definitely drunk at least two bottles of champagne in the past hour. He waits until Y/N reaches her and he sees her shoulders relax, then a hand sits on his and he turns, his Father already by his side.

“She’s a real beauty, Harry. Don’t know how you can wait another three years for your wedding day.” Stefano’s perverted voice leaks through his ears.

Harry tries not to grimace or put a bullet in his leg for his comment. “I like my women with consent,” he mumbles, eyes back on her curved frame as she nervously wrings her hands while listening to Maria.

Stefano barks out a laugh, like not wanting to rape someone is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Suit yourself.”

He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that no more will be said about his fiancée, but Mike joins them both, eyes alert and posture sturdy. He reaches Harry and stands beside him, hands folded across his chest.

“Pretty little thing you got over there,” he remarks teasingly, though his voice holds no threat. He’s just stating facts but it still doesn’t sit well with Harry.

Mike has been his guard for three years now, and was one of Stefano’s soldiers beforehand. Harry and Mike have always been close, always shared too much between them both and Harry’s right-hand man and best friend, Jeff.

The three of them often spend their nights at the club, fucked between six or seven girls with strobe lights flashing. It’s a much more regular occurrence than when Harry does it with Dante.

He supposes there won’t be any more of that when he’s married.

He hums. Y/N’s eyes find him as she listens to something Maria says. She holds his gaze but something is off. Her body is rigid as she stands straight but her shoulders are slumped. Harry stares at her for another moment, eyes squinted when he notices hers are void of emotion.

She stares at him, like he’s not even there. Her face is blank, an expression that his soldiers have taken years to master. Harry gulps down something he doesn’t understand.

He hopes he hasn’t already broken her.

When the evening is over and the guests have left, Y/N and Harry are standing idly by the exit. Their separate cars are waiting for them as they say their goodbyes, families watching from their cars. She hasn’t relaxed much as the night progressed and now that she’s standing back by his side, her shoulders are stiff again and there’s a lump in her throat.

She knows she won’t be seeing him for another three years, that this is a temporary goodbye. Her heart begins to thump. Is he going to kiss her? Is he allowed? They’re not married yet but they will be.

Harry senses her quarrel and reaches for her hand, pulling out a little flip phone from his inner jacket pocket and turns her palm upright, sitting it in her hand. Y/N frowns, fingers closing around the old device and she looks up at him with pinched brows and an upturned lip.

“Um… what…” she doesn’t quite know what to say, doesn’t know how to ask him why he’s giving her a brick burner phone.

Harry reaches for her other hand and brings it over the phone, covering it and holding her hands in his. “My number’s in there and so is Mikey’s in case ya can’t reach me. I don’t know if your Father allows you t’have one, but now you do,” he explains briefly.

She doesn’t tell Harry that she’s never been allowed one, that she’ll no doubt get a black eye and a bloody lip for hiding it from Giovanni.

Instead, her tongue swipes across her lower lip and she nods. “Thank you.”

She isn’t sure what she’s thanking him for? It’s an old burner phone with two numbers on it. She can’t access the internet, can’t play games. No doubt all other numbers are blocked and she’ll only be able to call him and his guard, but she still feels a sense of relief? Maybe because he gave her that little bit of freedom… could it even be considered that?

“If he lays a hand on you in these next three years, I want you to promise you’ll tell me. I don’t care what time it is, you tell me.” His face is stoic, stern and set jaw.

She can see the seriousness in his eyes and she nods, like she’s hypnotised by the way his concern and worry flitters in his eyes. Maybe she is, she’s never seen that look directed to her before, at least not for a very long time.

“I promise,” Y/N swears, her eyes on his, and for a moment, she forgets the whole arrangement, that he’s going to be her husband for the rest of her life.

Because for that fleeting second, she feels like a shy girl in front of a handsome man that makes her heart flutter. For a blink of an eye, she feels normal as he gazes down at her with a look she can’t point. But that’s all it is. A moment and a look.

He doesn’t expect her to actually tell him, not when he can tell how embarrassed she feels when it’s mentioned. So when he’s on the private jet back to New York that night and he gets a text, his heart sinks to his feet. He’d left her for three hours and Giovanni had his grubby hands on her already, punishing her for something she didn’t tell him.

From: Y/N

What was it that you said? That he wouldn’t hurt me anymore?

He calls her immediately, but before the first ring can sound through his ear, the call is ended. His grip on the phone tightens and it takes everything in him not to throw it across the fucking plane. He can’t afford Stefano pressuring him about what’s wrong, he can’t have him knowing that he wants to protect Y/N. He can’t show that weakness.

Mike sits beside him, clicking his tongue as Jeff sits across from them. No one says anything, they don’t need to. Harry always took pride in his stoic expressions in times of agitation or fear, but the boys know him better than that.

They grew with him, watched him master that monstrous cold exterior that refuses to falter when he was beaten and tortured. Harry has been forced to bite his tongue in worse scenarios, so why is something so minuscule so difficult for him?

“This isn’t going to end well. You’ve met her once and you’re getting attached,” Mike says quietly, lips barely moving so as to not attract Stefano’s attention while he talks on the phone to Harry’s Mother, no doubt scolding Anne for something he did wrong.

Harry’s knee is bouncing, a nervous tick he hasn’t shown in years. He’s pissed that Stefano wouldn’t allow Anne and Gemma to the engagement party, Harry wanted his mother and sister to meet his fiancée, needed that support, even if he would never admit that out loud.

Jeff reaches over and kicks Harry’s ankle, stopping the jitters and he gnaws at his inner cheek, nostrils flaring and gently shaking his head.

“Not getting attached, Mikey. Just don’t like the idea of her Father laying a hand on her,” he seethes quietly through gritted teeth and Jeff squints.

He’s known Harry his entire life, knows how he feels about the lack of respect women receive in mafia families, how much he fucking loves his Mum and Gemma. And he knows he’s never seen Harry this pissed over some girl before, much less some girl he’s met once and hasn’t even touched.

Nothing else is said on the matter and in the following sixteen months, he doesn’t hear from her. He calls often and most nights the call ends before it rings, and others, all it does is dial in his ears.

He knows she’s kept the phone on, that she’s been reading the two-weekly check-in texts that he makes. He can see every call she makes and texts she sends, but she doesn’t send or receive any. Only from him.

He’s found it difficult. He’s never believed in affairs or homewrecking, call him old fashioned, and being in an engagement to a woman he doesn’t know or love has taken its toll. He knew he’d never be able to marry for love, that he would have had to marry for the Famiglia, for power and status. And he truly thought he’d have no problem in remaining faithful to his future wife, that whether they grew to love each other or not, she would be able to quench his thirst.

But Harry didn’t expect to have to wait three years after getting engaged and for his fiancée to be only just legal when they first met. To him, a four-year age gap is nothing, but remembering she’s now just turned nineteen and he’s almost twenty-three, he feels a bit funny about the whole situation.

He’s cut down on his fucks of the week. No more endless nights at the club with Mike and Jeff, fucking six or seven of the dancers between them. He’s been re-acquainted with his hand and on the odd occasion that it isn’t enough, he’s found himself in one of the private rooms in the back of the bar with Lily, one of his favourite dancers and fucks, just like tonight.

It’s been a long day of calls and fights and bullets and blood, and he needed to fuck his frustrations out somewhere. It’s no surprise to him when he comes much sooner than usual, but Lily doesn’t seem to be complaining.

Harry always had a knack to make her cum long before he did. She’s panting and giggling, pushing those bleach blonde locks from her face as she readjusts her outfit and spins on her heels, dazed eyes and drunken smile.

Harry doesn’t need to look at her to know. She watches him tug off the condom and shove his softening, yet still impressive length back in his pants with a smirk, bottom lip caught between her teeth as he fixes his suit to a more presentable standard.

It’s when he’s tucking his shirt in that she notices the silver band around his ring finger and she’s reminded he’s engaged. Lily isn’t stupid, she’s been in the business long enough to know it’s an arranged one.

“You get married in a few months, right? Wonder if she’ll be able to satisfy you like I can… though you are here now, so I suppose she can’t,” she snickers, eyes dark like she thinks Harry is about to laugh and agree, like he’s pleased with his infidelity.

He isn’t. His eyes darken and not in the way she wants them to, bile rising to his throat. He’ll be damned if he lets anyone talk about his fiancée like that.

“Probably not, I hear she’s a little virgin anyway. But hey, maybe her Dad broke her in for y-”

Her back is smashing against the wall, air knocked out of her before she can finish her sentence. Harry’s got his ring-clad fingers gripping her chin and jaw, nose pressed to hers and he’s seething.

“You better watch your fucking mouth, Lily. Just because we fuck, doesn’t mean you can get away with shit. Have a little respect, or I won’t go so easy on your old man next week when he doesn’t have my fuckin’ money.”

He doesn’t stand around long enough to see the fear in her eyes grow. Instead, he lets go, grabs his gun and leaves the girl standing in shock, silent tears rolling down her rosy cheeks and a trembling jaw.

Harry’s never laid a forceful hand on a woman until now and he thought he’d hate himself for it, but right now, all he can think about is Y/N. Of the disgusting things Lily said.

He texts her when he gets to his car, his usual ‘just checking in, how are things?’ and he grows impatient when she doesn’t respond immediately. But she never responds immediately; usually, she never responds at all. He’s speeding his way back to the penthouse, knuckles white as he grips the wheel and it only takes the usual 20-minute-drive just six.

By the time he’s storming into the elevator and punching in the security code to get to his floor, his phone is vibrating in his pocket and he fishes it out quickly, shoulders tensing when he sees Maria’s name after he made it very clear to only contact him if it was an emergency for Y/N. He unlocks the phone and reads over the message.

From: Maria

He found the phone.

Harry’s blood runs cold, sweat dotting at his hairline and for a second, he feels an unfamiliar lump climb up his throat. All he sees is red and his chest is heaving. He hasn’t felt this angry in a long time, so rageful. Harry shakes his head, teeth gritted and jaw set hard. How fucking stupid does Giovanni think he is that Harry wouldn’t find out? That he wouldn’t have given another phone to Maria in case something like this happened? How fucking brave is he, laying a hand on something that belongs to Harry? How fucking dare he.

Harry’s dialling numbers before his mind can even catch up to his action and after the first three rings sound through his ears, he lets out a growl and seethes through his teeth.

“Move the wedding forward. I want her with me now.”

It feels like déjà vu, standing in front of the same curved mirror with her mother standing behind her, pulling the same distasteful expression.

The flowers decorating the bride’s suit are the same; beige carnation bouquets with baby’s breath scattered sparsely between. The same, stupid classical music plays from the same scratched record, and the same golden cage is still wrapped tight around her ring finger.

The only thing that’s changed is her.

She’s grown a few inches taller and she’s filled out nicely. Her hips have rounded well and her breasts are full and perky. The chubby cheeks left sometime six months ago and her facial structure is strong and defined.

Her eyes are different now, not the same as they were two years ago, and she’s cut most of her hair. It sits just below her shoulders now, gappy bangs long across her forehead.

She got Maria to cut it on her birthday.

Gaia is struggling behind her daughter, lacing the back bodice of her wedding dress. It’s pretty—gorgeous, actually; a long mesh train with embroidered roses and petals across the hem of it.

A perfect fit across the top, a generous amount of suitable cleavage and as it meets her hips, the embroidery fades and the dress gently puffs out, accentuating her curves just a little more.

She feels pretty, like a Princess, but she silently reminds herself this isn’t a fairytale wedding, no matter how badly she wishes it was. Y/N watches herself in the mirror, short hair curled and pinned perfectly, wavy bangs framing her face and she looks ethereal.

She doesn’t have a black eye beneath the makeup like last time, nor does she have a busted lip.

Gaia tugs at the back of the dress again.

“Succhialo, figlia,” she scolds and Y/N rolls her eyes but she sucks her stomach in even more, nonetheless.

The last few months leading up to the wedding have been gruelling, to say the least. Y/N has been poked and prodded by several tailors and designers and she’ll be happy once this whole thing is over with.

She’s also had time to think. With Harry’s insistent texts and sporadic calls, she’s felt a little more at ease about the situation, like she was starting to get to know him a little better through the blank messages.

But as she stands in front of the mirror again, her nerves are ten times bigger than two years ago.

Giovanni only told her three months ago that the wedding was being moved forward—that she’ll be a married woman before her both her 20th and 21st birthday.

She didn’t question it, not when by the looks of his face, it definitely wasn’t his idea and he didn’t have much of a say in the matter.

When she found out, a part of her was thankful, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders because Giovanni wouldn’t be able to hurt her anymore. He hasn’t laid a hand on her since the night he found the burner phone.

She stupidly left it on the bed while she showered and Harry had texted her. She didn’t hear the message alert, nor her Father waiting for her in her room.

She did, however, know about the mistake she made when she left the bathroom in a towel and his fist kissed her cheek in a brisk greeting.

A lump rises in her throat at the memory. It didn’t stop there, why would it. She cried herself to sleep that night and every night after for three weeks.

She was unrecognisable for twelve days, bloody and bruised and banned from leaving the house. She tried to end it all that night, after he left her sobbing on her floor, naked and vulnerable.

Maria had stopped her just in time, snuck into her bedroom through the window and held her until she passed out.

She hasn’t looked her parents in the eye since. Gaia had stood by and watched it all, face stoic and void of emotion. Bruno ignored her screams of terror and begs of mercy.

And Gomez?

Gomez was shot in the foot for trying to intervene. She’s only had one thing giving her the will to power through this, to marry a monster.

Fear has no place in a marriage.

Maybe this arrangement will be her escape.

Y/N zones out as Gaia finishes lacing the back of her dress, too busy trying to calm the erratic thumping in her chest and will the pooling tears away. She blindly follows her mother out of the suite and down the stairs, holding her dress gently bunched in her hands.

It’s like everything moves in slow motion and all sounds are white noise. She can hear her heart thumping against her rib cage, can feel the sweat growing between her fingers, the lump forming in her throat as she notices Giovanni waiting for her outside of the chapel doors.

She stands behind him silently, not daring to make eye contact as Gaia takes a side entrance to join the rest of the guests.

They wait, Giovanni watching his daughter with cautious eyes. She’s too busy staring at the dark oak doors, knowing her future is waiting on the other side, another ring to bind her angelic soul to his tainted one.

Y/N feels her eyes stinging with burning tears as Giovanni loops his arm around hers and the double doors slowly open.

“You look beautiful, figlia,” he tells her through a strained whisper, like the words any normal father would shower his daughter with were burning his lungs.

The lump swells back in her throat. Of all her eighteen years of life, he’s never once said something so fatherly.

She can feel her chest aching, the idea that maybe seeing his little girl marry a stranger is hurting his heart like it’s hurting hers, but as she peers up at him for the first time in months, she sees a smile pulling on his lips.

His heart isn’t hurting. He’s just happy to get a power boost.

Y/N doesn’t pay attention to the piano ballad that begins to play softly as her father guides her through the arch of the chapel. She doesn’t acknowledge her family and his standing from their seats and cooing at the gorgeous young woman she’s turned into.

She stares at her feet as they take their first step into purgatory, before her eyes find the devil.

Harry freezes from his view at the altar. Clad in a slick red suit with ungodly curls, his mouth runs dry and knees almost buckle.

She’s fucking gorgeous.

He can feel his heart thumping in his chest as she gets closer, can feel the anger bubble in his blood at the sight of Giovanni’s arm looped around hers.

His hands are tensed into tight fists in front of him, jaw ticking and teeth gritted. But then he glances back at his bride and his heart skips a pulse.

She doesn’t have a veil over her head and he can see just how gorgeous she’s become. He hasn’t seen her in two years and now he feels speechless.

She dodges his gaze as her father kisses her cheek briskly, leaving her to walk the little step of the platform and stand before their families.

She turns to Harry, hands trembling as she picks at her nails. His gaze wavers from her face, drinking her in and as he eyes her generous chest, he notices the little green emerald that sits across her neck.

The emerald necklace he gifted her for her birthday two weeks ago.

Neither of them pay attention to the priest as she looks up at him through fluttering lashes. He’s grown even more attractive in the past two years and it’s intimidating.

She feels small under his soft gaze, but not unsafe. Maybe she just feels uncomfortable knowing what’s to come between them, what will be expected of her as his new wife.

Over his shoulder, Bruno stands tall with a cocky smirk and shimmering eyes. He doesn’t watch his baby sister be sold off to a killer. Instead, his eyes are on a blonde from Harry’s family, a dirty smirk on his lips.

Mike stands behind him, stuck out like a sore thumb. The only redhead in the entire chapel yet he fits right in.

It’s Mike behind them both that catches Y/N’s attention. He’s watching her closely, just like Gomez has for years but there’s something off in the way he observes her; like he’s memorising every tick and nerve in her body.

Her eyes land back on Harry but he’s been watching her the entire time. He doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know his Mother is gleaming and sister picking her nails in boredom. He doesn’t need to look to know how apprehensive Maria is.

Neither of them can focus on what the official says. Y/N doesn’t dare look anywhere besides his face, trying to gauge his reaction, his mood.

He’s stoic as ever but a hint of a smirk tugs at the deep corners of his pink lips and his eyes are twinkling with a thrill of the unknown.

Hers are swimming in tears.

She tries to master his same expression, to prove she feels emptiness––but while her heart thumps shallowly in her chest, her eyes sting with the realisation that this is the end.

“You may now say your vows.”

The words drum through her ears and Harry nods, taking her hands in his open palms. Neither of them look away and Harry knows his Mother is trying to bite back a cry.

She always wanted her boy to marry for love, not for this.

Their official holds a small cream cushion, two pretty bands sitting on the velvet and Harry reaches for Y/N’s, lining it with her ring finger.

“With this ring, I take thee to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love and care, and cherish every inch of your body and soul. I promise to protect and provide and stand by your side through light and dark. I promise my soul and heart to you, to our future children. I promise to love you until my final breath.”

Y/N feels a piece of her heart break as he slides the ring down her finger, greeting the engagement and promising their unprecedented future.

Her facade doesn’t falter and her mind draws blank.

She doesn’t think about her childhood, when Bruno used to carry her around the house on his back, when she and Maria painted each other's nails, when Gaia taught her Italian for the first time, or when Giovanni taught her how to tie her shoes.

Y/N’s mind rolls blank, like the person she was before is dead. Like she’s just been rebirthed into another life.

She reaches for the cushion and takes the band between her fingers, crowning it over Harry’s first knuckle as she looks back up at him.

An arranged marriage takes two, but she knows she’s in this alone.

“With this ring, I take thee to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold, to love and support. I promise to stand by your side through the dark and the light. I offer my heart and soul, my body and mind. I promise to be eternally yours, until my final breath.”

And as she slides the ring past his second knuckle and the official pronounces them man and wife, the shaking begins.

Her body screams, igniting in a blazing fire, eyes frantic in terror and uncertainty.

But Harry gently cups his palms around her soft cheeks and with eyes on her, he kneels just enough to press his soft lips to her full ones and the uncomfortable burning eases into a welcoming warmth.

Her screams are silenced as his kiss offers a sense of comfort, like a mother and child’s first touch.

Y/N Saccaro dies a coward, but Y/N Styles-Delluci is born a survivor.

When they stand outside the chapel, she doesn’t have time to think about anything. She gripped his hand tightly as he led her down the aisle, ignoring the cheers of praise and excitement for the two.

They stand in the little entryway, side by side with Gomez a few steps to her side and Mike a few steps to Harry’s.

Giovanni and Gaia are the first to follow the newlyweds into the entryway, shaking Harry’s hand before moving along a few steps to shake Y/N’s.

Her parents look at her like she’s a stranger, no pained smiles or familiarity in their eyes. They move along as quickly as they came and Maria follows, her Father close behind.

She shakes Harry’s hand timidly before moving to her cousin, eyes watering and chin trembling.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate to pull her into a quick embrace, arms strong around one another and Y/N can feel her cousin’s heart thumping against her chest.

Romero is who pulls them both apart, offering his niece a firm handshake before a tight clasp on Maria’s shoulder pushes her away from the couple.

Y/N’s eyes are glued to them, wild in fear of what will happen to her best friend now she won’t be home to protect and comfort her.

Harry reaches for her hand, notices her worry and loops his pinky around hers, squeezing just enough to get her attention. When she turns back to him, she blinks back tears and her blurry vision settles on three bodies that stand by Harry’s side.

Stefano stands in front of the two women, shaking his son's hand with a proud smirk before he moves along to his daughter-in-law, reaching for her hand and kissing her knuckles. There’s a dirty smirk on his lips and Y/N squeezes Harry’s finger.

“Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re a Delluci now,” he grins.

She slips her hand from his hold and takes a tentative step closer to Harry’s side.

“Styles-Delluci,” Harry corrects him, jaw set and eyes gleaming a fire he’s desperate to burn.

Stefano grits his teeth behind closed lips and walks on, allowing Y/N to take a brief breath of relief before she’s quickly introduced to the rest of his immediate family.

Anne stands in front of the girl, eyes regarding her with concern and kindness. In a cream dress, she reaches for both of Y/N’s hands and smiles kindly at the young woman.

“My name is Anne, I’m Harry’s Mum,” she introduces herself.

Y/N looks back to her mother-in-law; a beautiful woman with kind eyes and a welcoming smile. Every inch of her screams maternal natures, something she’s lacked all her life.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she replies politely, allowing Anne to pull her into a cautious embrace, close enough to ensure warmth, but far enough to not warrant fear.

She squeezes her softly, lips finding her ear.

“You’re safe with him, I promise,” Anne swears and Y/N can do nothing but nod.

When they pull away, Gemma stands by her mother with a gleaming smile and she sticks her hand out for her sister-in-law to shake.

“I’m Gemma, Harry’s little sister… and you're really pretty,” Gemma grins through chubby cheeks, a silent squeal of excitement.

She doesn’t understand the full extent of the marriage, Harry and Anne have always tried to shield the fifteen-year-old from the harsh truths of the world she was born into.

Y/N’s eyes widen and a shy smile tugs at the corners of her pink painted lips. She can feel her heart flutter in her chest and she reaches to shake Gemma’s hand softly.

Part of her nerves seems to falter around the Delluci women and Y/N misses the way Harry watches the exchange with thin lips but sparkling eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gemma. And you’re very pretty, too,” Y/N tells the young girl, a soft smile on her lips and the youngest Delluci blushes under her gaze, looping her arm around her mothers.

Harry reaches down slightly, bending to his mother’s level and pressing a kiss to her temple before turning to his sister to set his lips to the top of her head.

“We’ll see you both in there,” he tells them.

Y/N watches with curious eyes, can’t take her gaze off him as he stands by her side and their fingers brush again. This time, neither of them link their pinkies.

“They’re nice,” she finally speaks, gaze fluttering to the ground when Harry cranes his neck to look at her.

He hums with a small nod.

He doesn’t say anything else as the rest of the hundreds of family and friends filter their way through the little entrance, shaking the hands of the couple and offering words of congratulations to Harry.

Between great uncles and underbosses, Dante greets the newlyweds again. This time, he isn’t alone. There’s a gorgeous blonde on his arm, tucked in his side with a loving smile as she stares up at The Boss.

“Harry, Y/N, congratulations,” he shakes Harry’s hand first then reaches for Y/N.

He clasps another hand over her knuckles and nods politely. The blonde hugs Harry as he thanks her for coming and she turns Y/N, a bright smile on her lips.

“You make such a beautiful bride!” she gushes. “My name's Daigle, I’m Dante’s wife.”

Y/N’s eyes widen as she’s pulled into a warm embrace and another bundle of relief is whispered in her ear.

“You got lucky with Harry.”

When she pulls away, Y/N’s eyes are swimming with tears of relief and gratitude. The couple congratulates them again as they make their way toward the banquet hall.

As Y/N’s about to say something to her husband, to tell him she didn’t know Dante had a wife, his hand sits at the bottom of her back and pulls her to his side, effectively cutting her off before she can even start.

“Congratulations my boy, what an impressive little bride you’ve got yourself,” a dark voice rattles through her ears and Y/N feels herself coil into Harry’s side.

The man is a little shorter than her husband, dark hair on his balding scalp and a slight podge to his lower stomach. He looks at the young bride with a sickening grin that awakens something in the pit of her stomach.

This is what she’s used to.

The lingering looks from pervy uncles and passers-by. Being subjected to nothing but a pretty face, even since she was young.

“Uncle Salvatore,” Harry greets through pursed lips and gritted teeth.

Salvatore’s eyes are glued to Y/N’s chest and Harry’s blood is boiling, knows he’s going red in the face and the vein in his neck is no doubt ready to pop.

Salvatore reaches for Y/N’s hand and kisses her knuckles, gazing up at her with a creepy stare but it doesn’t make her squirm in discomfort. This is the look she’s grown accustomed to over the years.

She’s mastered her poker face when old men hit on her, touch her. For Y/N, this is the norm. What she isn’t used to and what does make her curl into Harry’s side, is Salvatore’s son.

“Nino Delluci…” he begins, eyes wonton as they reach the bride, “... And you are a sight for sore eyes. What in Hell are you doing with my cousin?”

She doesn’t break eye contact when he smirks down at her with hungry eyes, gnawing on his bottom lip. She doesn’t break eye contact when he reaches for her hand and kisses her knuckles.

Twice.

She only breaks eye contact when he hums something incoherent along the lines of ‘I’d love to make you bleed’ under his breath, while taking her in.

Harry’s grip on his wife’s side tightens.

“Can we go inside now?” she asks softly, a hand reaching up to rest on his chest.

Harry squares his shoulders, eyes firm on his cousin which only encourages Nino’s smug face. She doesn’t notice the small boy that gazes up at her with a lovestruck smile from Nino’s side, nor does she notice Salvatore smirking grimly by the door.

“So soon, baby? Don’t you wanna get to know your new family a little better?” Nino taunts, taking a step toward her but Harry’s quicker.

He gently nudges Y/N behind his towering frame and squares up to Nino, nostrils flared.

“Back the fuck off, Nino.” Harry’s jaw is locked in place, lips pursed.

His cousin chuckles to himself, hands up in surrender.

Gomez and Mike remain still in their positions. They know not to interfere unless it’s completely necessary. Nino walks away, the young boy following as Salvatore holds the door open for them.

Harry doesn’t let his posture fall as they walk through the door, and Y/N lets out a shaky breath, skin breaking out in goosebumps as she rolls her shoulders and twists her neck.

Harry turns back to her, eyes cautious as he tilts his head to get a better look. He knows Nino shook her up, that she’s used to the unwanted attention from older men, but never from men so close to her age.

But what he doesn’t realise is while Y/N heard him raise his voice, her mind was sent into turmoil. Will he shout at her like that? Should she feel safe because she knows he can protect her? Would he use that same tone with her if she doesn’t do what he wants?

“Your cousin’s a little forward,” she coughs out nervously, shaking her head to rid the thoughts. Harry’s heart ticks and he scoffs a laugh.

“My cousin’s a cunt,” he corrects her.

Y/N’s eyes widen as she stares up at him, innocence swimming in her features. Harry forgets again that she’s been raised a young lady, that she’s never been around much potty mouth, and he realises just how much he’s going to corrupt her in this marriage.

As much as Harry wants to protect his wife, he won’t pretend to be someone he isn’t for the sake of an arranged marriage. His potty mouth is just one of the things she’ll have to get used to.

“Stay away from Nino. You may think I’m a monster, but I have my morals. Nino is merciless and evil. He will do whatever he wants and take whatever he pleases. No matter the consequences,” he warns her, his voice timid.

Y/N doesn’t say anything. She thinks her father is the same, so what could someone two decades younger do to scare her?

She listens, though; takes what he said into consideration. Y/N doesn’t have any desire to talk to Nino ever again.

Her fork has scraped across her full plate for almost forty minutes now. She’s not hungry, not even in the slightest.

Harry’s been watching her, peering over to his side and often gently nudging his elbow into her arm, nodding to the plate which only makes her shoulders slump.

Y/N hasn’t listened to any of the speeches from their families, nor has she acknowledged much of what Harry’s said to her all evening.

But Harry has hardly looked away.

He isn’t angry, he couldn’t be. But she’s only eaten a few mouthfuls of the meat and she’s almost drunk her body weight in champagne and rosé. He’s a little worried. Her eyes have been drooping for over fifteen minutes and her vibrant skin looks sickly grey.

The last thing he wants is for her to embarrass them both and throw up all over the head table.

“The potatoes are good,” he murmurs slowly in her ear.

She slowly turns her head to look at him, blinking slowly. She cranes her neck and purses her lips together. He’s handsome, that much she can’t deny, and in her hazy, drunken state, she wonders what her lips would feel like on hers again.

He is her husband now, surely she could just… reach up… connect their lips…

“And now for the first dance!” Y/N sinks back a little more in her chair and she suddenly feels sick for even considering kissing him again.

He’s dangerous and he’s a monster.

He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t care for you, Y/N, stop this!

Harry raises from his seat as all eyes find the couple.. He’s danced drunkenly with his Mother enough times to know how to cover up her alcohol intolerance.

She’s tucked in his side, their fingers intertwined as he guides them both to the dancefloor. The lights are dim, a twinkle from the fairy lights that are wrapped around wooden beams and looped across curtains illuminating the stuffy room.

With her hand in his, he raises it above her head and gently nudges her hip to spin beneath his arm. She falls gently into his chest with a soft ‘oof’ and Harry wraps his arms around her.

Y/N’s head rests against his hard pecs as he slowly begins to dance with her. She can’t keep up, though, the heels are too high in her drunken state and her knees start to buckle.

She feels her cheeks warm in embarrassment and she knows all eyes are on them. Harry hears her whine softly in his chest and with one arm around her waist, he gently lifts her so her feet sit on his.

He guides her arms around his neck, slowly stepping in a slow dance and she dares to peek up at him, innocent eyes and swollen lips. Harry cranes his neck down to meet her gaze, and those gorgeous eyes are swimming with threatening tears.

He doesn’t understand that she’s grateful for something as little as saving her from embarrassment. He doesn’t understand that she can’t understand her own thoughts.

Neither of them pay attention to the beautiful ballad that plays through the hall, nor do they appreciate the piano or string quartet that carries their dance.

Instead, she stares at him like it’ll be the last time she ever sees his handsome face, and he watches her with wonder and curiosity while his heart begs his mind not to break her like he knows he inevitably will.

For a fleeting moment, all of her doubts slip from her mind. She lets herself believe that he will protect her from pain and anguish, that he will love and cherish her, that she will be able to trust him for the rest of her life.

For a fleeting moment, she forgets again that this isn’t a marriage bound by love, but one bound by honour and duty.

Then the music stops and Salvatore takes a step forward, raising a half-empty glass in the air to gain the attention of the other guests.

“You wed her, now bed her!”

And just like that, the entirety of the male wedding party is chanting those same words. The pair pull apart and Y/N’s wide eyes are scanning the crowd for an escape. She knows she can’t run but fuck, does she want to.

“Wed her, now bed her! Wed her, now bed her!”

“Make a masterpiece on those sheets for us, Harry.”

“Make your wife bleed!”

“Wed her, now bed her!”

Her frantic eyes find those of her mothers, but Gaia looks away, head tilted and chin up like she can’t bear the thought of looking in her daughter's desperate eyes. Y/N begins to panic, chest rising and falling in terror and she finds Maria.

Her cousin stares at her in shock, jaw slack and she tries to run for her, to pull her away from Harry but Mike stands in her way, blocking her from Y/N and ultimately escorting her out of the hall.

Gomez watches, swallowing the bile that crawls up his throat. He knew this day would come, that one day Y/N would be married off and forced into a new life she never agreed to.

He just hoped it wouldn’t hurt so much watching it happen. With a tentative hand on her back, Harry leads Y/N out of the hall. The party follows, cheering them on as she holds her dress and wanders up the thick spiral stairs.

Their room is at the very far end of the hall, away from all the others where they can’t be disturbed… or heard.

Her heart thumps sporadically and the alcohol feels like it’s worn off, and she’s far too aware of what’s supposed to happen now.

Because now, she has to give herself to him. Every inch and fibre of her entire being is about to be his, by choice or not, he’s going to take it all.

He closes the door behind them as they wander in and the frantic terror begins, surges of confidence smacking her.

Harry turns to face her, face stoic as ever and she stumbles over her feet, hands reaching out to steady herself and she shoves at his chest. Harry can smell the alcohol on her breath. He doesn’t know if it’s the first or third bottle of champagne.

He cocks a brow at her bravery and she glares up at him through droopy eyes.

“Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I’ll bow down to your every order.” She slurs, almost losing her footing.

Harry holds her up by her elbow.

He’s shocked by her sudden change in attitude and he has to bite back a laugh. Was this the real Y/N breaking through?

“Is that so?”

There’s an amused grin on his lips. He finds it fucking hilarious. He’s never been turned down by a woman before, but it’s too amusing to watch her in her drunken state for him to take her refusal as a punch to his ever-growing ego.

He was never going to take advantage of her in such a vulnerable state. Maybe that’s why he’s so amused by the situation.

Y/N stumbles again.

“If you so much as force yourself on me tonight, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

It’s an empty threat, Harry’s sure of it. He squints his eyes at his wife, but she doesn’t show any signs that she’s unsure of her own words. He thinks the seriousness of the situation is starting to sober her up and she’s brave, too brave.

“Think you’re forgetting who the Capo is here, princess.” He warns.

She holds her glare as he dips his head closer to her face. He expects her to look away, to cower under his gaze like every other woman, but she doesn’t. She holds her chin high.

“You’re not Capo yet. But when you are, I will make deals impossible, I will run and believe me, I can run. I will burn you and your stupid Famiglia.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and it’s not amusement. He no longer finds her insolence funny. It’s anger. Anger that she thinks she can talk to him like that and get away with it.

But he’s conflicted. He knows she’s scared, that she’s shaking as she grits her teeth and stares in defiance.

“Then I’ll just have to torture you like all the other traitors.”

Lies. Big fat lies.

He’d never lay a hand on a woman, traitor or not. But his blood still boils at Y/N’s stubbornness. He never intended on taking what is rightfully his without her permission.

Y/N coils in disgust, a sardonic laugh slipping past her lips. Her sad smile falls as quickly as it had appeared, and she’s back to looking stoic.

“Do it, I dare you. Because I’ll just keep rebelling. I’ll publicly humiliate us both, just to see you fall.” She threatens, and Harry wants to believe it’s an empty one.

He doesn’t think he’d ever go against his own morals, but she’s beginning to wear his patience thin, not that he’s ever had much of it.

“Then I’ll put a fucking bullet through your skull.” Another fucking lie.

She steps closer, alcohol thick on her breath but she looks as sober as the day they first met.

“Baby, I’ll be pulling the trigger. My life ended the day I was born. Killing me would do us both a favour. You might as well just get it over with.”

Harry regards the girl for a moment as her voice breaks. He tries to read her, to get a glint of any flicker of emotion he can. But there’s nothing. Plain emptiness. He knows that resolve would fall under the touch of a blade or pliers pulling off her painted fingernails.

The thought of someone even touching a hair on her perfect head sends fury through his veins.

He doesn’t notice just how angry the thought makes him until the metallic taste of blood lingers on his tongue, a taste all too familiar. He’s bit into his lip.

“Forget what I said on your birthday. Fear has every place in a marriage and I hope you’re fucking terrified.”

He spits blood on the white sheets, his saliva turning it pink as it soaks into the fabric. “There, you saved your virginity for the night.”

She stares at him, shoulders sagging just an inch as she wobbles on her feet. It’s like the alcohol is making another appearance as she grimaces at him.

“Who said I was a virgin?”

When dawn breaks and light filters through the musty room, Y/N stirs from her slumber with a groggy head and unsettled stomach.

At first, she doesn’t recall the night before, but from the dull throbbing across her temples, she knows alcohol had a strong play in the evening.

It’s when she shifts in the bed, that she realises something is off.

Her bed isn’t this soft… and the sheets in her room are definitely not white cotton. She turns her head, eyes meeting the sleeping face of the notorious mobster, and she shrieks, startling him from his light slumber.

Y/N falls off the bed in an attempt to flee the situation, but when she stands, she realises she’s not in her heavy wedding dress anymore and she feels light.

Bile crawls up her throat at the realisation that she’s in his dress shirt, that she isn’t wearing a bra and while the shirt ends mid-thigh, she’s only got on those sheer panties underneath.

Harry watches her gaze trail over his body–his very naked body, besides his black boxers. She gulps at the sight, shaking her head and trying to ignore his thick thighs and toned abdomen.

Her mind conjures up the worst.

She slept with him, he took what innocence she had left.

Her thoughts are only confirmed when she notices the dark pinkish spots of blood on the sheets and she feels sick, lightheaded – and she knows it’s not from the hangover.

Harry watches her freak for a moment, watches the regret and fear flood her eyes and he quickly realises she doesn’t remember a damn thing.

He doesn’t do anything to reassure her. Doesn’t remind her that he spat blood on the sheets, or that the reason she’s in his shirt is because she struggled too much to get out of her dress and didn’t have any other clothes to change into, so he gave her his shirt.

He doesn’t tell her that he didn’t lay a hand on her, that he waited until she was asleep before laying beside her peaceful body.

“You were willing, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he breaks the silence, voice rugged and he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

She doesn’t dare look at him, arms wrapped tightly around herself and she feels ashamed, so fucking ashamed. She believes him, though. He may be a monster but he’s known to be an honourable man, a man of his words, not a liar.

“And even if you weren’t…” he stands from the bed as an insistent knocking begins to pound on their door.

“You’re my wife now, so I have the right to take what I want.”

He doesn’t believe a word he just said. He’d never force himself on her or any other woman, no matter what. That’s one thing he’ll always stay true to.

Y/N backs into the wall at his words. She ignores him opening the door with a tired grin, ignores the gossiping women of the family flooding through the room and whispering about the frail wife.

Her mind is on such an overdrive that she doesn’t see the truth right in front of her. She doesn’t realise that her thighs don’t ache and her core isn’t tender. She doesn’t notice that she doesn’t have any bruises decorating her soft skin, that Harry’s back isn’t littered in claw marks like it should be.

She believes the worst because it’s all she’s ever known.

They take the sheets with giddy smiles and gushing giggles as Harry steps into his dress pants from last night.

There’s no robe for her to cover herself with and unless she wants to wear the wedding dress that carried her into her new, caged life, she’ll have to go downstairs in Harry’s shirt and her panties.

She keeps her distance from him as they descend the staircase, arms still tight around her middle and she curls a little, just to make sure the shirt covers everything.

Everybody is watching as they enter the hall again, waiting for the bloody sheets to be presented for men to howl at and women to blush over.

Y/N keeps her eyes glued to the ground, wiggling her painted toes and biting back a cry that wants to tumble from her trembling mouth.

She ignores the cheers of pervy uncles and distant cousins, pretends she doesn’t notice the praise Harry gets and the pity looks she recieves with jealousy glares from the women.

It isn’t until the fuss dies down that she dares to look up with tear-stained cheeks and a quivering chin. Gaia still refuses to look at her from across the hall, but Maria doesn’t waste a second to see her cousin when Harry turns to talk to Mike.

“Y/N…” she breathes softly, reaching for her cousin’s arm but Y/N shy’s away from her family's touch and clears her throat, blinking back tears.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she mumbles hoarsely, shaking her head and looking away from her concerned eyes.

Maria frowns, glaring up at the tall man beside her and pointing a jabbed finger in his face.

“Hope you’re fucking proud of yourself,” she seethes.

Harry stares at the young girl. Her hair is blue now and her nose is pierced with a hoop, something he didn’t notice last night. He doesn’t entertain the girl, though. Instead, he shoves a hand in his trouser pocket and reaches for Y/N with the other.

They’re both shocked that she doesn’t cower away from his touch when he rests his palm on the small of her back.

“Let’s go get ready, then we can say goodbye. Jet leaves for New York in two hours,” he tells her.

Y/N doesn’t say anything about a honeymoon, doesn’t question why they aren’t going on one. She’s thankful they’ll only have to be on that plane for 4 hours together, there is no way in hell she could survive two weeks in complete isolation with him.

She gets ready in the bathroom, legs jelly as she changes from his shirt and her underwear. She throws the panties in the bin, not ever wanting to see them again.

She’s about to dress in what her mother packed; a beige pencil skirt and a flowy white blouse with four-inch heels, when she notices another small bag beside it.

She doesn’t need to wonder where it came from, she knows Maria found a way to pack her something more comfortable after a bad night and in preparation for a 4 hour flight.

So instead, she dresses in a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey sweater. Her hair is tied in a quick ponytail and her face is void of makeup and emotion.

She feels shy when she leaves the bathroom, wearing something so simple and looking so vulnerable. He’s dressed in another suit when she comes back into the bedroom, a simple black one with a white shirt and he’s strapping a gun to his chest when he notices her.

She looks tired, simple. She looks normal. He knows for a fact Gaia did not pack that outfit.

“You look comfy,” he mentions.

She swallows visibly and raises her chin, lips pursed as she stares at his forehead. He knows that trick. He knows she’s pretending to look him in the eye. He bites back a smile. She’s trying to hide her discomfort.

“The jet’s ready when you are. Would you like to say goodbye to your family now?”

A leather duffle bag hangs in his hand and her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she shakes her head.

“Um… actually, I don’t… want to say goodbye…” she admits quietly.

It’s silent for a moment as Harry’s brows bunch and he tries to figure her out.

“You know we’re not just going to New York for a weekend away, right? You’re going to be moving there, to live with me. I don’t know when you’ll next see them again,” he reminds her carefully, his words slow like he needs her to comprehend them properly.

But Y/N nods her head and relieves a breath.

“I know,” she tells him, her voice the most confident he’s ever heard and he nods once, agreeing.

“Okay, then let’s go.”

She’s been sitting beside him the entire time, curled up against the window. Neither of them have said a word, both too in their heads.

For Harry, he thinks about how he’s lied to her, how he’s letting her believe he took her innocence. He thinks about her desire to leave without saying goodbye to her family, about what was said on their wedding night, how empty she looked.

For Y/N, she thinks about her new life. She wonders if it’ll be better or worse. When she was at home, Giovanni took his frustration out on her, was cruel and abusive if she or someone else annoyed him.

She wonders if Harry will be the same when they’re back on his land, in his territory. She only remembers one thing from their wedding night. Fear has every place in a marriage, and I hope you’re terrified. She hopes he didn’t mean it.

It’s only the newlyweds on the plane and sleep comes quicker to her than she expected. The others had taken another jet, insisting that Harry and Y/N needed more time alone together. Really, it was just Anne's way of making sure Y/N didn’t feel overwhelmed on a plane full of Delluci’s.

Harry doesn’t wake her when they stop midway to get fuel. She wakes hours after he sleeps beside her, but she doesn’t wake him. Instead, she observes him for a little while; acknowledges the twitch in the corner of his lip, the little movement behind his eyelids, the gentle snores that tumble through his throat.

She appreciates his dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones, his ungodly waves. This version of him doesn’t look scary, doesn’t look monstrous. This version of Harry looks approachable, soft… dare she think… vulnerable. His jaw isn’t set and his lips aren’t pursed.

She wants to reach forward and caress his cheek, maybe one day she might.

When they land back in New York, a car is waiting for them; tinted windows and bulletproof glass. Y/N isn’t silly. Harry helps her with her bags, piling them into the trunk and they both clamber inside.

A partition separates the couple from the driver as the journey begins again. Y/N is looking out of the window, the soft evening consuming her but she already misses the Californian views.

“I recently had the penthouse redecorated to give you some sense of home there,” Harry tells her and when she turns, his eyes are already on her face.

“I want you to remember that it isn’t just a place that you live in. It’s your home now. I want you to treat it as such,” he says.

Y/N nods but she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say. How do you treat a place like a home when there’s no sense of safety?

“And as for security,” he catches her attention again before she can focus her gaze back outside the window.

“Mike will be your new guard. I’ve known him for years and he’s good. I trust him. If you want to go anywhere and I’m not around to go with you, Mike needs to be by your side.” Y/N can’t help the frown that grows on her face.

Not only is he entrusted with her life, but she doesn’t know him, she can’t trust him.

“Why can’t Gomez still be my guard? Why can’t he come here and guard me?” she questions, brows knitted.

Harry scratches his nose.

“Because while your Father trusted him in his territory, I wouldn’t trust him to protect you in mine. Where you go, Mike goes. No arguments.”

First order.

Neither of them say anything else for the remainder of the drive, but when the driver pulls up to a stop, Y/N’s eyes are wide as she stares out the window in awe.

A fifty story building stands tall before her, tucked between two slightly shorter builds. Her parents' home is massive, but this is something else.

This… this was an apartment building?

Harry doesn’t say anything as he walks her inside the lobby; everything is all white and pristine. The blonde receptionist behind the desk offers Harry a flirty smile that Y/N watches him completely ignore and something flips in her stomach. In the elevator, he reaches for the code and shows her the seven digits he punches in.

“We’re in the penthouse, right at the top. That’s the code. Only a select few know it, so don’t go telling everyone,” he warns, standing back as the doors close.

When they arrive at the penthouse, Y/N doesn’t know what to expect, but softwood undertones and fluffy rugs are not it. He guides her inside as she takes it all in.

The entirety of the first floor is open planned, white walls with gorgeous art hanging across them. The kitchen is huge, black and white and Y/N feels her heart flutter at the thought of all the baking she’ll be able to do.

She isn’t given much time to admire it before Harry leads her through the kitchen towards a staircase.

“There’s a library and a gym up here and our bedroom, my home office is up here too,” he says, leading her up the stairs and into a dark room.

He flips on the light as she follows him inside.

“Our room? You mean we’re going to share the bed every night?” there’s a twinge of panic in her voice.

Harry doesn’t think anything of it other than she’s innocent, nervous about sleeping with his body so close to hers every night. But that’s not it, at least, not all of it.

Really, Y/N doesn’t understand why he even wanted to sleep with her on their wedding night in the first place, and now he wants to share a bed with her for the rest of their lives?

She thinks it’s a pride thing, to have his wife sleep in the same bed as him. That has to be it. Because compared to Harry’s past lovers and flings that Maria graciously told her about, Y/N is repulsive – doesn’t compare.

“Yeah… why? Is that a problem for you?” he asks softly.

Y/N shakes her head quickly, clearing her throat and pulling her sweater sleeves past her hands.

“No, not at all… just didn’t think you’d want me in your bed, is all,” she admits, but she doesn’t mean it in the way Harry takes it. He smirks to himself though.

“You’re my wife, Y/N. I’ll always want you in my bed,” he flirts, watching as her cheeks blush in realisation of how she made her statement sound.

She clears her throat awkwardly and Harry places her bag on the bed.

“Anyway, make yourself at home. I have some business to attend to, so Mike will be around, but remember if you want to leave, he goes with you.”

He brushes past her without another word or a kiss to her forehead like he usually would to his mother or little sister. Y/N thinks nothing of it, she much prefers the space.

It isn’t until she begins unpacking one of her bags that she notices a wrapped gift on her nightstand with her name written on a note that sits on top of it.

You’re not a prisoner anymore x

With furrowed brows, she tears the paper off the gift and opens the box. A phone sits waiting for her, her family’s phone numbers saved along with Harry’s, Mike’s and Anne’s already. She feels tears sting her eyes and with a trembling thumb, she calls Maria.

In the week of Y/N’s new life, she’s grown accustomed to her new place of residence. She’s gotten used to the penthouse by now, knows where everything is if she needs anything.

She’s spent a fair amount of time in the kitchen (after the first few days of refraining from using anything), making cookies and brownies for her and Mike to snack on.

She’s mainly tucked herself away in the library, often draped across the chaise with a soft blanket and a good book.

That’s about all she’s grown accustomed to, though. She hasn’t seen her husband, at least, not properly. She’s been asleep when he gets home and asleep when he leaves.

Y/N tries to consider herself lucky. She’s thankful that she hasn’t had to interact with him, save for the two days in passing when he offers her a tightlipped smile before scurrying out of the door.

She doesn’t know why his lack of presence brings a sense of uneasiness, not after she’s gotten to know Mike just a little bit over the past seven days.

Y/N tries not to dwell on the fact that she knows Mike’s favourite frosting flavour but has no idea what her husband’s birthday is. She doesn’t know why part of her wishes to know Harry better, wishes for some type of emotional intimacy between them both.

Y/N knows she needs to accept the fact that she’s safe with how things are, not wish for possible problems that could endanger her in the long run.

But then, she supposes she’s never not been endangered, so what does she know? Maybe she wishes for the sense of comfortability with her new spouse because he’s already offered her something she’s never had before: safety.

Maybe she supposes safety and comfortability are meant to come hand-in-hand. Or maybe she’s just lonely, craves the intimacy she no longer has with her cousin.

Either way, she doesn’t get that relief of intimacy from Harry. Instead, she learns an odd quirk of Mike’s every couple of days and loses herself in the stories that occupy her mind.

The library has become somewhat of a safe haven. And despite having the means to remain in contact with Maria, Romero tends to keep his daughter on a tighter leash now and Y/N often worries with the wonder if it’s her fault.

She thinks Giovanni may have said something to intervene, and she’s been letting blame sit idly on her shoulders as the week slowly strolled past.

It’s been hard for Y/N. She’s been confined to the many walls of the penthouse, despite having the ability to leave (with Mike, of course, something Harry made very clear). But she doesn’t want to leave her new home with her guard.

She wants her husband to show her around and maybe show a little attention to her. She tells herself it’s because she needs the reassurance that she hasn’t done anything wrong, that she hasn’t upset him.

She needs him to do something that suggests he doesn’t have a reason to hurt her.

It’s fucked and she knows it. That hearing nothing is considered bad news to her. Y/N hates not knowing, hates uncertainty. She should be well used to it by now, that’s all her life has ever been.

But things are drastically different in New York with Harry, even if it’s only been a week and she hasn’t seen him.

It doesn’t matter that she feels lighter at the fact of no longer being in Giovanni’s reach or hold. She needs Harry to communicate. She needs to know she’s not doing anything wrong.

But Harry’s a busy man, has business to attend to and bullets to fire. He doesn’t have the time right now to reassure his virgin wife of anything.

And why should he?

Not only did she directly disrespect him but she somehow, someway crawled under his skin and made him grow defensive of the frail woman. Weakness is something he can’t afford.

But it’s not that he hasn’t wanted to.

Women cowering under his influence has never been something Harry has enjoyed, but she isn’t just any woman anymore; she’s his wife, bound by love and honour and duty, she’s his wife.

Perhaps she’s in the same boat. Putting a label on a relationship tends to force some sense of kindred feelings on people.

A marriage is the union between two undying souls, for kindred lovers and harnessed spirits. A marriage is a symbol of devotion, trust and love. Everything their relationship is not.

Maybe that’s why he silently observes her while she sleeps, making sure her breathing is steady and comfortable, and why she misses his presence when he’s gone and wants to know more.

Stories of other lovers are what seem to take her mind off things best, but also have her brain reeling and mustering up impossible scenarios in the light of day, encouraging them to run wild through her head in the dead of night.

Y/N doesn’t know whether to be thankful of them or not--whether it gives her a sense of false hope or weightless relief.

Today is no different from the past six. She wakes alone with no idea where Harry is or what he’s doing.

After her shower and getting ready for the day, she finds herself in the library, lounging across the chaise with Jane Eyre in her hands, but she can’t seem to grasp the words on the first page.

It’s with a sigh that Y/N puts the book back and allows her fingers to brush against the spines of endless stories and fantasies.

There’s not a speck of dirt on the pad of her finger when she comes to the end of the shelf and she wonders if it’s because Harry secretly loves to read or because a maid frequents.

She can’t help but suppose it’s the latter. The thought of Harry reading is somewhat amusing to Y/N, but she knows it’s not something she can just rule out. She doesn’t know the man.

She’s huffing with boredom when she’s ready to leave the room, but as her eyes flitter effortlessly across the clinically white bookcases, she catches something golden that’s tucked away at the far end of the room, shoved beneath a lip at the bottom of a case.

With a tilted head and gently furrowed brows, she goes to inspect it, pulling out a large photo album.

It’s dusty, looks like it hasn’t come out to reminisce old times in a while and Y/N blows the thick coating of fine powder off. There’s nothing but soft, intricate golden leaves designed and embroidered across the expanse of the outer book and it feels heavy in her hands.

Maybe not the weight of the book itself, but the weight behind it.

She doesn’t know what compels her to leave the library with it wrapped in her arms, what forces her to sit on the couch with it out in the open on the coffee table in front of her.

Y/N feels sick at herself for even opening it, she knows old photos are precious past memories that she suspects someone like Harry would not particularly wish to share with his new wife.

It doesn’t stop her from looking, though – doesn’t stop her heart from aching and swelling at the sight of a three-year-old Harry wandering around butt-naked in a backyard with a cheesy grin on his lips and a green bucket hat on his head.

She keeps looking; flipping the pages with a gentle smile but it quickly fades with one of slight confusion.

The only people in the almost hundred photos are the same three: Harry, Anne, and a mysterious man. Y/N’s never seen him before but he looks familiar, she can’t help but see traces of Harry in him.

She supposes maybe it’s Harry’s uncle; maybe even a family friend and Y/N’s just thinking too deep into it. She needs to stop allowing her mind to think everything to be a fucking conspiracy.

She wants to appreciate the pure vulnerability she’s able to see in regards to Harry, even if it is just through photos that are almost twenty years old – older than her.

She doesn’t know whether she’ll get to see a side of him that isn’t stone cold and doesn’t absolutely petrify her.

Knowing some part of him used to be young and innocent offers a sense of relief, a reminder that he has some sanity about him; whether he wants to admit it or not.

She gets to the end of the photo album when she learns the strange man's name. On the back of a photo of the unfamiliar face and Harry digging dirt in the garden, dressed in overalls with a beer in the man’s hand and a sippy cup in Harry’s, there’s a little note written in what she supposes is Anne’s calligraphy.

Danny and Harry -- summer 2000 x

Y/N finds herself mumbling his name under her breath, brows furrowed as she scours her brain. She’s heard that name before, she’s sure of it.

She doesn’t have much time to continue her mindful search before the creaking of the living room floorboards quirk in her ears and Mike is slowly swaying into the room.

He’s dressed in a slick suit, something that Y/N has tried to tell him isn’t necessary and he has ignored, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets with a stoic expression on his regularly threatening face.

“Where’d you find that?” his low voice asks and even though it’s just about audible, it manages to sound through the room and ricochet against the walls and beams.

Y/N nearly jumps in her skin, despite already knowing of his presence.

She feels no threat from Mike--she knows he’s here to protect her and both he and Harry have made that very clear--but he’s still very intimidating in the way his posture holds him and his general blank expression.

It’s something about his eyes. Icy blue but she knows something dark burns behind them.

She clears her throat and quickly closes the book, tucking loose curls behind her ear. Y/N pushes the album to the centre of the coffee table and sits further back on the couch, as if to make a point--she’s just not sure what point she’s trying to make or prove.

She clears her throat.

“Uh, I found it in the library,” she explains lamely and Mike notices she can’t make eye contact with him.

He also knows she isn’t lying.

Over the week he’s been guarding her, he’s learnt all her ticks and tells. Y/N isn’t a liar, she’s just constantly in fear and silently requires the reassurance that she hasn’t done anything to upset anyone.

Mike hums, nodding his head, knows she has more to say; he knows what photos are in that book.

“There’s uh, there’s a lot of pictures of Harry with his Mom and some man… Danny,” she says carefully, articulating her words in a way that isn’t going to seem out of place or something he’ll consider mentioning to Harry to have her scolded and punished.

“That’s for Harry to explain, if he ever wishes to,” he responds cooly, hands still shoved in his pockets but Y/N’s eyes are fixed on the book and she wonders if she has the balls to try and push further.

“It’s just… he looks like him, you know? Looks like he could be a relative,” she speaks freely, though her throat feels like it’s being constricted.

She tries to word it casually, like she’s making an innocent observation but they both know it’s more than that. Mike doesn’t say anything for a few moments, allowing her to understand that he isn’t about to say anything in regards to the photos.

“Are you missing yours?” He asks, her eyes meeting him with a frown and he shifts his weight from his feet, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest.

He clears his throat.

“Your family, I mean… are you missing them? I know it's a long way from sunny California,” he tries to lighten the mood for her sake; he doesn’t particularly want her to grow agitated with him for not telling her part of Harry's past.

Y/N purses her lips and maybe keeping quiet would’ve been a better idea but Mike tends to run his mouth before really thinking out situations that involve sad emotions.

“Not really. I feel safer here than I ever have back in Cali,” she admits through a pathetic laugh, like she’s trying to cover up the hurt.

“Your Dad?” he asks in a gentle tone, one she’s never heard before but she’s only known him a week.

She smiles weakly, nodding her head and Mike hums, adjusting his suit as he stands taller. Y/N’s gnawing at the inside of her cheek and picking at the skin around her nails -- nervous habits, Mike’s come to learn -- so he takes a step closer to her and clears his throat once more.

“Come on. Let me take you for lunch and show you around New York a little,” he offers, a hint of a smile on his lips but Y/N thinks she might be seeing things.

She isn’t used to this type of kindness from men of any ages. She frowns harder.

“Is that a good idea? Won’t Harry be mad?” she twists her hands nervously.

“Harry entrusted me with your life, Y/N. I’ll always keep you safe when he’s not here. And you’re not a prisoner anymore. He’ll never treat you like one.”

It’s a little after three when Harry feels a nervous twitch in his cheek and a tick in his fingers. He’s been gnawing on his bottom lip for the past twelve minutes and both Gemma and Anne have noticed.

His mother is concerned for him while his younger sister offers a look of disgust and is five seconds away from chastising her brother about how chapped his lips will be.

“As much as your sister and I want to stay, Harry… we can’t. You’re going to have to prove to Stefano that you can do this. We believe in you.”

Her gentle voice tries to coax him back into the room but the only thing that does is when the elevator sounds just seconds later and he stands from the couch.

Harry doesn’t fucking know what’s gotten him in such an aggy and irritated mood. His palms are sweaty and he doesn’t know why. He tells himself it’s because Y/N’s never been out before and that she and Mike have been gone for almost three hours.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust either of them; he trusts Mike with his life and he trusts that Y/N won’t try something stupid. Ideally, Harry would have liked to have been the one to take Y/N out first, maybe to prove something to the people watching his every move, he’s not sure.

Part of him feels a little guilty. He hasn’t seen her for more than five minutes since she moved to New York and he feels a little bit sick. He��s taken her from her family and everything she’s ever known.

As her husband, it should be his duty to care for her and ensure she doesn’t feel alone in this transitioning time. But Harry has to remind himself that this isn’t any regular marriage and there are no loving feelings shared between the two beneath their label.

But that doesn’t make it easier for Harry to try and understand why he feels the way he does about the matter.

When the elevator doors slide open, she’s got a shy smile on her lips and her shoulders are drooped in a relaxed state. The sight is a jolt of relief to Harry.

Wife or not, he never wants a woman to feel unsafe or intimidated in his presence or his men’s. He takes a brief moment to quickly get a good look at her.

She seems a lot lighter in the way she carries herself since she arrived at her new home. In a pretty beige pinafore with a ribbed white turtleneck underneath, she looks pretty -- very pretty.

Her hair falls in loose curls that sit just past her shoulders and her plump lips are painted pink with a subtle gloss.

When her eyes flitter up from her feet, she finally notices him watching her, a warmth rising to her cheeks and she shuffles in the penthouse behind Mike.

Her eyes are too glued on Harry, worried she may have done something wrong, for her to notice the presence of Anne and Gemma.

It isn’t until Anne is cooing at her and pulling her into a motherly embrace that she breaks her nervous gaze on her husband and shakily returns the hug to her mother-in-law.

“Was worried we wouldn’t see you before we left, love. Mike took you out for lunch, Harry said,” she smiles warmly, holding the girl by her shoulders and Y/N nods, lips pursed inwardly.

“Before you left? Where are you going?” she asks, ignoring the latter part of her question but she doesn’t mean to… she wonders if Harry will scold her for it when they leave.

Anne lets out a soft huff.

“Back to England, love. Now you’re married, Harry’s got his trial period as Capo to prove himself in the event Stefano is no longer able to reign as Capo,” she explains briefly, hands waving a seemingly dismissive manner, like she doesn’t much care for the topic.

But Y/N sees the glimmer of fear in her eyes.

She nods her head and smiles softly at the youngest Delluci who’s already gleaming up at her. Y/N doesn’t know what it is, but knowing Gemma appears to like her makes her feel a little more at ease.

“Will we be seeing you soon?” Y/N queries shyly, wondering if Anne can sense her need of having them around.

She does, and she reaches for the young girl's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“I hope so, darling.”

She zones out as Harry kisses their cheeks goodbye and sees them to the elevator, she’s too busy twiddling her thumbs and preparing herself for the numbing loneliness she'll be forced to face again tonight.

“Mike, you’re off for the night,” Harry’s low voice squeaks in her ears and Y/N’s head perks up, brows furrowed with sweaty palms.

“Do you not have work?” she blurts out before she can even think about what she’s doing.

Her face pales, head lowering as her gaze fixes on the floor. If she spoke like that to Giovanni, he would’ve kicked her to the ground by now.

Harry hates the way she quickly reels into herself, a vile taste on his tongue at the thought of her thinking he’d ever lay a hand on her like that.

He shakes his head and lowers his voice to a softer tone, ignoring the squinted look Mike gives him.

“Not tonight, I figured we could spend some time together,” he starts, dipping his head slightly as Y/N slowly raises hers to look up at him through mascara-coated lashes.

Mike bites back a smirk. In all his life, he’s known Harry to only ever use that soft tone with the women of his family: his mother and sister. He leaves the couple without another word and when Harry hears the elevator doors close again, he continues.

“I feel bad for not spending any time with you and leaving you all alone since we got here.”

Y/N feels part of her heart swell at his confession and she feels her cheeks blush harder than before. She offers a shy chuckle and shrugs her shoulders.

“Not all alone, Mike’s kept me a little company,” she’s nervous and she wonders if this is actually his way of making sure he gets laid tonight.

She doesn’t want to sleep with him again, doesn't want to go through the pain of remembering it this time.

She can feel herself beginning to panic, the sweat in her palms increasing by the second. Maybe if she plays along it won’t hurt so much, maybe he won’t be so hard on her.

She doesn’t want to think of him as such a person to do such a thing, but he’s a Made Man and Y/N is his wife. Her permission doesn’t matter.

He seems to notice her apprehension and takes a tentative step closer, trying to sag his shoulders to make himself look smaller; less intimidating.

“I thought maybe we could cook together? Get to know each other a little more,” he suggests and with a brief second of her gnawing on her inner cheek, she agrees.

They settle for making pizza. Harry’s kneading the dough as she stirs the tomato puree in a small bowl. She’s cut the pepperoni and mushrooms, a little plate full of peppers and spices ready to be sprinkled on when the dough is thick enough.

Y/N takes her time to admire Harry.

He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie long forgotten on the couch and the first few buttons by his collar are undone, dark and sparse chest hair peeking through.

He looks good, she can’t lie about it. And there's something about seeing an easy smile on his lips that makes him seem all the more normal, she finds herself feeling comfortable in his presence, safe.

In the hour of prepping, they’ve learnt little bits of information about each other. Harry learnt that Y/N’s favourite colour is yellow because it brings her a sense of light. She told him that her favourite movie is Romeo and Juliet, “Cliche, I know,” and that ever since she was little, books have been her little escape from how bad her home life has always been.

He learnt about her relationship with her brother when she was growing up and how it all fell to shit when he was initiated, when he sided with their Father and left her alone.

It isn’t all one sided with learning new information. Y/N learnt about Harry’s ability to hold his breath for seven minutes, how he taught himself to play the guitar at a young age, and as much as he was tempted to tell her he once killed a man with his guitar string, he didn’t.

He lets her revel in the innocence he offers her in sheltered childhood memories. Like how he used to read Gemma bedtime stories and train with Mike and Jeff every evening.

It’s when he mentions how he once made homemade pizzas with Anne when he was younger and she thinks he’s opening up to her.

She doesn’t understand that he only tells her these things to make her feel a little more comfortable. She mistakes his consideration for trust.

“I uh, I found some old photos in the library this morning. A bunch of ones of you and your Mom,” she begins in a shaky tone and Harry hums, sprinkling the cheese over the tomato based path she created for him.

She dares to snatch a peek at his face, fearing the worst -- but he’s calm and concentrated as he evenly distributes slices of pepperoni in the cheese’s wake.

“And there was a man in them, too. You look kinda like him, you know,” she continues, fiddling with a couple of olives between her fingers and she’s too caught in the way they roll against her fingertips to notice his mood falter and body stiffen.

So she continues.

“Is he your uncle? I didn’t see him at uh, at the wedding,” she cranes her neck just enough to wince at his reaction and he’s sprinkling chopped onions and mushrooms with a little more force than he did with the cheese.

Y/N swallows.

“No. He was my father,” he tells her.

His voice is rough and short -- a quip, less than a casual reply. Y/N frowns at his bluntness and the new information, dropping the olives in the ceramic bowl and twisting to face him.

“What?” she asks, brows furrowed. “But I thought that—“

“That Stefano is my Father? No, my step-father. Why else do you think you and I are Styles-Delluci?”

His replies are short and blunt and he doesn’t miss the way she sinks into herself out of fear and embarrassment. Nothing more is said on the matter, Harry opting to change the subject and attempting to lighten the mood to the best of his ability, but Y/N doesn’t budge.

He’s come to learn that when she fears she’s upset someone or gotten herself in some kind of trouble, she tends to bottle herself up and doesn’t allow forgiveness upon her.

Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t believe the forgiveness is ever genuine and Harry starts to wonder if she’s ever even been forgiven before. The thought rattles something unsettling within the pit of Harry’s stomach.

They wait for the food to cook in silence and eat in silence, opposite ends of the dining table. Y/N keeps her gaze on her food while Harry keeps his gaze on her, but neither says a word.

Harry cleans the dishes while she showers and as they climb into bed together for the first time since she’s been there, their backs stay faced to the other as sleep consumes them.

omg please do let me know what you think so far of the series? the next part is out next week and it's another long one, too. feedback is massively appreciated!!

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #imagine harry styles #harry styles x you #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #harry styles imagines

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stylesharrys · 3 months

Text

All That You Are | Part 2 [Mafiarry]

The time has come for Harry’s initiation as Capo dei Capi, and Y/N has mixed feelings about the steps he has to take.

A/N: part 2 is here! another long one darlings, so get comfy and some snacks! next part will be posted sometime next week or the week after as I’m currently half way through writing. I hope you're enjoying the series so far!!

Warnings: lots of swearing, violence, use of deadly weapons, torture, murder, descriptions of a de*d body, arranged marriages, mentions of blood and abuse, smut; oral (fem receiving), a little dirty talk, kissing, teasing.

WC: 26.1k

Y/N sighs softly, brows pinched together and a sad glint in her eyes. Maria stares back at her through the small screen of Y/N’s phone.

She hasn’t spoken to anyone since she found out Stefano isn’t Harry’s biological father three days ago. She’s been preparing herself for the backlash she thought she was bound to face, but it’s yet to come.

“Bruno’s just a massive dick, still. Nothing’s changed. Oh, but me, Dad and Uncle Giovanni are coming to New York next month!”

Y/N’s ears perk up and she feels tears of happiness well in her eyes. It doesn’t matter that it’s been a week and a half since she’s been gone, it already feels like a lifetime.

“You are! When? What date!? Wait, why are you coming to New York with Father and Uncle Romero?”

Y/N can’t keep the questions at bay, doubt and worry bubbling within her. She may not know much about the business her family and others within the Famiglia conduct, but she knows it’s uncommon for women, especially daughters, to travel.

Maria shrugs, a hint of nervousness glimmering in her eyes.

“Some Nino dude in Harry’s family wants to marry me… I overheard Dad and Vanni talking about it,” her voice dies off in a hesitant whisper, tone full of fear and worry.

Y/N’s very rarely seen such a side of her cousin and she hates that she isn’t able to be by her side, to comfort her and beg Giovanni not to do this.

“What?! You can’t marry Nino, Maria. He’s dangerous!”

Her mind is in a frenzy, Harry’s words boiling in her head. Stay away from Nino. He’s merciless and evil. Her palms start to sweat, lungs tighten and it’s like someone’s sitting on her chest, restricting her lungs from fully expanding and it swells a panic deep in her gut.

Maria’s seemingly oblivious on the other end, or maybe she’s just trying to not let the gravity of the situation affect her.

“I mean, I met him at your wedding. He’s hot as fuck, dude,” she gawks in her typical, vibrant self but Y/N doesn’t let herself snort a laugh like she usually would.

Guilt is what’s bubbling in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. Maybe this is Harry’s doing. Maybe this is the punishment she has to face for snooping through his personal photos that he clearly hid away from prying eyes. Maybe all of this is Y/N’s fault.

She’s shaking her head instead, gripping the phone in a tight vice and swallowing back the raw pain her throat feels from willing herself not to scream.

“I’m going to fix this, okay? I’ll talk to Harry and I’ll fix this. I promise, Maria. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Y/N spends the rest of the afternoon gnawing her fingernails raw. She’s burnt holes in the ground from pacing back and forth and every time Mike has tried to converse with her, she’s unintentionally blanked him.

She hasn’t sat down since she ended the call with Maria, hasn’t had her hands out of her hair for longer than ten minutes before she’s tugging on it again.

She’s eager for Harry to come home, desperate to get on her knees and beg him not to do this. She doesn’t think he’s the kind of person to punish someone else to upset her but she doesn’t know him.

She doesn’t know what he’ll do to get a point across. She’s sure he doesn’t like the idea of hurting women, but when a man’s ego is bruised or they’re angry, they tend to go back on their word.

It’s another three hours of aimless pacing when Harry finally returns to the penthouse. The second he steps foot out of the elevator, she’s in the closest proximity they’ve been since their first dance; glossy eyes and a slightly pink nose. Her skin is a little blotchy and he knows for a fact she’s been crying.

Harry's first instinct is to throttle Mike, assuming he’s done or said something to upset her. Before his eyes can even find her guard, Y/N’s hands are gripping at his thick biceps and she’s forcing him to look at her, for once desperate for his attention.

“Don’t do this, please!” She starts out flat begging, no build up and Harry’s dark brows are pinched together, utter confusion plastered on his face but she continues her frantic spew.

“I’m sorry for snooping at those photos, I’m sorry! But don’t punish Maria for my mistakes, please. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t make her marry him.”

Her tone of plea has Harry’s throat feeling tight, like a thick bubble has formed in his throat and he can’t swallow it. The fear in her words sends shockwaves through his body and the raw panic that swims in her eyes makes him feel sick.

He vowed he wouldn’t let her feel fear in his presence, that he would protect her through their marriage and he’s breaking his promises a week in.

“Y/N, stop,” he coos in the gentlest tone he can.

His hands reach up to clasp around her wrists and softly, he pulls them from his arms and keeps them in a hold of one hand, lowering them between their bodies so she rests her palms flat against his hard chest.

Her breathing stills; perhaps from realisation of their close proximity, perhaps in fear. There are small, dull bags beneath Harry’s eyes and he looks paler than usual.

For a brief moment, she forgets about Maria’s situation and wonders if he’s okay, unsure whether he’s eaten or not today, but the gravity of the situation sits heavy on her shoulders again and she’s thrown back in that state of panic.

“You really think I’d do something like that to you?”

His doubtful words are spoken in a hushed tone that’s just above a whisper and her panic drops a little, heart fluttering. Would he? Do something like that to her? Harry sighs tiredly, keeping his hold on her wrists and he soothingly thumbs across the soft skin.

“I found out this afternoon, and I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to talk to you about it. I had nothing to do with this, believe me,” he reassures her and she believes him, she does, but knowing he didn’t have a say in this matter and it’s still happening doesn’t make her feel any better.

The panic is rising again and she shakes her head, trying to rip away from his grasp but he holds her a little tighter and she’s staring up at him, those innocent doe eyes wide and watering.

“Maria’s a handful and she doesn’t think or care about the consequences of her actions. Uncle Romero decked her with an ashtray because she dyed her hair. What did she do a week later? Dyed it a brighter colour! She doesn’t care and he’ll hurt her and I can’t let that happen, Harry. Please, I can’t let that happen.”

He watches her in her whole glory for a fleeting moment; allows himself to wallow in her pity and fear.

It’s the first time she’s ever said his name to him and the first occurrence she’s shown such raw emotion other than fear in the two weeks they’ve been together.

It’s love, the way she speaks and begs for her cousin. An emotion full of fire and passion and fondness. It startles something in Harry’s gut and it’s like he struggles to address her properly, like he doesn’t want to risk never seeing her so herself again.

Harry opts for squeezing her wrists gently and bowing his head a little closer to hers.

“I don’t have the power to change things -- to decline the deal. Stefano is still Capo so what he says goes,” his voice is a strained apology and anger bubbles in his veins at the sight of a stray tear slipping past his girl's eye.

He’s furious at Stefano. For making Y/N cry or for stirring unsettling feelings in Harry’s stomach, he’s not sure, but he feels it and he knows what burning rage is. He bites it back, and isn't about to explode his frustrations on the poor girl.

“Stefano will be flying in for the meeting and he will be the one to decide, though it’s highly likely he’ll accept the deal. Salvatore has no doubt been down his throat about it,” he explains, his words dying off in a deep mumble but Y/N’s lips are still quivering.

“This whole thing has nothing to do with you or Maria. This is Nino’s way of trying to beat me, to earn the title as Capo. The only way he could take my place would be if he killed myself and Stefano. And it’s not something I’d ever put past him,” he admits.

Y/N doesn’t know what it is that has her keening into his touch, but she feels her heartbeat calm when he strokes his thumbs across her wrists. Her fear is very much prominent in the way she looks at him but there’s also an overwhelming amount of trust in her eyes that suggests she believes him and the look alone scares him.

It worries him what will happen if he can’t see through the silent promise of doing whatever he can to stop the marriage from happening.

“Come on, it’s late… let’s go to bed.”

He knows neither of them have it in them to show another ounce of verbal vulnerability so it’s not much of a shock to him when she agrees.

It also isn’t a shock to either when Y/N follows her nighttime routine as Harry brushes his teeth in the bathroom mirror, side by side for the first time.

Neither register the state of comfort and ease they for some reason feel as they unwind for the evening, not quite with it to realise the drastic change.

At least, not until Y/N’s getting comfy under the silk sheets she’s grown to appreciate and Harry follows after switching out the light.

Suddenly, crawling into bed together is what makes the situation really dawn on her and she takes into account his patience from just half an hour ago.

Harry’s in just a pair of plaid pyjama pants beneath the sheet and she’s facing him; eyes tracing the faint lines of his shoulder blades in his back under the dark light of the room.

She wants to test the waters a little further; she’s dipped her toes in the warm pool and now she’s ready to let it swim at her ankles, to allow herself an easy escape before she submerges fully into him, before the night bleeds into another day.

“I want to come to work with you,” she mutters softly before she can really process her thoughts because now that the words have spewed from her mouth, she regrets them.

Y/N most certainly does not want to go to work with him and she’s almost dead sure she’ll never want to either.

Harry frowns in the darkness of the room as he shuffles onto his other side, bleary eyes blinking to clear his vision to make out the outline of her soft features in the night.

He waits a beat, expecting a string of apologies to follow; begging him to forget about it. They’re both confused when it doesn’t, when the silence is more welcoming than usual and he nods slowly to himself.

He always said he doesn’t want his wife to feel trapped, like she has no sense of freedom. But he also doesn’t particularly want to expose Y/N to that side of his life, that side of him.

He supposes one day, she will see him for the monster he really is, and as much as he wishes to delay the inevitable, he’d rather her see him on his terms than by accident.

“If you go to sleep now, you can come with me next Thursday for a meeting,” he proposes, voice light but there’s an underlying timidness to his tone that Y/N doesn’t miss.

Something troubles her stomach, a warm yet uneasy feeling at the prospect of being surrounded by men like her husband, men she has no trust in and will likely scare her.

Y/N doesn’t say anything in return, too worried that her voice will betray her. Instead, she rolls over and closes her eyes; mood at ease and knowing he’s allowing her to attend a meeting instils a little more trust in the wavering faith she’s growing to have in him.

Sleep begins to roll over in gentle waves when a light heaviness sits around her midsection. She stills under the weight of his arm that slings across her middle and she hears the rustling of sheets as he shuffles closer, until she feels the heat from his chest radiating to her back.

Her heart is pounding but she doesn’t push him away.

It’s a start, Harry thinks.

The last time she was this nervous while staring at her reflection in the mirror was her wedding day. Y/N’s palms are growing clammy by the second, uncomfortable with sweat as she debates whether or not she should have the third button of her blouse up or not. She looks formal, important; like she runs a company and is about to head out for her meeting.

The reality of the situation is that she’s freaking out. It’s Harry’s men and Harry’s meeting that she’s about to sit in on. She’s been growing uneasy since she asked to go to work with him a week ago. A whole seven days of uncertainty and wanting to back out on her idea. But she doesn’t want to seem weak.

For the first three days after he said yes, it didn’t really register with her. She’s still shocked that he even agreed for her to come to work, convinced he’d laugh at her and say something demeaning like her father would.

Harry noticed her hesitancy as the days passed and without realising, she’s craved his presence and approval a little more since then.

She lets him hold her in the evenings when they sleep, even went as far as mustering up the courage and turning in his hold to snuggle into his chest last night. He knows why she did it; because she’s been worrying about today.

Neither of them brought the topic up since he first agreed, but Harry knows he probably should’ve reassured her before waiting until the last minute.

Now he’s watching her from the doorway of the closet. From his position, shoulder against the wall and arms crossed over his thick chest, he watches the way Y/N twists and turns to gauge her reflection, how she tucks her blouse in tighter before tugging it out to loosen it a little more.

“You look beautiful,” his gentle voice intends to coax her out of her bubble but instead, it pops it abruptly and gives her a startle.

With a hand on her chest, she turns around and catches her breath, cheeks pink under her light makeup and a nervous smile on her lips.

“Harry… you scared me,” she admits through a shaky breath.

She’s called him by his name several times in the past week, but fuck, if his heart doesn’t still leap when he hears it tumble from her lips. He offers an apologetic smile and unfolds his arms, stuffing thick hands into the tight pockets of his dress pants.

“Sorry,” he apologises. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You do look beautiful, though. Are you ready?” he asks, tone as patient as he can muster so as to not shove more pressure on her aching shoulders. Y/N lets out a shaky breath and nerves and fears rattle her body to her core.

She’s scared; terrified, really. The thought of being in a large meeting room with several merciless killers and Made Men is not a soothing flicker in her mind.

She’s positively trembling the entire ride to one of Harry’s warehouses. She’s picking at her nails and knuckles and her gaze is fixed out of the window.

In the week leading up to this, she’s been out a couple more times with Mike; showing her around to cute lunch cafes and even one or two quirky bookstores that had caught her eye as he drove her around.

Harry is yet to take her out on the streets of New York but she knows he’s busy and the more she thinks about it, the more uneasy she feels about the idea of him taking her out in public.

She doesn’t know if she feels safe enough around him to know that he’ll protect her if something were to happen. She knows if an attack is to happen on her, it’ll likely be when she’s with Mike, but she also can’t help but feel she has a bigger target on her back if she’s seen roaming the streets or dining in restaurants with her husband.

Harry makes no effort to comfort her from his seat beside her in the back of the slick SUV. His thighs are slightly parted, hands clasped and folded over his middle and she’s registered the bouncing of his knee by the way the leather seats shift under the slight weight of the movement.

The thought of him being nervous doesn’t even take consideration in her mind, not when she’s too worried about her own nerves, when he’s done these kinds of meetings all his life.

But Harry is somewhat nervous. While he’s attended these meetings since he was initiated at age twelve after stabbing a man twice his age in the throat, he’s never ran a meeting with a woman by his side.

He knows he’ll be questioned about her presence; why a woman of the mafia is attending business meetings when she has no place, but Harry also knows it’s a perfect opportunity for him to assert his dominance, for Stefano’s men to get a taste of what life will be like when Harry eventually reigns as Capo.

He doesn’t let her know that, or anyone else, for that matter. Instead, he keeps quiet. He knows she’s too in her head to notice his nervous jitters and if he’s honest, he’s not too sure how to comfort her without coming off too forward or scaring her.

If his Mother or sister were in her situation, he’d press a kiss to their head and hold their hand. His wife is a little different in their current state of relationship.

By the time the car is pulling up to a large, industrial looking building, her fears and worries are only intensified. It’s chic and modern, no doubt about it… but it’s also relatively out of the way from the rest of the public and the seven other cars parked warrant a little more fear than before.

Demetri rounds the car and opens Harry’s door. He’s been Harry’s driver for three years and knows to keep his mouth shut unless spoken to. It’s not something he’s learnt from chauffeuring Harry around, but from his time working personally for Stefano and Salvatore in their younger years.

He’s been working for the Dellucci’s for three decades and while he knows Harry to be a much kinder man than most, he knows that feeling of having a bullet in his knee much better.

When Harry steps out of the car with a polite thanks, Demetri gently limps across the back and opens Y/N’s door. He doesn’t make eye contact with the young woman, another thing he learnt from the Dellucci’s.

She thanks him politely, hands soothing down her skirt and Harry stands beside her, a silent look between the two and she takes a deep breath, rolling her shoulders back and raising her chin.

She feigns confidence like a pro, and for a second, Harry’s almost fooled. Almost.

With a hand gently hovering over the small of her back, Harry guides her through the glass doors and into the lobby. A guard stands to the left; tall and lean and build like a fucking brick house.

He’s got on a slick suit and a little earpiece tucked away. He nods his head in greeting at Harry and takes a step out of the way, allowing the two through. He doesn’t spare a glance at Y/N.

She can hear her heart thumping in her ears as her little heels click against the marble floors. The lighting is dim through the halls, several locked doors on each side as she passes them until they reach the very end.

Harry stands before her, his hand on the doorknob and without thinking, Y/N latches onto his bicep; out of anxiety, needing to feel him close to her, to know he’ll protect her.

He stills momentarily, giving her a slither of a moment to know he understands, and he’s opening the door. There’s quiet chatter in the room, seats occupied aside from two. Did they know she was coming?

She recognises a fair few faces; two of Harry’s uncles and the dark red hair of Brian from the wedding. He appears happy to see her; grinning from ear to ear as he approaches the couple.

Harry greets his best friend with a firm, professional handshake. Like they haven’t fucked the same girl at the same time while sniffing coke of another stripper’s ass. His gaze is fixed on Y/N, though and she feels a little uncomfortable, not used to being under the gaze of men so close to her age.

“Y/N, lovely to see you again,” he says softly, nodding his head with a soft smile in a respectful greeting and she appreciates the lack of physical interaction he offers.

Harry’s hand finds its way on the small of her back again at the realisation of several eyes on his wife.

Brian still can’t hide his grin. By the shy look on her face and how she holds herself under Harry’s touch, he knows she has no clue how much Harry’s been swooning about her. About how peaceful she looks when she sleeps, that she’s infatuated with reading books and scribbling little annotations in the margins.

She doesn’t know that he’s been cooing over the way she gnaws on her inner cheek when she’s nervous and Brian feels about ready to start teasing his boss.

He keeps quiet, though, when Harry gives him a look. A look that suggests that while he may have that little dirt on him, if he does anything to ruin any progress with Y/N, he’ll surely cut off his balls and force feed them to him. Brian knows the kind of man Harry is, so it’s not something he’d put past him if he did something to truly upset or infuriate him.

The meeting begins as Y/N and Harry take their seats. None of the men address the female elephant in the room as Harry rolls through numbers and names, what they’re owed and how they’re going to get the Mexican Cartel in their books.

Y/N barely manages to register any of what he’s saying, too busy trying to slow her heart rate and stop her fucking hands from trembling. It isn’t until Harry takes note of the lack of responses in the room that he notices all eyes are glaring or perving on his wife and a wave of anger and protectiveness rolls over him in mini tsunami waves.

Harry casually leans back in his seat, hands slipping from the table and onto his lap as he brings forward the topic of Luca Buevello and how he owes almost twelve grand. It’s when he reminds the men of their terms and conditions when handling deals that he slowly inches his hand closer to Y/N’s lap, and knocking the edge of his hand with hers, their pinkies lock together.

Her heart is thumping over the gentle weight of his hand in her lap, over the way his strong, calloused finger is linked with hers. Spooning every night doesn’t feel nearly as intimate as this; secretly holding pinkies beneath a table in a room full of Made Men.

Nonetheless, the feeling offers a large sense of safety and relief to Y/N; the silent admission is enough to tell her that he’s there, he notices her state of discomfort, and he’ll protect her.

She’s easing down now and slowly allowing herself to listen to what Harry’s saying about the terms, when an older, somewhat tubbier man speaks up before Harry can finish.

“No disrespect, sir,” he begins, knowing to address Harry in the correct way while he’s temporarily on trial as Capo.

“But why is your gorgeous wife gracing us with her presence?” he continues, leaning forward on his desk and in his position, the light falls on the balding spot at the top of his head as he licks his lips.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be listening in on such violent business, sweetheart,” he jeers.

Harry’s stunned for a half second, like he can’t believe the size of balls this forty year old perv has. Harry’s seething through gritted teeth, a dark and dangerous chuckle falling from his lips.

“You’d do well to keep your mouth shut, Riccardo,” his lock on Y/N’s pinkie tightens just a little. “Who knows what we might catch.”

Y/N purses her lips and bows her head as she suppresses a smile at Harry’s insulting comment. She feels a little lighter through the rest of the meeting, shoulders relaxed and she doesn’t feel as small under the men's gazes anymore. She’s holding Harry’s pinkie as tight as he holds hers, a silent reassurance and thanks. One they both understand and reciprocate.

It’s something Brian notices as the meeting draws to a close; that Harry moves his hand from her lap slowly and their pinkies release their hold. It has a furrowed brow and squinted eye plastered on his face as Harry dismisses his men.

He leaves Y/N in her seat as he sees them through the door, Brian hovering until the end as he comes back in.

“I’ve called Mike, he’s going to take you back to the penthouse, I’ve got some business I need to finish, okay? I’ll call you if I run late,” he informs in a gentle tone, back to Brian as to offer at least some sort of privacy between the two.

Y/N nods with a small smile, doesn’t argue or push for details -- she doesn’t want to know and she’s too caught by the end of his sentence. I’ll call you if I run late.

“Okay,” she breathily replies.

“Harry,” Brian pipes up quietly from the other end of the conference table, arms folded over his chest and he nods his head to the door, gesturing for a private word.

He mumbles a ‘be right back’ to Y/N and follows his right hand man outside. Pushing the door, he raises his brows expectantly at the redhead.

“Bro, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to get laid and fuck all that pent up frustration out of your system,” he whispers through gritted teeth, smacking Harry on the side of his shoulder and the taller man can’t help but groan and roll his eyes.

Brian bounces on his toes. “Have you even slept with Y/N since the wedding night?” he pries.

Y/N knows it’s wrong, that she shouldn’t be listening to a private conversation. But when her name is spoken in a hushed tone between her husband and his best friend, she can’t help but feel at least a little intrigued.

The mention of their wedding night is enough to turn her mood sour and she can feel that familiar rumble of bile bubbling in her tummy again.

“Keep your voice down,” she hears him seethe through gritted teeth.

Harry shuffles uncomfortably in his spot and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing a hand down his tired face and shaking his head.

“We never fucked! I faked the sheets and she was too drunk to remember. I let her think we slept together,” he spits his secret through a whisper, face close to Brian as to stay as quiet as he can.

But Y/N hears -- she hears it all. She hears his admittance and she hears the white noise of everything else as it sinks in. He never slept with her. He never took her virginity. He never touched her. She feels light, like she’s floating and the impending, crushing weight of self hatred is no longer suffocating her.

She didn’t sleep with him.

She should hate him. Hate him for lying to her, for letting her believe she was drunk enough to allow him her body. Hate him for letting her hate herself. But she doesn’t, she can’t. All she can feel is free. She isn’t completely his, he didn’t take what is hers. That even in her most vulnerable state, he didn’t take advantage. That even when she was at her weakest point, he respected her.

It makes sense, now she knows the truth. How her thighs didn’t ache the next morning, that her core wasn’t pulsing and sore and she didn’t have bruises and marks littered across her hips and thighs. She feels stupid for not realising that the truth was always right in front of her.

“Are you serious? But you’ve been to the clubs since, right?” Brian pipes up again, arms across his chest like there’s no way in hell he’ll believe his friend hasn’t had sex for two weeks.

Harry shakes his head again with what Y/N deems as a pained sigh. “No, Bri. I’m a married man. Love between us or not, I won’t break or betray her trust,” he explains and while Y/N’s stomach flutters a little, Brian breaks into a laugh.

Harry frowns, can’t seem to understand what’s so funny.

“Sorry, bro… but you must be fucked if you think she trusts you,” Brian explains his amusement and it causes bolts of doubt to pile down Harry’s throat.

He knows it hasn’t been long, that he can’t ever expect her to trust him fully in such a short amount of time, but he hopes she knows he can trust his fidelity, at least.

His phone vibrates from his pocket and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s Mike telling him he’s outside. He glares at Brian, not uttering another word and upon hearing movement from the other side of the door, Y/N quickly returns to her seat, feigning nonchalance and picking at her nails.

“Mike’s here. He’s waiting for you outside,” his voice speaks gently and she nods, standing from her seat and soothing out her skirt again.

She notices the small hint of a rosy hue that sits on the apples of his cheeks and she feels like she’s looking at him in a completely different light.

She doesn’t see such an intimidating monster anymore. She sees a man that did what he had to do to protect them both, despite how shitty it felt. She knows what happens in the rare instance that a man doesn’t take his wife’s virginity on their wedding night. That she’s passed around between willing uncles and cousins until they are satisfied. She sees a man that respected her in her weakest and most vulnerable moments.

Maybe that’s what possesses her to reach on her tiptoes and press her soft lips to his stubbly cheek in a gentle kiss. Maybe that’s why she squeezes his bicep as she passes him and shyly makes her way down the hall.

Harry watches her walk away with a stammer in his chest and a light blush on his cheeks; ignoring the teasing snickers from Brian and he watches Y/N disappear with Mike, turning back to his friend.

“I don’t want to hear a fucking word.”

His knuckles are aching; sore and swollen with gashes of blood soaking the torn skin. There’s a mass amount of adrenaline that rushes through Harry when he goes on a debt collector run. There’s an excitement to hear their fucked excuses, maybe a bit of amusement for the sadistic part of him that loves to hear them beg for mercy.

Tonight is no different. Luca Buevello, a known affiliate and person of business with the New York Famiglia. He’s been a friend of the Dellucci’s for years but as of recent, too focused on gambling away his life to pay back what he owes.

Smacked out of his head when Harry and Brian arrived, they’ve got him roped and bound to a chair in the middle of his pristine kitchen; splatters of blood coating the white floors and counter doors.

They’ve been there for two hours. At first, it was a chat; Harry having at least a thread of trust in the man for knowing his step-father for so long, but he soon grew ballsy, commenting on his marriage and how he’d like to know how his Mother tastes. That’s what got him tied up with a black eye, broken nose and a kitchen steak knife lodged in his thigh.

Harry’s breathing slowly, chest heaving with deep breaths and his shirtsleeves have been rolled up to his elbows. The last time he was dressed like this was almost two weeks ago when he and Y/N were cooking pizzas together.

Maybe that’s what’s got him so impatient. He doesn’t want to be making appearances in debt collections. He wants to be at the penthouse with Y/N, finding out what’s going on with her, what that fucking kiss means.

“I’m losing my patience with you, Luca,” he starts, leaning the palms of his hands on the edge of a counter.

Brian’s got that sadistic smirk on his face, fingers gripping Luca’s fucked jaw to force him to look at him with blurred vision.

“I was willing to give you more time, but you just had to open your fucking mouth,” he tuts, pushing off the counter and walking toward him.

Luca’s face is unrecognisable, bruised and swollen and matted with sweat and blood. “Now, I’m going to untie you and you’re going to unlock your safe with your little fingerprint and give me my money,” he explains the simple steps, standing behind the man with a knife to the ropes.

“And if you try anything funny, you know we only need your finger to get that money. I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself here, Luca,” Harry tantalises, knowing the older man has never liked the younger one.

He’s just like Salvatore, doesn't think Harry should rule as Capo with his traitor blood. He’s team Nino, if you will.

Luca makes a muffled noise of acknowledgement and Harry cuts the rope. Brian pulls it off his body and takes a few steps back, watching with squinted eyes. Harry’s got a hand fisting the back of his shirt, just by his neck, and he guides him through the kitchen and into Luca’s personal office.

He mistakes Harry’s willingness for stupidity and in a haste of movements into the doorway of the office, Luca tugs the knife from his thigh with a muffled scream and rams it into Harry’s side in one swift motion. He doubles over in pain, grip on Luca faltering but Harry’s quicker, stronger than Luca anticipates.

Luca’s hand is still on the knife, trying to jab it deeper into his side but Harry grabs his wrist in a vice-like hold and tugs, twists it backward and breaks his thumb and wrist in a single snap. Luca falls to his knees, screaming and cursing profanities as Harry pulls the knife from his side and drags it across his throat in a quick slit.

Thick blood pools from the sharp incision as his body plummets to the floor, lifeless but still twitching. Harry’s breathing is heavy, groaning as he falls back against the door frame.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his shaking hand pulling up his torn and bloody shirt and blood is oozing frantically from the wound.

“Brian!” He calls out gruffly, hand applying pressure on the wound and the chirpy redhead bounds around the corner; coy smirk on his lips but it falters and his shoulders sag when he notices Harry’s state.

“I leave you for two minutes,” he mumbles through a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He’s about to slice off Luca’s finger, unlock the safe and get the money, but Harry shakes his head, trembling hand pulling away from the gash in his side and he’s not sure he’s bled so much from a knife wound before.

“What the fuck? A little steak knife did that?” Brian quips, kneeling slightly to get a better look at the gash but there’s too much blood for him to actually see anything.

Harry shakes his head and pushes his shirt back down, maintaining the pressure. “I think he cut into a healing scar and it split,” he seethes, head bashing back against the wall as he bites back the flurries of pain.

It’s a painfully slow drive back to the penthouse. Harry’s laid out across the backseat while Brian drives, eyes on the road but his mind is focused on reminding Harry of what will happen if he bleeds all over his custom leather seats. Harry’s too busy trying not to bleed out to think of a snarky reply.

His mind is a little too preoccupied. He promised Y/N he’d call if he was running late and now it’s nearly 02:00 AM and he’s bleeding out in the backseat of his best friend's Maserati.

His phone is too wedged in his pocket and he can’t muster up the proper energy to call her or Mike. Besides, he supposes she’s asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her.

He’s groaning in discomfort, feeling woozy and lightheaded when they pull into the underground garage. He’s been hurt worse in the past; shot, stabbed, tortured, burned, but he took the knife out and the position of the knife tore into soft scar tissue of an old wound.

Brian holds his entire weight into his side as he punches in the code to the penthouse, both their suits are splattered in Harry’s blood. When they get inside, Harry can’t keep himself up, even with Brian’s support. Maybe it’s because he’s lost so much blood, or maybe it’s because he knows he’s home -- that he doesn’t have to be so alert anymore.

He falls straight into the dining table, chairs knocking over and in his delirious state, he sees Mike come flying into the kitchen with a gun in the air, eyes wide when he notices Harry’s state.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Mike seethes under a whispered breath, shoving the barrel of his gun down the back of his pants and rushing to Harry’s side.

Between the two of them, they manage to get him to the couch, shirt torn from his body as Brian raids the kitchen for hard liquor and a first aid kit. The frantic rummaging and knocking of furniture is what disturbs Y/N from her slumber. She stirs awake, brows furrowed in a sleepy state of confusion until another thud is heard from the kitchen with several deep, laboured grunts following.

She freezes in the middle of the bed, straining her ears to hear past the white noise of the quiet home. She hears it again.

“Fuck!” her heart is stammering and the noises continue. What if someone got into the penthouse? What if someone’s hurt Mike? Where’s Harry? Y/N’s mind runs on overdrive and she’s in that fight or flight situation.

She doesn’t even think as she reaches for Harry’s side of the bed and lifts the mattress just enough to retrieve the handgun he keeps there in the nights. The weight of the weapon sits heavy in her quaking hands but she swallows down her fear and checks the magazine is full.

She tiptoes to the door, eyes stinging with tears but she blinks them back quickly. If there is an intruder and she’s in danger, she can’t let tears cause a clouded vision. She can’t be stupid.

Light on her feet, Y/N sneaks out of the bedroom and follows the sounds. It’s not until she’s creeping down the stairs that she realises the rookie mistakes she’s probably making.

She didn’t check her phone to see if Mike or Harry texted her to hide, she didn’t call Harry to tell him what’s happening. She doesn’t do anything that will protect her apart from gripping the gun tighter.

She’s never held one of these before, let alone shot one, and she wonders if even in her alert, sleepy state, she’d have the guts and will power to shoot if she needs to. Wonder if she’ll be able to stand behind the bite of the shot and if the noise isn’t too deafening.

Y/N reaches the bottom of the stairs, creeping closer but her heartbeat sounds louder in her ears than the grunts do. It’s when she creeps the corner that the gun she’s raised lowers and a choked sigh slips from her lips.

“Oh my God,” she whispers shakily, gun dropping to the floor in a clang and she doesn't realise the safety’s been on the entire time.

Harry’s on the couch, a pool of his own blood smeared across his lap and on the oak floors. His shirt is stained red, shredded and thrown to the floor. Brian’s disinfecting the gash in the side of his abdomen, dotting the area with cotton balls and Mike sits to his other side, sterilising a needle with thread.

Her gaze catches him and he stares with wide eyes. The look of horror and shock on her face has Harry feeling sick, can’t believe he was stupid enough to have Brian bring him back to the penthouse, to inevitably set her up to see him in such a state. Y/N’s slowly making her way over, limbs weak and trembling as her legs carry her satin pyjama clad frame closer.

Bile is rising in her throat at the sight of him and he offers a weak smile. She hates that even in this state, he’s trying to reassure her, pretending that he’s okay. Y/N doesn’t know if she’s thankful or resentful -- does he really view her as such a frail child? Like she can’t deal with a bit of blood and a stab wound?

“I’m fine, it’s just a little blood,” he tries to ease her but it’s more than a little blood.

She keeps watching as Mike brings the needle to the skin, piercing through with no warning and Harry throws his head back with greeted teeth; seething profanities and the sight has something shifting in Y/N.

She shouldn’t be staring at his ripped torso, the way his sweat is letting his tanned skin gleam under the soft light of the lamp across the room. She shouldn’t have a certain feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach at the sight of his thick Adam’s apple bobbing, or the way his jaw tenses when Mike pierces the skin again.

She shouldn’t feel that tingle and throb between her parted thighs.

Her toes are wiggling against the oak floors, fingers twitching and Harry rolls his head back down; his chin meeting his chest and he’s staring up at her through his dark lashes. He notices the flush in her cheeks from across the room; the way her nipples have pearled against the silky material of her cropped satin cami.

He notices the way her thighs clench subconsciously before she runs back upstairs, and he’s left getting stitched with a semi and the knowledge that she’s undeniably dripping under those baby pink satin shorts.

Harry enjoys a lot of things in life; the sunshine, fresh sheets, a cool beer at the end of a long day, and that overwhelmingly, indescribable feeling of sinking into a tight, soaked pussy at any given opportunity.

He’s been deprived of the latter for too long. Y/N’s been in New York for five weeks now, which means Harry hasn’t gotten his dick wet in seven.

He figured it’d be easier than this. That getting himself off in the shower or late nights in his office to a dirty porno would do the trick, but it hasn’t. He’s aching in his slick dress pants this morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite already being up for two hours and having showered.

Usually, he likes to think he’s perfectly gentlemanly when it comes to sexual wants and urges; that he can refrain from the need of sex there and then but he very clearly underestimated himself. He’s not entirely sure where this shift in his hormonal control has come from.

Lies.

He knows exactly what’s got him so pent up and frustratedly hung. Y/N, and the sight of her soaking through her baby pink satin shorts. Harry doesn’t want to admit that seeing her perky nipples pearl through her camisole was enough to give him a semi -- thinks he’s a little manlier than that, but tits are tits and he’s starting to grow needy.

Harry knows he needs a proper release soon, not one brought on by his hand or a dirty picture. He needs to bury himself deep in a tight little cunt and pound until his heart's content. But his head is stuck in another, equally frustrating rut.

It’s been three weeks since the stabbing and that damn kiss she planted on his cheek. She hasn’t spoken to him much since she caught him bloody on their couch with Mike stitching him up.

He doesn’t know if it’s because it scared her to see him hurt and it reminded her of what he’s capable of… or if seeing him like that made her doubt wanting to open up to him, push her away from growing closer.

He doesn’t know and it’s beginning to grate on him.

She’s said a total of seventeen words in the past three weeks (yes, he’s counted), and he’s a little worried. She hasn’t asked to attend anymore meetings, if she should still cook him dinner for when he gets home. She hasn’t asked anymore about Maria’s arrangement and he’s worried.

If only Harry allowed himself to look a little deeper at the situation. Because while seeing him bloody and beaten was a shock to the young woman, that’s not what drove her away, no.

What pushed her back from any more cheek kisses was the warm, melting sensation between her thighs at the sight of his sweaty chest -- the clouded thoughts and naughty shivers that ran up her skin at the sound of his grunts.

Y/N feels ashamed and embarrassed, but he doesn’t know that.

She’s tried to avoid him since that night -- no longer cuddling into him when they sleep or trying to wait up to see him for a few moments when he comes home. She’s been isolating away from him, trying to compartmentalise her thoughts about that night and the knowledge that he didn’t actually sleep with her, while also preparing herself for her family’s visit.

She thinks he hasn’t noticed her sudden withdrawal, but he has; figures she’ll talk in her own time. Harry’s not quite ready to push her away some more.

Her nerves for today have become her primary thought, though. She’s way too nervous about being in her father's presence for the first time in five weeks to push Harry away.

She knows they both need to be on their game today in case something happens, which means she needs to bite the bullet and address the situation, or at least, the effects of it.

Dressed in a mauve, midi wrap dress, her sandalled feet carry her from their room and into the kitchen. Harry watches her enter from his seat at the kitchen table; takes note of her loosely curled hair and how pretty and shy she looks.

She stops just in front of him, hands crossed at the front of her body and she rocks back and forth softly on the balls of her feet. She clears her throat as Harry sets down his coffee and turns to pay her his full attention.

“My family are visiting today,” she says in a casual tone, eyes focused on her pink painted toenails.

Harry dips his head with slightly squinted eyes, tries to see her face. “I know,” he plays, voice teasing and she looks up at him with a deep breath, hesitancy swimming in her eyes. Harry doesn’t move.

“And we both need to be with it today and not focussing on anything else,” she continues. She’s still toying with her fingers and Harry can’t help his deepening frown.

“Y/N,” he coos, “what’s going on?” He watches her take a deep breath and unclasp her hands, looking at him full on and Harry notices the pretty specs of lilac glitter on her eyelids.

“I’m sorry for being so distant the past few weeks,” she admits. “It’s just… after seeing you on the couch like that, it scared me a little and I didn’t know what to do, so I just distanced myself. I’m sorry.”

She leaves out the part where she got incredibly turned on by the sight of his glimmering chest and she hopes to God he buys her partly true admission. He does, or rather, lets on he does, and nods his head.

“It’s okay, I know that must’ve been scary for you,” he notes, leaving out the part where he knew she was dripping the entire time.

He waits a beat, like he’s trying to figure out where she’s wanting to take this conversation but he doesn’t have to think much before she’s speaking again.

“And um, well, about the kiss,” she chuckles nervously, cheeks heating in embarrassment and shyness.

Harry’s not sure if she’s about to tell him she regrets doing it, or apologise for overstepping boundaries. He doesn’t give her time to choose, too busy holding her clammy hands in his rough palms and tugging her a little closer to him. His knees are spread on the stool and she fits between them, unintentionally holding her breath at the closeness.

“Y/N, listen to me for a second,” he begins, massaging his thumb across her dainty knuckles and she nods, swallowing down her nerves.

“I know this marriage isn’t conventional, and I know neither of us got to marry for love. But it’s still a marriage and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me or in your own home. We’re together, until death does us part… I’d like for us to be comfortable around each other, to have some form of relationship,” he admits.

There’s something about the way he words it that stings a rattle in the pit of her stomach. We’re together, until death does us part. Y/N doesn’t think she truly realised the gravity of her living with him in New York.

This isn’t just some agreement where she can return home after a couple of months or years. This is her life now, her life until her dying breath.

Part of her wants to hate him for it, wants to scream and cry because she won’t have control over her future. The other part of her, the more logical part, takes it in its strides. In that part of her mind, she figures that if this is to be their lives now, they should make work what they can. They should be open with each other and allow a bond to form a connection.

Harry may choose to sleep with other women (not that she thinks he will after overhearing his conversation with Brian), and that will be okay. Y/N doesn’t have that option to meet other men and have affairs and she doesn’t want to be miserable in Harry’s presence.

She wants to feel comfort and lightness when they’re alone together, and wants to have a small smile on her face when his name is mentioned. She wants to know him at least a little bit. Someone she can trust and count on and talk to. She needs a friend, not just a husband.

But maybe she doesn’t want just a friend. Maybe she wants that kind of intimacy that she craves with him. Maybe she wants to be able to kiss his cheek when she likes. Maybe she wants him to kiss hers, too.

Harry’s in a similar boat. He knows he’s got it easier than her. That if he truly pleased, he could go to his whorehouses and fuck the night away. But that’s not the man his mother raised and he wants something with Y/N; something platonic or romantic, he’ll let her make those calls, but he wants something exclusive with her and her only.

He squeezes her hand, notices she’s deep in thought. “We need to communicate with each other, though. If you want to keep distance between us, that’s okay. And if you want the little touches and kisses, that’s okay, too. You were forced into this marriage, Y/N, but I won’t force anything else upon you.” Her hands are warm in his hold and she lets his words maul over in her mind. He’s right, she knows it. And for once, someone’s putting her first.

“Fear has no place in a marriage, Y/N. Not with me.”

Her nerves are eating at her insides, even after she threw up her breakfast once they arrived at one of Harry’s offices. It’s a different building to the one she accompanied him for the meeting a few weeks ago. It’s the same look, though; modern and chic and out of the way.

They’ve been waiting for almost two hours, spent the past 45 minutes of that time stuck in the same room as Stefano, Salvatore and Nino. Y/N’s been close to Harry’s side the whole time, doing her best to coil into herself under Nino’s discomforting gaze. He’s been staring the whole time; evil glint in his eye and filthy smirk on his lips.

Harry knows she wants nothing more than to punch him in the throat for proposing to marry Maria but she also knows she doesn’t have the guts and she has to be polite in the presence of other people. She’s tucked in Harry’s side; her arm looped around his and he takes it upon himself to intertwine their fingers and she squeezes it appreciatively.

There’s a constant silent understanding between them now, so it seems. A promise to have each other's backs and offer comfort and support when they know the other needs it. Y/N wonders if Harry will ever need hers.

Silence ticks away in the spacious room and it isn’t until Y/N hears commotion from down the hall that she moves in her seat. She peers to her side, looking through the window in the door and mousy brown hair catches with traces of pink catches her eye.

Y/N’s jumping from her seat before Harry can even make sense of what she’s doing. She doesn’t care that Stefano is likely glaring at her husband for not controlling his girl, or that Nino is likely getting a good look at her ass as she jumps up. All she cares about is Maria.

She sprints through the door and down the hall, eyes blazing with hope and their bodies crash into one another. Limbs are tangled in a frantic hold and Y/N can feel a warmth flow through her being, having the chance to be with her cousin again.

Maria is sobbing into the junction between her neck and shoulder; dampening the skin with salty tears but Y/N doesn’t mind. She’s close to tears herself and she doesn’t want to let go. She tells herself that Maria is safe in her arms but she knows her frail hold could barely save her from what she’s being condemned to.

Harry watches on solemnly. Though she’s sporting a sniffling nose and watering eyes, this is the happiest he’s ever seen her and when he watches her pull away, he’s engorged by her smile. Bright and heavenly, her brief happiness beams through the hall and Harry feels an odd sense of nauseating nostalgia -- a feeling he doesn’t come close to understanding.

For a moment, his heart flutters and he forgets about the situation at hand. He nearly forgets about his Familgia, about the mafia. All he can think is what he said this morning, of how bad he actually craves a relationship with his wife. He watches her smile falter when she sees her father and that gut instinct in him wants to pull her close and protect her from every man and woman that’s ever hurt her.

Harry makes no attempt to shake the feeling.

Instead, he entertains the idea of a real marriage with her in his head. He lets his mind wander to thoughts of loving her, getting to know her, of allowing her to love him. When her smile slips completely and she’s left with a frown, Harry makes a silent promise to himself that he will be the reason behind her next honest smile.

He’s always been open to love and the idea of it. Though he doesn’t much remember his father, he remembers the love he and his mother shared. He remembers having it instilled in him and Gemma even after Danny was gone. He remembers the words his mother used to promise him every night.

“Love is never a weakness, Harry. It’s the most painful thing you could ever endure, but it gives you a strength you never knew existed.”

He knows he doesn’t love Y/N -- knows better that she certainly doesn't love him and that’s okay. He thinks maybe one day, he could, but gaining her trust in the present is more important. Not for love, but for her.

Harry feels himself instinctively take a step closer when Bruno and Giovanni stand before his wife. He notices the way Y/N’s shoulders tense at the sight of them and her father pulls her into a timid and unwelcoming embrace.

She feels frozen in his hold, like she’s trapped again and her body is completely stiff. She can’t lift her arms to offer a warmer embrace and she honestly doesn’t want to. Y/N hopes Harry is watching, that he’s got an eye on her father and he’s ready to protect her if he needs to.

Harry does watch and his stomach bubbles. He hasn’t seen her this tense since their wedding night. He knows he shouldn’t, but he feels an odd sense of pride that he’s been able to encourage her to relax in his presence. But it doesn’t make the sight of her fear any less painful to witness, just because he’s not the cause of it.

He watches with squinted eyes as Y/N shifts in her dress uncomfortably. Giovanni’s lips are close to her ear but Harry can’t make out what he whispers -- he just knows it’s something cruel. Y/N pulls away from her father and her arms protectively wrap around herself.

Harry can see how she coils into her frame; making her look much smaller than she is as he bounds over. He’s sure he notices a flicker of something in Giovanni’s eyes as he meets the young Dellucci. Harry hasn’t got it in him for fake pleasantries. He stands in front of Y/N to shield her from her family's prying eyes.

Maria smiles shyly at Y/N as she hears them mumble their relief of being in the other's presence, when Giovanni reaches for Harry’s hand. He offers a firm greeting but his father-in-law takes it further and reaches forward, subtly leaning up on his own tiptoes as to reach Harry’s ears.

He feels his thick, musky breath on his neck and Harry tries not to grimace. “If she was still under my roof, she wouldn’t be seen dead wearing a dress so revealing to a family meeting.” Bruno is smirking from behind his father but Harry sees nothing entertaining about the situation.

His vision is dithering and he doesn’t know what he’s more offended and disgusted by: his demanding and controlling tone about his wife, or the sheer audacity he has to talk to him like that. Harry’s grip on Giovanni’s hand tightens like a vice and he knows the older man is struggling to stifle his groans under the crushing grip.

Harry snickers a hum, like he’s feigning agreement. “But she’s not under your roof, and Y/N can wear whatever the fuck she wants.” Giovanni tears his hand from Harry’s, eyes dark and swimming with absolute fury. He doesn’t expect for Harry to defend his daughter and the threatening tone he uses is taken as a challenge.

Giovanni straightens his jacket and stretches out his fingers -- popping his knuckles. Neither say a word to each other as the two Saccaro men saunter past Harry and into the meeting room. Y/N’s Uncle Romero follows close behind, keeping his head down and Harry thinks he’s the wisest out of the three.

Y/N is hovering behind him still, eyes glossy and fingers picking at her nails. A sense of safety washes over her when their eyes meet and she wants to reach out to hold his hand, to thank him, but she knows now is not the time. He’ll no doubt be the talk of California when her family returns home and she knows he needs to keep his hard facade up.

Instead, he offers a tight lipped smile and nods his head ever-so-subtly. She appreciates the acknowledgement and lets him guide her into the meeting room. She’s tucked beside him through it all, eyes focussed on her twiddling fingers or her fidgeting cousin.

She can’t really focus on anything that’s being said but whenever she hears Harry’s voice, she holds onto it. She doesn’t really take in what he’s saying but she lets his voice ground her, offering that piece of safety and reassurance.

Her fingers are busy tugging at the hem of her dress; trying to pull it further down her thighs when she feels Nino staring straight at her.

She doesn’t need to look up to know his eyes are zeroed in on her rounded chest and Harry catches on just as quickly. He allows for Stefano to take over, to discuss the terms in which this marriage would include. Harry reaches blindly for her hand and tugs it away from her dress.

She looks gorgeous and he isn’t about to let a comment from her father make her feel anything less than that. He intertwines their fingers and Y/N forces herself not to look, to keep her eyes on her cousin. Her heart spasms when she feels him lift their hands and his soft lips press a gentle kiss to the back of her palm.

She tries not to make it known that she’s choking on her breath and she knows Nino witnessed the display of affection and she wonders if that was Harry’s intention all along. To make him jealous? A silent warning to back off? She doesn’t know but her body is ignited in a welcoming sense of warmth.

She can’t focus on the legalities of the situation that Romero and Salvatore discuss. Nor can she focus on the comments Nino makes or how Giovanni and Bruno snicker like school children. All she can focus on is the turmoil in her head that he just kissed her hand in front of a room of other notorious mobsters.

It’s when Harry’s thumb starts to run smoothly over the divots of her knuckles that she feels herself swoon. She’s overwhelmed. He’s trying to make her feel safe and comfortable; something no one has ever done for her. She’s too caught up in her inner monologue of what this all means, that she doesn’t hear Harry’s voice raise as he tries to fight against another arranged marriage.

What she does hear, and what does snap her from her oblivious state, are a stack of papers that smack against the oak table and the faint scribble of Romero’s signature whizzing across the paper. Y/N’s frantic eyes dart between made men as her heart kicks up a fuss. That once comforting warmth is now a sweltering heat she can’t seem to bear.

Her eyes find Maria who looks all too calm and composed for her situation. Y/N swears she notices a hint of a smile flitter on her lips and she feels sick. She knows her hint of excitement is all for Nino’s looks, but Maria doesn’t know the type of person he is. She wants to scream at her to run, to never look back, but nothing comes out.

A hand squeezes hers and she looks to her side in search of Harry. His lips are pursed and there’s a hint of something she hasn’t seen before that swims in his eyes. Regret. Regret that he couldn’t stop the arrangement, that nothing he said or did was good enough to sway either party involved. Another part of him knows it’s not his fault. Stefano is Capo and therefore, his say goes.

Y/N looks away, can’t bear to look at her husband and see the same nauseating look in his eyes. She does, however, squeeze his hand back gratefully for his attempts. She knew not to get her hopes up, but she still feels like her spirit and soul have been shattered. Even being married to one of the most powerful Made Men of today’s society doesn’t protect your family.

“Then it’s agreed,” Nino smirks. “Maria Saccaro will be my wife.”

Y/N’s blood boils and she rises to her feet as hands are shaken across the table. She rests her hand on Harry’s shoulder as she stands, leaning to bring her lips to his ear.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” There’s anger and spits of venom laced in her raging voice and he can’t say he blames her.

He watches her leave the meeting room with squinted eyes before Bruno is leaning over to shake at his hand.

“Where’s she running off to?” he asks, but Harry knows better than to tell him anything. He scoffs at her brother and tightens his grip.

“Your sister hasn’t been a concern of yours for a long time. Don’t try that big brother bullshit with me now,” he warns.

He shoves Bruno with the force of his shoulder to greet Maria properly. Her eyes are a little wild, like she’s trying to process what’s just happened. She eyes him sceptically as he reaches for her hand in an open palm. When she sits her trembling fingers in his grasp, he closes his other hand above hers.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this,” he admits lowly as to not attract the attention of his family or hers. Maria doesn’t say anything and Harry doesn’t expect her to. Instead, he nods in a respectful way and is pulled out of the office with everybody else.

It’s Stefano that shakes his hand next, a gleaming smile and a sweat-dotted hairline. Harry frowns at the precipitation that sheens on his ageing skin.

“That’s how it’s done, boy,” he grins wickedly, like he hasn’t just condemned a young girl to a lifetime of misery with his psychotic nephew.

“Why are you sweating so much?” he asks with a grimace.

Harry chooses to ignore the comment he makes back and pulls his hand from Stefano’s clammy one. He wipes his now damp hand down his dress pants and eyes his step-father. He’s pulled away by Salvatore before he can answer and Brian is swooping in to his friends side, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“That went well,” he notes.

Harry rolls his eyes at his choice of words and clears his throat. “As well as an arrangement can go with the Saccaro’s, I suppose.” Brian scoffs, nudging his shoulder.

“You say that like you’re not married to one of them,” he snorts. Brian’s leaning on tiptoes, known for being one of the shortest, in search for the aforementioned woman.

“Where is she anyway? You know Mike’s not with her, right? Too busy ogling over her cousin.” Harry follows Brian's direction of a head nod and finds his wife's guard standing off to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets but his line of sight is strictly on Maria who looks all too lost and like she’s searching for the same woman Brian is.

Harry sighs. “She’s in the bathroom. Needed to cool herself down after that shitshow. Can you blame her?” he mumbles, shoulder brushing against Brian’s as they stand offish to the side. He hums, agreeing with his superior and rocks slightly on the balls of his feet.

Harry’s eyes are fixed on the corner that rounds to the bathroom and he’s beginning to get a bit impatient. She’s been in there for nearly ten minutes now. He’s been too caught in what Brians been saying and keeping tabs on Mike that he hasn’t noticed Giovanni sauntering off in search of his daughter.

Y/N comes shuffling out of the bathroom when she notices her father waiting outside for her. The second their eyes meet, he’s shoving her into the wall and a finger is being pointed in her face. Her face is stricken with fear and she’s shuddering beneath his tall figure.

She tries to push him away -- to slip out from his grasp, but he’s grabbing her wrist and forcing her back against the wall. “You listen here, you little bitch,” he’s seething through gritted teeth. She can’t comprehend what’s happening. She doesn’t understand.

Y/N hasn’t done anything to warrant a punishment. She doesn’t understand that he’s taking his frustrations from Harry out on her. Giovanni isn’t a silly man. He knows he won’t stand much of a chance in a quarry with Harry, but he has his daughter to take his anger out on. He blames her, anyway. Harry wouldn’t have spoken to him or tried to break his hand if his daughter wasn’t acting like an insolent whore.

In a fit of fury and bravery, she rips her hand from Giovanni’s hold. She thinks if she’s loud enough, Harry will hear her and save her. How pathetic, running from one man just to beg for help from another.

“I’m not your property anymore,” she spits, but her moment of resilience is backfired as Giovanni raises his fist in an attempt to beat the respect back into her.

She cowers to the side when his fist kisses her eye and a sharp yelp cries from her lips. Her mind is frozen but her body is in shock. In the month she’s been away from him, she’s forgotten the painful impact behind the bite of his blows. She hasn’t been hit in two months and if she’s honest, she thinks that’s her longest streak.

Y/N’s shaking, chest rattling and she’s on the verge of hyperventilating. She feels like she’s stuck in her bedroom in California; screaming and begging for someone to take her away as he punches and kicks. She thinks this is about to be the same way -- that her father will bruise her black and blue to teach her a lesson.

But Harry’s growing impatient waiting for her to return. He’s rounding the corner as Giovanni takes a step away from the entrance to the bathroom, and that’s when he sees her cowering against the wall with an angry red cheek and mascara-smudged eyes. Y/N’s sobbing, holding her cheek, and neither her nor Giovanni notice his presence.

He goes to raise his hand again but Harry’s tackling him into the closest wall with a hand around his throat and another on his gun. He’s seething, fucking spitting through gritted teeth at the balls on this dude. Giovanni’s got a sick grin on his lips and Harry really can’t believe his eyes.

“What?” Giovanni croaks. “A month with you and she forgets how to respect men?”

Harry’s forcing an iron fist into the side of his face at the comment, ignoring the sharp sting that throbs in his side. Blood splattering from Giovanni’s nose and mouth to the opposing wall and Harry’s almost certain he’s torn his stitches. Giovanni spits at the floor, head rolling back to grin filthily at the younger man.

Y/N’s still stuck to the wall, watching everything unfold. Her hand is still close to her face as she cradles her blooming bruise but she can’t take her eyes off Harry. The commotion of it all attracts the attention of everyone else and Maria is gasping at the sight of her cousin.

She tries to reach for her, to coddle her and attend to her bruised face but Y/N doesn’t look her way and a firm hold on Maria’s shoulder stops her. She doesn’t need to look to see it’s her father holding her back. Brian’s got a hand on his gun, just like Stefano and Bruno do.

Mike’s watching it all unfold, horror seeping in his eyes at the sight of Y/N hurt. He knows this is his fault -- that he should’ve just followed and waited outside the restroom for her. Knows he should’ve been doing his fucking job properly because now she’s hurt and Harry’s angry.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your fucking throat out,” he warns through gritted teeth, spit hitting at Giovanni’s face and he smashes the back of his head against the wall for extra measure. He shoves off him, biting back the dull pain that aches in his side and turns to Y/N.

His eyes manage to block out the glares of confusion and glints of light that reflect from drawn guns. His main priority is attending to Y/N and chewing Mike out. He knows it’s not the guards fault but he has to make it known that incidents like this can never happen again.

There are many things Harry won’t stand for, and violence among women is one of them.

“Meeting adjourned, go catch your fucking flights” he mumbles.

He doesn’t care for the lingering looks of judgement from their families as he wraps an arm around Y/N’s shoulder and lets her coddle into his side. He ignores the confused glances and whispers of disapproval from Stefano and Salvatore.

Y/N keeps her face hidden from sight, knows she’s got all eyes on them and she wants to scream, coil into herself. Her father hit her, her brother watched, and her husband defended her honour. What kind of family was she born into?

It’s been hours.

Stefano flew back to England after the incident, claiming he didn’t feel too hot and the Saccaro’s hopped on their jet back to California. Harry’s been left with the mess to clear away paperwork and a shaken-up wife.

She’s sitting on the kitchen counter, thighs parted in her flowy dress as she watches Harry rummage through the freezer. They haven’t uttered a word since they left the warehouse and Y/N did well at pretending she didn’t hear him tear into Mike over the phone when they took a couple detours so he could put things in place.

He’s wrapping a bag of frozen peas in a thin dishcloth as he makes his way back over to her and she struggles to breath in his presence again. Harry stands between her thighs, peas in one hand while the other reaches up to brush her hair from her face to get a better look at her eye.

It’s swollen just a little but there’s a dull, purple marking that’s starting to stain the skin.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he warns in a soft tone.

She lets him raise the clothed peas to her face and gently press the frozen fabric to her eye. She winces at the foreign feeling and he coos, keeping her softly in place.

Her eyes flutter open to look back up at him. His brows are knit in a gentle frown and she can feel his warm breath fanning across her face; mint and cinnamon. He brushes hair from her eyes again and Y/N decides that out of all the men she’s ever known, ever met, he’s by far the kindest.

No man has defended her like him. No man has threatened her father for her.

Maybe it’s because the situation has finally had a chance to sink in and she’s grateful, or maybe it’s because what happened opened her eyes to what she wants and what could be. She doesn’t know, but something wills her to drop the peas and lean forward until her soft lips smear against his.

Harry’s eyes are wide in slight shock. He gives her a couple of seconds to pull away, to take it back -- but she doesn’t. So he lets himself sink into her touch and kiss her back, just as soft and tenderly. It’s as innocent as their first and last kiss, on their wedding day, but so much more is said behind it.

She pulls off him bashfully, cheeks tinted pink as she clears her throat and blinks down at her hands.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

Harry’s eyes are glued to her partly-shielded face and his hands reach for her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Y/N’s eyes are wide, lips plump and glossy. He kisses her again, lips parted as he envelops hers. She hums against him, lips closed and he licks at her bottom one, coaxing them open. When her mouth parts the slightest, his tongue slides against hers.

Harry’s got his hands on her hips as he takes the lead of the kiss, allowing her hesitant tongue to explore his skilled one. Her own hands are trembling against his chest at the new form of intimacy between them but she can’t get enough. His taste and touch is intoxicating and she wants more.

Harry’s no better; his heads swimming and he’s trying to will himself not to fucking ruin her there and then on the kitchen counter. She’s sweet on his tongue and it’s fogging his senses. One hand leaves her hip to grip at her thigh and he manages to coax them around his waist, tugging him impossibly closer so he can smell her sweet perfume.

Y/N wants to tell him that she knows. Knows what he really did on their wedding night, that he faked the sheets. That while she remembers what he told her that night, she doesn’t fear him. That she knows he didn’t mean it. That she knows he will protect her.

She thinks she’s got the courage to tell him, to open up and learn who he truly is but there’s a harsh vibration coming from beside them as his phone rattles on the counter. He pulls away from her with a groan, lips swollen and pink and Y/N looks royally fucked and flushed.

He makes no effort to look at the caller ID and opts to answer it anyway, bringing it to his ear.

“It better be important,” he mumbles harshly.

His hand is kneading the fleshy skin of her hip above her dress and Y/N takes the moment to catch her breath.

“Harry,” he hears a breathy voice shudder across the other line. His brows furrow and he stands straighter. His eyes leave Y/N’s as he focuses on the wall behind her, blood running cold.

“Mum?” He treads carefully.

“It’s Stefano… he’s dead.”

Harry feels sick. He can’t focus on Anne’s insistent cries or Y/N’s pleading looks. He can’t let himself ravish in the sight of his wifes swollen lips and hooded eyes, or worry about his mother’s frantic state of urgency.

All he can hear is white noise and all he can feel is a biting numbness. He knows what this all means; that he is now Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia but he can’t focus on that right now, either.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think or feel. He can’t make sense of anything.

“Mum, stop,” he mumbles, hand pinching at the bridge of his nose and Y/N’s dipping her head to get a better look at him, to chase his gaze and find out what’s going on.

“Are you okay? Is Gemma okay? Are you safe? What happened!?” he asks frantically and while Anne confirms their safety, her sobs become a drilling in Harry’s ears and he can’t take it.

“Mum, just stop!” he raises his voice.

Harry tries to ignore the way Y/N flinches away from his sudden outburst. In his current state, though, he can hardly bring himself to actually care.

“Stay where you are and do not call anyone. I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up before she has the chance to argue and his phone is shoved back in his pocket.

His hands find purchase in his unruly locks as he twists on his heels and seethes through gritted teeth.

“Fuck!” He’s red in the face, punching a hole into the closest wall and Y/N’s watching with wide eyes and trembling lips.

She slips off the counter, bare feet cautiously padding closer to him and she bravely sits a hand on his shoulder.

Harry spins to face her, vision clouded with anger and confusion. He can’t wrap his head around what’s happened. He saw Stefano just a few hours ago and now Harry thinks about it, he was acting oddly -- sweating and panting.

But he got home to England and now he’s dead? Now Harry will have to reign as Capo, and as much as he’s wanted this and he’s ready… he never thought it would happen this way.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Y/N speaks up softly, voice trembling and he has to remember she’s scared and vulnerable.

He takes a shaky breath and cups her jaw in his palms, dipping down to kiss her lips. She welcomes it briefly before she’s pulling away in confusion and curiosity. If she’s honest, she’s never seen Harry act so wildly before and not knowing the reason behind it is scary.

It doesn’t matter that she trusts him more than before now. She still needs to know.

“Stefano’s dead. I have to fly out to England,” he explains through a strained voice. Her eyes are wide, jaw slack and she’s sure her heart just stopped.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she breathes as she takes a step away from him. Her fingers are tangled in her hair, breath shallow as she paces nervously.

If Y/N knows anything about random deaths of Made Men within the mafia, it’s that they’re never random and are always planned and thought out by another. Stefano isn’t just dead. He’s been murdered.

No matter how much her family tried to shelter her from the Mafia life, she knows things about these types of situations -- a situation her family dealt with when her grandfather mysteriously died five years ago.

She knows an investigation will be undergone by the newly reigning Capo and if it shows that Stefano died in Anne’s presence, he’ll be expected to execute his mother to prove his loyalty to his men and his title, to his step-father's honour. Harry knows it, too. Maybe that’s why he’s so torn.

“I’m coming with you,” she blurts out, hands falling to her sides and Harry watches her, sceptical as she takes a step closer to him.

He’s shocked by her sudden outburst and he’s about to fight her on it, to assure her that Mike will be here to keep her safe when he’s gone. But this isn’t just about her safety.

She wants to be there for Harry’s support, to offer guidance and reassurance of her own. She wants to be there to prove to Harry that he can trust her, that she wants to be there to console and support his mother and sister.

“I’m coming with you,” she repeats and Harry doesn’t argue.

Neither of them hang around long enough to pack bags or set a plan in motion. Instead Harry kisses her feverishly and takes her hand in his.

He’s guiding her to the rooftop when his private jet lands and he’s calling Connor and Mike to give them an update. He keeps his composure, save for swears of anger when he gets on the plane but Y/N thinks she knows better.

His knee is jittering and he’s gnawing at his inner cheek. She can see a thin sheen of sweat that coats across his tanned skin and he taps his fingers in a frantic rhythm against his knee cap.

He can’t get out of his head. He’s now officially Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia and he thought owning the title he’s worked so hard towards would feel better than this.

Harry can’t help but feel he’s cheated his way to the top, despite having nothing to do with Stefano’s death.

He knows Y/N feels like she’s treading on eggshells as she watches him from the seat opposite his. He knows she’s worried about him, about his family, about what will happen now.

But she doesn’t say anything and he’s thankful for that. He’s thankful and overwhelmed that despite her bruising eye and uncertain anxiety, she’s worrying for him and silently reminding him that she’s here and waiting when he’s ready.

Harry’s never experienced anything of the sort before and he tries to remind himself that he most certainly doesn’t deserve it. But he’s selfish when it comes to her and he doesn’t plan on changing anything about that.

Y/N doesn’t want to overstep boundaries by asking what’s going through his head, by offering physical, emotional support. But Harry still needs it, so without voicing his desperate desires, he reaches forward for her hand and encourages her to stand from her seat and take the empty one beside him.

He guides her to intertwine their fingers and rest her head on his shoulder as he kisses the top of her hair.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he assures her in a gentle whisper and she nods, offering his hand an understanding squeeze and he lets out a breath of wanton relief.

There’s a car waiting for them when they arrive at the deserted landing strip not far from his family's mansion. He helps Y/N into the highrise of the SUV and gets in the driver's seat. The night is dark as they drive the lonely roads to his mother.

Y/N’s got her gaze fixed on the trees that whizz past her window and Harry’s had no choice but to stop jittering his knees as he drives.

She doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to put him further in his head and she knows nothing said will put him at ease until he sees Anne and Gemma. It’s not until now that it dawns on Y/N that she’ll be seeing her in-laws again and the throbbing of her eye reminds her of her current state and what they’ll think when they see her.

Anxiety is eating at her insides but she doesn’t let it show, she can’t. The focus right now is on Harry and his family and she will not take that away from him. She knows he’s never liked his step-father but it doesn’t make losing him easier. Or maybe it does, but with the current circumstances, nothing is easy right now.

It’s another twenty minutes before Harry is pulling into a gated home after his finger unlocks the biometrics. The house is huge; three stories and castle-like. There’s a little pond on the left side of the front of the house and two big Range Rovers off to the right. She swallows back the nerves as Harry parks the car but neither of them get out for a moment.

Y/N thinks she should wait for Harry to make the calls but right now, he’s a bit too in his head. He hasn’t been to this house in over five years and he's not sure how he’s going to take the sight of his step-father's dead body or his mother’s broken soul. He’s not stupid -- he knows his mother has never loved Stefano, but she’s scared and lonely and he’ll protect her and his sister over anything.

After a couple minutes of gaining his bearings, Harry clambers out of the car and rounds the front to help Y/N out. His hands cup beneath her arms as she steps down onto the ground; her hands bracing herself on his shoulders and he closes the door behind her. She’s peering up at him as he frowns at her bruising eye, thumbing softly against the skin and she tries not to wince under his touch.

“Stay close, and if you have to: run,” he warns with a lingering kiss to her forehead. She watches him tug the gun from the back of his pants and lets him gently shove her behind him. They’re sneaky as they make their way through the unlocked door. Y/N’s too alert to properly admire Anne’s home -- the chandeliers and high ceilings and windows. She’s too scared to take in the chic furnishing of her surroundings.

It’s silent as Harry creeps closer inside, knees bent and gun cocked to the ground but ready to be aimed. She’s thankful she changed her heels for a pair of flat pumps before they left for England. A desperate whimper is what catches their ears and she half expects Harry to falter his movements, but he doesn’t. He raises the gun and races through the hall and into the kitchen, Y/N following close behind with an erratic heart.

She watches with wide eyes at her surroundings. Stefano is dead on the floor -- foam smothered across his mouth with trails of blood that have pooled beneath his head. Her eyes find the owner of the whimpers and Gemma is trembling to her left. She’s hunched over a cream couch that sits opposite a fancy fireplace.

“Oh my God…” Y/N can’t help the whimpering mutter that slips from her lips, and the sound of the familiar voice causes Gemma's head to perk up. Y/N doesn’t notice Anne sat emotionlessly at the kitchen table, but Harry does and he regards the older woman with caution. Gemma breaks into fits of uncontrollable tears upon seeing her brother and with all the energy she can muster, she jumps up and crashes into his arms.

Y/N doesn’t see him hold her close to his chest and coo at her. He refuses to look at the body, unlike Y/N who can’t fucking look away. She’s too fucking frozen looking at the dead body at her feet to hear the breathless and frantic mutters of “he’s gone, he’s finally gone,” that Gemma repeats against Harry’s chest. He’s trying to calm her erratic state, eyes on his mother and her wanton stare.

It’s when Gemma pulls away to take a breath that she also notices Y/N’s presence, and even through her bleary, blurry-eyed vision, she can make out the stricken horror and dark bruise painted across her face.

“Y/N!” she shrieks, shoulder knocking against Harry’s and she’s making for her sister-in-law.

The sound of her name breaks her from her trance and she opens her arms for the younger girl, welcoming her embrace and offering a sense of reassurance and comfort. Y/N coos as she smoothes down her matted brown hair and keeps her close. Harry’s heart quakes at the sight of his wife coddling his sister and he takes a deep breath, turning away and he’s reminded of how intimate they were just hours before this.

Anne still hasn’t said a word and Y/N thinks she gets the hint that she doesn’t want to talk about it around her daughter. She swallows her shaky nerves and pulls Gemma away at arm's length. “Come on. Let’s go get you cleaned up, yeah?” she speaks, guiding the older girl away before she can blubber out questions about her eye.

When Harry’s certain they're out of sight and ear-shot, he pulls the seat beside his mother and sits. “What happened?” he asks lowly.

Anne still makes no attempt to look away from the table, and it isn’t until now that Harry notices all the food that’s been placed on it. They were halfway through dinner and by the position of Stefano’s body, it looks like he dropped dead during the meal.

Anne swallows. “I drugged his scotch with rat poison.” His eyes land on the half empty scotch glass and he takes in a deep and shaky breath. He’s cursing in his mind for the massive clean up he’s going to have to deal with as his first priority as Capo. He shakes the thought and pulls her in for a hug, kissing the top of her head when she lets her cheek rest on his shoulder.

Harry knows she’s never been happy with him, that she never loved him, or even liked him, for that matter. He knows the pain and heartache both she and his sister have had to endure for all these years and he wishes to God it was him that had the balls to off him years ago. But he’s proud of her. Proud because it’s the bravest and most strongest thing she’s ever done.

“I’ll cover it up, okay? I’ll get in contact with Riccardo and he can forge the autopsy. Once everything’s sorted, you and Gem are coming back to New York with Y/N and I, okay?”

He walks her through his plan and how it’ll work and Anne can do nothing but nod and sniffle back the tears of relief. She knows why she waited so fucking long to do this -- she didn’t want Harry to have to deal with the mess and the fights.

But there’s only so much a helpless woman and her daughter can take before one of them snaps. She’d rather have murder on her conscious for the rest of her life than on Gemma's.

“How is she?” Anne asks when she finally pulls away.

She’s reaching for her glass of wine and takes a sip, twisting in her seat to look at her son a little better. It’s been a few weeks since she last saw him and being apart for so long is making a bigger effect on her than she first anticipated. He keeps changing and she can’t keep up.

Harry watches her drink her wine with slumped shoulders and visibly lighter eyes. He knows they don’t have time to chit-chat right now, but he entertains her anyway.

“I saw the bruise…” She continues, brow raised but Harry takes no offence -- she’s not implying anything, she knows he’d never lay a hand on his wife, or any other woman unless they posed as a threat.

He scoffs and shakes his head, reaching for the port of whiskey and eyeing his mother skeptically. She shakes her head and he reaches for her bottle of wine with a chuckle instead.

“Giovanni paid a visit. Not letting him near her alone again,” he grunts, taking a long swig. Anne nods in understanding and takes a deep breath as she eyes her son.

“Are you okay?” she finally asks.

He knows it’s more than just a motherly check-in. She’s not just asking if her son is okay -- she’s asking if her son is okay after being forced into an arranged marriage with a woman he didn’t know. For a moment, they both forget the dead body that lays lifelessly slumped on the floor and neither of them hear Y/N’s soft feet pad down the stairs and carry her toward the kitchen to get Gemma some water.

But the sound of Harry’s voice causes her to stop beside the staircase. “It’s hard, Mum. I know she’s never felt safe in her entire life and I can feel how much she’s relaxing around me. I know she doesn’t trust me -- not yet -- not after what I let her believe happened on our wedding night,” he takes a breath and rubs a hand over his face.

Anne’s got her eyes on him and she can see the turmoil and uncertainty painted across his face. She can see the gears working behind his eyes and the fear and anxiety is damn near transparent. Y/N’s heart is hammering in her chest as she cowers behind the wall. She feels sick with herself, listening in on his private conversation but she needs to hear this just as badly as Harry needs to admit it.

“I want her to trust me. I want her to know that I’ll always respect her and what she wants.” She feels tearful and light -- like she’s floating and can finally breathe clearly for the first time in her life. She’s always known Harry was a genuine person, but hearing him speak so soft and fondly of her without knowing of her presence, stirs something deep inside of her.

No one has respected her like he has. No one has shown her common, human decency like he has and she feels stupid for feeling so grateful and happy, but she is. Y/N takes a moment to compose herself before letting her feet heavily carry her into the kitchen slowly, clearing her throat to make her arrival known.

Harry watches her with soft eyes as she grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with some tap water. He notices the way her bruise seems angrier in the light of the kitchen and Anne places her wine down, standing to greet her daughter-in-law. She rounds the kitchen island and hugs the girl comfortingly, allowing her fingers to ghost over her eye and cheek.

Y/N visibly keens into her shoulders a little with a shy, nervous smile. “I’m okay,” she says. “Just a little accident getting out of the shower this morning.” She tries to pass it off and Harry suddenly feels a little sick with himself. He didn’t think that maybe she wants to keep what happened as a secret, that maybe she’s embarrassed by it.

Anne nods, makes no attempt to throw Harry under the bus and she hums. “Oh, I know all about those shower incidents.” She tries to make light of the situation but Y/N can’t help the sadness she’s overwhelmed with at her confession and she’s willing herself to ignore the body. Anne is quick to sense her discomfort and takes a step back.

“Is Gemma okay?” She changes the subject.

Y/N nods with a shaky breath, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips, thankful for the switch in topic.

“She’s calmed down a little, yeah. But um…” her eyes glance over to Harry and back to Anne. “Is there somewhere else you guys can stay for the night? I can’t imagine you’re going to want to stay here and it’ll look too suspicious if you come back to New York with us before his um… his… you know… is announced.”

Anne’s lips part at her consideration and she thinks Harry’s got himself a little angel. Harry’s starting to think the same and all he wants is to grab hold of her pretty face and kiss those plump lips and tell her over and over again thank you, thank you, thank you.

He waits a beat, decides if his idea is something he can truly share. But he looks at Y/N and he feels light and warm and he wants her to know about this, wants to share it with her, too.

“How about the old house?” Harry suggests with a raised brow and Y/N’s furrow slightly in confusion. Anne feels her heart thumping in her chest and she knows going back to that house is exactly what she needs right now.

Maybe it’s what they all need, to go back to the house they used to live in. The house that Harry learnt to walk, where Danny taught him to talk and where Anne felt loved and safe. When Danny died, the house was handed over to Harry and he kept it in his name for years, hiding it from Stefano and claiming it was one of the safe houses he had.

It was never a lie. It’s always been a safe house. “I’ll make a few calls and we’ll go.”

Harry’s pulling up to the house with a shaky breath. It’s small, compared to the home they were just standing in and as Y/N leans forward in the passenger's seat, she can feel her heart swelling. It’s beautiful. She can tell Harry’s kept a frequent gardener because flowers have been blooming and tended to, and she feels dizzy knowing she’s about to embark on a part of Harry’s childhood.

Harry leaves the car first and opens Gemma’s door who was sitting behind him. He beats his mother to open her door and then he helps Y/N out and down to the ground, closing the door and hauling Gemma’s bag over his shoulder. “What is this place?” she asks tiredly, arms around her arms in the brisk, British air.

Anne smiles softly, heart full and her eyes are welling with tears at the sight of the old house. “Home,” she tells her. She fiddles with the keys in her hand before she leads the others to the front door and unlocks it. It’s dark and cold and Harry reaches in to switch on the light and mess around with the thermostat while Gemma and Anne take in their surroundings.

It’s the same since she was last here, Anne. The old school furniture and late 90’s wallpaper. A sense of comfortable nostalgia washes over her when she sees old photo frames sitting on the fireplace and she bashfully sheds a tear at the photo of her late first husband. She feels safe, comfortable as she sits on the couch and pulls Gemma down to sit with her.

Harry’s been here enough times in the recent past to have come accustomed to being back in the house. He’s kept a close watch on it, making sure no one tried breaking in or vandalising the property like Danny's old places were after he died. He’s been here enough to keep things clean and working in the event they needed to run, and while he did up the two spare rooms, he didn’t have it in him to change his parents or his childhood one.

While Anne shows Gemma around the house, Y/N is frozen by the entrance. She’s yet to step foot in the house and she feels like she shouldn’t -- that she shouldn’t be here, intruding on something so private and family oriented. She might be Harry’s wife, but she isn’t their family… not really.

“Hey, what are you doing out there?” Harry finally asks when he realises the chill is coming from the open front door.

She’s gnawing on her inner cheek, hands on the doorframe and he frowns. “I just -- I don’t want to intrude,” she explains. Her tone is shaky and vulnerable and Harry won’t have any of it. He grabs her wrist and gently tugs her inside, closing the door and allowing her to warm up a little.

She feels like she shouldn’t look around, like she’s out of place in a far too personal home. She knows she’s wanted Harry to open up to her but this feels too much, like he hasn’t actually had a choice in the matter. “Hey, communication, remember?” he pipes up softly, thumb under her chin to get her to look up at him.

Her breathing catches in her throat for a moment and she blinks, wanting nothing more than to lift up on her tiptoes and kiss his lips again. She doesn’t know what any of this means between them; the kisses and the touches. She doesn’t know how he feels or what he wants and the uncertainty of the new situation is killing her.

“Just a little overwhelmed,” she admits and she thinks Harry believes her, but he knows her better than to believe that’s all that’s bothering her.

He nods, though, locks the door and intertwines their fingers to tug her through the house and up the stairs. She follows blindly and silently, too in her own head to notice the toothless baby pictures of Harry nailed to the walls.

He ushers her in a double bedroom, closing the door behind them both and sighing as he switches on the light. There’s not much character to the room and Y/N supposes it’s been used as a guest room since the past. The walls are bare and tan, a double bed standing against the left side wall with night stands either side. It’s cosy, and the bed looks a lot smaller than hers and Harry's back in New York.

She turns around to see him digging through a dresser, tugging out two t-shirts and a pair of sweats. He offers her the grey t-shirt and she takes it with a timid smile, rolling on the balls of her feet and he raises a brow.

“Do you have any shorts? Kinda don’t wanna sleep in my thong,” she admits bashfully. She notices the way Harry tries not to groan at the thought, or how he’s gnawing on his inner cheek and forcing his body to not grow a bulging erection.

She stifles a laugh at his reaction, a blush sitting on her cheeks but she doesn’t feel as nervous as she would’ve before today. Being as intimate as they were earlier has allowed her to relax more than usual in his presence and about the ideas of being sexual. But maybe the only thing stopping her is not knowing what will happen if she trusts him like that. Does he want to grow to love her? Will he let her grow to love him? Because she thinks she already is.

She cares for him, more than she’d admit to anyone else and maybe even him. The idea and realisation of it all scares her, but what has she really got to lose? She’s got him for the rest of her life.

Y/N dresses in the bathroom like she usually does every morning and night. When she comes back out after brushing her teeth with a new toothbrush she found in the cabinet, Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, changing the dressing that wraps around his middle. The wound has healed a lot, skin scarring over but he has to be careful as to not tear the stitches again.

He watches her throw her dress and panties on the dresser and he swallows thickly. The last time he saw her wearing his clothes was their wedding night when he dressed her drunk ass and waited until she was asleep before he got in bed with her. Now, five weeks later, she’s in his boxers and a t-shirt, willingly crawling into bed to cuddle up to his chest. His heart surges at the progress they’ve made and he’s suddenly overly eager to have her in his arms.

Harry throws on a shirt once he secures his bandaging and crawls into the bed. His arm is outstretched, ready to welcome her in after she switches off the light and clambers into his good side. Her head sits on the junction between his arm and chest and her arm wraps around his middle as she settles into his hold.

It’s quiet for a few moments, darkness swarming them both and they can hear the muffled sounds of the tv down the hall that Gemma is no doubt watching in her room. Y/N wants to ask him if he’s okay, see how he’s feeling about the situation. And she thinks she’s built up the courage, but he speaks before she can.

“This was my dad’s house. I grew up here,” he rasps into the darkness.

Y/N feels her tummy coil from the amount of trust she’s about to be given. “When Dad died, the house was put in my name and I hid it from Stefano. He found the papers once, almost clicked on that it was mine and Mum’s home but I told him it was a safe house and the fucker believed me.” Harry squeezes her tighter without realising but it only encourages Y/N to coddle into him a little closer.

She doesn’t say anything — too afraid that if she asks any questions, he might not be so open about this. Instead, she stays quiet but she thinks Harry notices her inner turmoil because he starts to scratch at her scalp and kiss at her hairline.

“I learnt how to walk and talk in this place. Mum and Dad used to cook together every night and I remember Dad sleeping on my bedroom floor whenever I had a nightmare or couldn’t sleep,” he reminisces. Harry’s rubbing smooth circles across Y/N’s arm and she hums, barely taking in his words.

When she raises her head to look up at him, she’s got a lovesick grin on her face and she’s reminded of the way he consoled his little sister and mother, and how he held her close while he kissed Y/N’s lips so passionately. She’s reminded of everything he’s done for her -- of how much he’s protected and cared for her and she thinks her heart has grown three times its size.

“Why are you so kind?” She blurts out in a strained voice.

Her neck is craning up to get a better look at him and Harry dips his head so his chin sits against his chest, a smile on his lips as a soft chuckle rumbles in his throat. He doesn’t think he’s a kind person, but rather a respectful one to women and those who deserve it.

Y/N seems to read his thoughts and she adjusts her position so she’s kneeling beside him on her side; hand on his chest and her finger trails absent patterns through his shirt. “Don’t laugh like that, you are,” she tells him with a little more vigour. Harry’s reached a hand behind her body to rub soothingly at her back and he settles his laughs to hear her out.

She blushes. “You’re the first person to ever show me a shred of kindness and respect,” she begins in a shaky tone. Her fingers begin to tremble and Harry reaches for it with his free hand -- intertwining their fingers and offering that encouraging squeeze she’s been growing accustomed to.

Harry thinks his black heart is breaking at her admission and suddenly, holding her hand isn’t as close as he wants to be. He releases his hold and reaches up to cup the side of her jaw. He eases up to graze his thumb across her bruised cheekbone and she flinches under his featherlight touch. Harry has to remind himself she does it because of the pain and not because he’s touching her.

He swallows back the need to apologise but makes no effort to remove his hand. “I will always be kind to you and show you respect. You’re my wife, Y/N. A marriage is a team, not a contract,” he promises. Y/N can’t help the roll of her eyes or the scoff that teeters off her lips in an ironic laugh.

He can’t help but grin at the sound. 1 - 0 to Harry. He got her to laugh.

“This whole thing is a contract,” she reminds him and he can’t stop staring.

The lightness of her eyes is pulling him in and he thinks he wants to see that smile on her face every day for the rest of his life. “It doesn’t have to be,” he finds himself mumbling and neither of them say anything -- they both know what he means and upon the promising possibility, she reaches up to connect their lips.

It’s better than their last kiss and Y/N wonders if it will always be better with every intimate moment they share. Their lips are enveloped by the others and her hand crawls up his chest to cup at his stubbly jaw, pulling him closer. She’s confident as he licks up and into her mouth, massaging his tongue against hers in a sinful dance.

It doesn’t take long before he’s rolling her onto her back and slipping between her parted thighs. Harry’s got both hands pinned on either side of her head to support his crushing weight above her. Y/N’s thighs knock and rub across his healing wound but he doesn't care -- he’ll take whatever she’s comfortable enough to offer.

Her fingers are tangled in his messy curls as she tugs and pulls at the hairs. He’s groaning inaudibly into her mouth as she gasps into his. Harry lets one hand wander down her shoulder and over her chest, groping a tit in his wide palm and massaging and kneading the fatty flesh over her (his) t-shirt.

He doesn’t miss the way Y/N’s chest presses to his when her back arches off the bed and he can feel her nipple pearling under his touch. She’s panting when he rolls the hardened nub between two fingers and lets his plump and warm lips smear down her neck in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Harry,” she lets out a wanton, breathy whine when his lips suckly soft bruises into the skin behind her ear.

He’s frustratingly hard in his boxers and he can almost smell Y/N’s wetness. He’s about to trail his hand down her stomach, to cup her through his boxers and let her get a taste of what he can give her, but she catches his wrist in a light grip and shakes her head.

Harry pulls out of her neck breathlessly. He expects to see her with wide eyes and a frantic stare, maybe even quivering lips. But he gets the opposite. He’s greeted with calm waves of excitement that wash over her eyes and her mouth is parted, eager for more but she’s refraining herself.

The sight causes Harry to frown in confusion.

“Not here, not yet,” she swallows. “I want to, but… not now,” Y/N tries to explain.

Harry doesn’t know what more to do than nod his head and move his hands to her waist, respectably, and kisses her swollen lips. He’s full of complete and utter adoration for his little angel and he knows she’s right, she’s always right. But that's not what he’s focussing on.

“When we’re home,” she decides for them both.

It’s those three words that send his heart on overdrive and mind in turmoil. When we’re home. When we’re home. When we’re home. The first time she’s ever called it home. Harry nods, pecking her lips as he bites back a smile.

“When we’re home.”

By the time she awakes, she’s alone and cold. The bed is empty on Harry’s side and she doesn’t realise that he replaced his body that she was cuddling with a pillow when he awoke an hour ago. Y/N’s stretching with a wide smile on her lips, and even though she’s chilly, she’s giddy with warmth from the memories of the night before.

She makes her way out of the room, pads of her toes soft on the carpet as she descends the stairs. It’s warmer as she enters the kitchen and she’s greeted with the wafting smells of pancakes and bacon. Gemma is sitting at the table digging into her food and Anne notices the girl's presence first from her position at the stove.

She raises a brow at her daughter-in-laws sleep attire, a knowing grin on her lips but Y/N doesn’t notice it. Her eyes are focussed on her husband. He’s off to the corner of the room, head down and hand stuffed into his suit pocket. He’s dressed and ready for the day and he’s holding the phone to his ear, muttering quietly.

Y/N fights back the blush of happiness that rises to her cheeks and she greets Anne, leaning against the counter while she flips another pancake. “Silly question, but how did you sleep?” she asks. Anne is visibly lighter in her mood as she makes breakfast and there’s a glimmer of hope in her eyes, something Y/N’s never seen in her before.

She flips the pancake again, smoothing down the old, tatty apron that Y/N doesn’t know Danny used to wear every morning. “Like a baby,” she tells her with a firm smile. The sight of her happiness warms Y/N’s heart and Harry joins them back in the kitchen frown set in his brow and his wife regards him cautiously.

Anne seems to sense his confusion without even looking at him. “What’s wrong?” she asks, dishing up a plate for Y/N and starting on Harry’s pancakes. She takes her plate from the woman but she’s too concerned about the look on Harry’s face to worry about food, despite what her stomach is telling her.

“That was Riccardo…” he starts, leaning forward on the counter. “He did the autopsy on Stefano at the house, was ready to fake the results to cover us,” he begins to explain.

Anne hums, refusing to make eye contact as she pours the batter into the frying pan. Harry’s eyes are flickering between her face and her movements. “And?” she asks, eyes still not meeting his.

He swallows. “Didn’t you say you laced his scotch with rat poison?” His words pique the curiosity of Gemma and she’s no longer got herself much of an appetite. Y/N’s got her eyes on Harry, like she’s trying to understand what he’s about to tell them but she’d never be able to prepare herself for the truth.

“Because he said he found large traces of Penicillin in Stefano’s blood from nearly six hours before his death…” Anne stills her movements, almost dropping the spatula in her hand as she stares at her son, eyes wide. “There’s no sign of rat poison,” he concludes, brows still furrowed tightly and Anne's shaking her head.

There’s confusion and unspoken fear in the air as the Anne struggles to take in what her son has said. “What? But he’s allergic to Penicillin… and he was in New York with you six hours before…” she’s trailing off at the end of her sentence, shoulders slumping and chest heaving.

It’s like the realisation of the untold truth weighs heavy on all of their shoulders at the same time. They’re all racking their brains back to six hours before his death -- when he was in New York, in the meeting, with the only person Harry can think of that wanted Stefano dead more than he, and it clicks.

“Nino.”

In her pretty yellow ditsy dress, Y/N is positively sweating from her seat at the dining table. Harry is sitting beside her, same solemn expression and dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. It’s 10 am and he hasn’t styled his hair -- in fact, he’s nervous as hell and in three short hours, he’ll be faced with the ceremony that will initiate him as Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia.

The laptop is set up in front of them, the reflection of their nervous faces staring back at them. It’s been a week since the night of Stefano’s death and four days since they’ve all been back in New York. Gemma and Anne are currently staying in the penthouse with Harry and Y/N, and neither of the latter two have slept soundly since.

Harry’s been on edge since Stefano’s death was announced. He’s been watching his back more than usual, like he’s waiting for Nino to strike down on him, too. He spoke with Salvatore to announce the news and Harry wonders if he suspects him or his son.

He’s heard nothing from his cousin or other members of the family. What he has received is a date and a location from Dante. The time and place of Harry’s coronation. The coronation where he will bleed and bind himself by duty and honour to the Famiglia and Dante himself. Where he will be marked and crowned as the youngest serving Capo known.

In the four days they’ve been back in New York, Harry has kept Y/N closer than before. Neither of them have left the penthouse since their arrival home but he’s gone as far as restricting her from using the balcony as precaution. He isn’t prepared to endanger or lose her.

She understands, of course. And while she doesn’t appreciate the lack of little freedom she had before, she’s thankful and she listens. He isn’t being paranoid, he’s being cautious. Harry isn’t the only one that thinks it’s Nino and Y/N will be damned if she lets her husband be played by him. She’s on his side, always.

“Hey!” A chipper voice is what breaks the pair from their distant monologues and they focus on the brown-haired beauty that is Maria Saccaro. The tips of her curls are barely pink anymore and she’s taken out the majority of her piercings. Y/N almost doesn’t recognise her in her cream sweater and light makeup. She looks younger, innocent.

She frowns. “Hey, Ria. How are you?” Y/N greets her cousin with a timid tone and she can feel Harry squeeze her thigh from under the table.

That’s another thing that’s had time to progress in the past week: their affections. Kisses and cuddles and holding hands at any opportunity -- even in front of the eyes of Anne and Gemma. The one thing they promised each other is the one thing they haven’t yet managed to do. But maybe that’s for the best. Now she’s thought about it, she’s not quite ready for that.

Maria shrugs with pursed lips and shimmies closer. Y/N can tell she’s sitting on her bed with her computer propped on her lap by the string of fairy lights wrapped around the metal rods of her bed frame. “I’m okay.” Y/N frowns harder. There’s something off about her cousin and it’s unsettling.

Harry clears his throat and leans a little closer into the frame. Maria hasn’t yet acknowledged his presence but Harry doesn’t take offence.

“Listen, we need to talk to you about this arrangement with Nino,” he says.

Y/N pries his hand off her thigh and intertwines their fingers in a show of support and reassurance.

The pair notice Maria’s shoulders visibly sag and the spark in her eye from when the papers were signed is completely gone. Y/N can sense her disgust and nausea on the topic and she squeezes Harry’s hand absentmindedly.

“Now that Harry’s Capo, we’re gonna try and find a loophole to get you out of this. We know you think Nino poisoned Stefano, too. We’re gonna stop this wedding, okay? Harry and I will find a way.”

There’s a flicker of silence that washes over them and both Harry and Y/N know Maria isn’t telling them something. She’s oddly quiet and reserved, like she’s swallowing back a lump of detrimental secrets.

“Maria?” Y/N asks, brows furrowed and head slightly tilted.

The young woman on the computer screen lets out a shaky breath and scratches at her eyebrows, lips pursed and Y/N can tell she’s gnawing on the skin. “I need to tell you something,” she admits in a worrisome tone. She’s never acted so oddly when sharing secrets with Y/N before and she’s starting to wonder if it’s because Harry is there, too.

He thinks the same but makes no attempt to excuse himself.

“I met someone.”

There’s another wave of silence that washes over the three and while Y/N is quivering in fear of the repercussions her cousin will have to face, Harry is squirming at another coverup he’ll have to forge after his initiation.

But Maria isn’t looking at Harry with pleading eyes that beg for forgiveness. She’s staring at Y/N instead, with a look on her face that cries for acceptance and understanding.

“Maria…” Y/N breathes, eyes closed and she’s gripping Harry’s hand much tighter than before. Her cousin is spluttering on the other end of the call and shuffling closer to the camera in an attempt to have her listen.

“I know, I know… but it’s not what you think!” She quickly tries to defend and Harry can’t believe his ears.

Y/N scoffs and neither of the other two have ever seen her act that way toward Maria.

“Oh, really? Then what is it, Maria? Huh? What is it? Tell me, because I can’t keep trying to cover and protect you, you’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Harry’s eyes are glued to his wife, slightly wide and glossy. He doesn’t know why he has the urge to let a tear shed at her dismay but he blinks it back and steadies his heart. His and Y/N’s knuckles are burning white from their tight grip on the other and they seem to need a better, grounding safe code that won’t break their hands.

Maria stays silent for a moment longer. Her head is bowed in self-disappointment and she knows Y/N’s right. But Maria’s serious this time. It’s not what it looks like.

“I met a girl…” she swallows, eyes fluttering nervously to the couple and they regard her with stone expressions but their eyes are drowning in confusion and curiosity.

Y/N can see how she’s trying to stop her bottom lip from trembling relentlessly and she’s wringing her hands out in her lap.

“Maria…” she whispers softly.

Her voice holds nothing but concern and sincerity and she wants to hold her cousin and never let go. Maria chuckles wetly and she sniffles back tears.

“I know, I know. Surprise, I’m gay,” she tries to joke but she blubbers into her hands instead.

Y/N’s crying with her, frustrated and angry at the world they live in and Harry feels sick to his stomach. He knows the kind of shit that happens to homosexuals within the tight confinements of the Mafia and it’s been something he’s disagreed with since he understood what gay meant. Since the beliefs that same-sex love is wrong were forced upon him at a young age.

“Who is she?” Harry speaks softly and both pairs of Saccaro eyes are on him. Y/N’s hand is trembling in his hold and he tugs her a little closer to him.

“A girl from church,” she admits and Maria can't help but laugh at her own predicament. Falling in love with a girl that she met in church. Could it happen to anyone but her?

Y/N and Harry snicker laughs under their breaths at the situation and it somehow seems to lighten the overall mood a bit. Harry nods and Y/N is coddling into his side, head on his shoulder. She’s hardly spoken to Maria and she doesn’t miss the side-eye glance that her cousin offers at her willing closeness to the made man.

“I’ll find a way to fix this, Maria,” Harry promises. “In the meantime, try not to deflower any more church girls.”

Upon the coronation of a Made Man to a Capo, there are many things that are required to take place to deem said party fit and honourable enough for such a title. There are limits that are pushed and tests that are made, edges that men are pushed to, pressure they’re hoped to crack under.

The chosen location is one of the many abandoned warehouses that the Famiglia have access to. It’s packed to the brim, every folding chair occupied and facing the platformed stage that Dante stands upon, beside a thick concrete looking podium.

He’s in another one of his slick black suits -- everyone in this place is -- and as Y/N looks around from her position beside Mike on the right of the stage, she’s the only woman on the premises.

She made it clear before they left an hour ago that she was unsure about this. Y/N doesn't know what to expect attending this kind of ceremony -- a coronation that women are typically sheltered from. But like Harry had said, things will change under his hand and let it start with his wife standing by his side from the second he reigns as Capo.

Harry’s still standing behind her, dressed in a crisp white suit -- a tradition that has followed through generations, a rule that must be followed. For blood is seen and tarnished on the white of a soul. Harry’s remembered that saying since he was a child.

The warehouse is silent as Dante raises a hand, chatters and mumblings falling still and Harry leans closer to Y/N, lips against her ear.

“Under no circumstances do you leave Mike’s side, unless it’s with me,” he reminds her, standing tall before she can utter anything back.

She doesn’t, but she lets her hand knock briskly against his to silently promise him that she understands and she’s here.

They’re both rattling with nerves. Harry doesn’t want to leave her side in fear someone will attack her. Y/N doesn’t want him to get on that stage in fear someone will take a shot. She’s gnawing on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling -- not that it’s doing much use, but she can’t show weakness for either of them.

Head high, shoulders low, Y/N. She can hear her mother's voice rattling in her head. It’s perhaps the only sound piece of advice she’s ever offered the young girl.

She tries to ignore the hard expressions of unfamiliar faces, tries to pretend she doesn’t know that every single one of them has at least two guns and a knife on their person. She tries to forget that half the population of the building despise Harry, that they believe he’s a traitor by blood. She tries to forget it all.

“We are here today to test the fitness and the loyalty of Harry Styles-Dellucci -- to determine the strength and honour to crown him Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia.” Dante’s overpowering voice booms and the coldness of it spikes shivers down Y/N’s torso and spine.

He extends an arm to Harry’s direction and her husband follows it. He climbs the tall step of the platform to stand beside his Boss and he meets Dante’s judging eyes. Between them both, they know Harry will own the position no matter how this goes, but for the sake of appearances, they put on facades and follow tradition.

When he stands beside his superior, he shows no emotion, ignoring the stares and snickers of disgust. He doesn’t have to look at the audience to know Nino is sitting front row with a filthy smirk on his thin lips.

“Remove your shirt. Show those of the Famiglia your scars of duty and honour,” Dante commands.

Harry shuts out all emotion, like he can’t feel anything. He shrugs off his blazer first, throwing it to the ground and off the platform. He stares blankly at the podium when removing his shirt and when it slips off his arms, he makes a point to let it drop at Nino’s feet.

Dante has to bite back a snicker. Y/N has to bite back a gasp.

No matter how many times she’s seen him shirtless, she never gets used to the sight of his scars. No matter how many times she traces her fingers across his chest and back, she never gets used to the feel of the raised or indented skin. He turns to the masses, shoulders squared and chin high, surging nothing but pride and power.

Dante circles him, a fixed blade glistening between his fingers as he twists it in his palm.

“Harry Styles-Dellucci is a valuable asset to the Mafia,” Dante begins, voice echoing through the ears and minds of his soldiers. “His allies ensure safety and power within our Famiglia. He has promised potential and respect since before his initiation at age 11, when he mercilessly stabbed a member of the Bratva through the bottom of his chin and through their skull,” his voice fades off in a low drawl and the admission sends shivers through Y/N’s body.

She’s struggling to hide her discomfort and in her weakened moment of unfamiliarity, she misses the way Nino eyes her with curiosity and knowingness. She misses the plan he plots right in his head. He’s got that sick smirk on his face and while Y/N doesn’t notice, Harry does, and it rattles something dangerous in the pit of him. Something monstrous and merciless.

Mike notices it all, but his gun stays strapped to his chest and his hands remain folded over his front -- awaiting the signal to take Y/N out of the situation, but it doesn’t come. Brian is close behind the two, eyes dark and there’s a chilling excitement that burns in his eyes; a hungry desire and need to kill.

“Today, we test Harry on his true self. We test his loyalty and we question his power. We initiate him with the three steps of the coronation,” he announces. “Bleed for the Famiglia, torture a traitor, take the oath.”

With gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, Y/N watches her husband spread his arms either side of him. She watches Dante raise the blade, watches it glisten under the beams of sun that peer through the cracks of the warehouse, and swallowing back uncertainty, she watches the blade swipe across the tanned skin of his chest in one succession and a red river is unleashed.

Harry shows no sign of pain, no flicker or glint of discomfort. His facade doesn’t falter and the blood spills down the divots of toned muscles until it stains the white pants of his suit. Everything is white noise to Y/N as he slices again across his left bicep before bringing the knife down a third time to his right.

She feels faint, dizzy. She’s ignoring the comments and snickers and Dante’s shrill voice as a piercing scream echoes through the warehouse. Another suit drags an unknown party to the platform; a brown, stitched bag wrapped around his head and he’s shoved down on his knees with a thud and a cry.

Y/N’s trying not to look, not to show the complete and utter stricken sickness and fear she’s hammered with. But the bag is torn from the stranger's head and she sees distant fear and desperation in his eyes. Then she hears it.

“Take his life. The same way you took your first.”

Y/N’s blood runs cold and she can’t hide the fear anymore. She doesn’t want to see this side of him, she doesn’t want to let it taint what she thinks and has grown to adore. She doesn’t want to fear and hate him, but she can’t look away. She doesn’t miss the way Harry’s head snaps up at Dante’s command and a bewildered look flashes across his face for a brief moment.

He doesn’t say anything, but Dante gives him a look. A look that tells him to shut up and do it. Harry wants to turn around, to look at her, to plead for her to forgive him, but he can’t.

He doesn’t ask the questions that rattle his mind: what did he do to deserve this fate? Who is he? Can he not redeem himself? No. Instead, Harry ignores the begs and pleads of the doomed man and with a flicker of regret and remorse in his eyes, he says a silent prayer and the knife is jabbed into the traitor's throat.

Y/N bites back the shrill that almost escapes her trembling lips and she loses her footing, crashing into Mike's side. There’s an onslaught of cheers and encouragement that burst from the soldiers and Famiglia and it drowns out Y/N’s empty sobs of disgust and worry. Mike is quick to wrap his arms around the girl, to hold her up and get her out of the situation.

But her eyes meet Harry’s as he turns to seek her comfort and she can’t move. She knows that look in his eyes, the look of uncertainty and an unwavering feeling of fear. She shakes her head and pushes her weight off Mike, swallowing back the bile for her husband's sake and she stands tall, head high and shoulders rolled back.

“No,” she protests. “I’m staying.”

Her voice is firmer than she hoped, steady and calm and in seeing the worry and unrelenting fear in Harry’s eyes, she’s calmed herself to a state of complete ease and serenity. She doesn’t squirm at the sight of the dead body on the floor -- she doesn’t gag at the sight of Harry’s blood dripping down his body.

She needs for the Famiglia to know Harry is their right choice. That he doesn’t have an insolent and untamed wife that will create a scene at the sight of a little blood. She needs them to think she’s an obedient little wife, that he’s whipped her into complete and utter submission.

So she watches on.

She watches Dante retrieve an old, leather-bound book from the podium and offer it palm-up to Harry. He knows what to do without prompting. Left hand to his heart, right hand on the book, he takes the oath.

“Born in blood, sworn in blood.” He places his palm upright and Dante takes another swipe across his golden skin.

Harry clenches a fist, lifts his hand just enough for blood to drip a few drops on the leather.

“Born by honour, sworn by honour,” he recites and his heart is racing. He can hear the beat stammering in his ears, can feel the sweat dot across his clammy skin and when Dante beckons the audience to rise, he turns to them.

There’s an overwhelming gleam that oozes from him as they stand and kneel before him. Not Stefano’s soldiers. His.

“As reigning Boss of the Italian Mafia, I, Dante Vitiello, crown you, Harry Styles-Dellucci as Capo dei Capi of the New York Famiglia from here, until your final breath. All rise and hail your new leader.”

“Born in blood, sworn in blood.”

Y/N repeats the curse with her husband's men. She’s weak in the knees, besotted with the sight he is; basking in all his powerful glory. But she’s had that small slither of what his cold persona is capable of, of how quickly he can forget such a devastatingly evil act. And she’s reminded that despite how kindly he treats her, he is just as bad as the others.

Soft cotton towel wrapped around her body, Y/N rings her hair out in the bathroom sink. She rolls her head, neck cracking as she does so and it relieves some of the tension that’s built up through the day. She feels a little hazy if she’s honest -- a little out of touch with reality like she can’t actually fathom what happened today.

After the ceremony, Mike escorted her back to the penthouse while Harry took care of business and it’s safe to say she’s felt a little off since. It’s nearing midnight now and even after her call with Maria when she got home, Y/N doesn’t feel much different.

It’s an odd sensation that leads her down a path she’s never seen before. A part of her mind is reeling because she’s seen him in the shadows of a dark night, without an ounce of light shining on him and maybe it’s scaring her to know exactly what he’s capable of again.

It’s like she forgot and witnessing it brought it all back. But her heart is telling her to breathe. It’s telling her that really, what choice did he have in the matter. She noticed his hesitancy when Dante struck the command and she can only hope that no one else did and will question his strength and power.

Harry is a noble and loyal man. Becoming Capo isn’t something he’s doing to pass the time or to exert dominance as a power show. Y/N has to remind herself that it’s for the benefit of themselves and her family. That Harry can be the one to save her cousin from a marriage of neglect and misery. That Harry can be the one to enforce new laws and whither aged ones.

She tries to ignore the grave she’s dug by ignoring his presence when he got home. She busied herself with an hour-long shower and while part of her hopes he’s not there when she leaves the bathroom, the bigger part of her hopes he is. Y/N takes a deep breath as she smears her moisturiser into her skin, rubbing firm circles and wiping her fingers down her towel.

She doesn’t want to look at herself in the mirror because she knows she won’t be able to stomach the sight of herself. Not when she knows exactly what she’ll give into if he’s still home. “Snap out of it, Y/N,” she chastises herself and takes another deep breath. Her hand twists the door handle as she pulls it open slowly. She hasn’t locked the door in weeks.

She’s rattling a little in herself, eyes too focussed on her pink painted toes to notice much of her surroundings. But she does notice a pair of clothed legs hanging from the end of the bed and she jumps back in a shriek of surprise, one hand pressed over her heart, the other clutching her towel in place.

“Shit,” she seethes at the sight of him. Her heart is thumping and rattling against her ribs. “You scared me,” she breathes half-heartedly but Harry takes it as more than just surprising her at the end of their bed. He takes it as a general newfound fear she has for him, stemming from nothing but the earlier events of the day.

Y/N’s trying to crack a smile but the sight of his solemn self-scowl doesn’t sit well in the pit of her stomach. Harry shakes his head. “I won’t apologise for who I am,” he tells her.

His tone is sharp and one of a pointed and accusing nature, like he’s defensive and he can’t believe she’d ever view him differently. Or maybe it’s that he can’t believe he’s been stupid enough to possibly fuck up any progress they’ve made.

She’s frowning at his sudden tone of reply and she’s trying to understand what’s going through his head.

“What are you--” He’s cutting her off before she can verbally express her confusion.

“I was born into violence and death, Y/N. I live and breathe for the Famiglia. It’s who I am and I won’t apologise for it.” Silence swarms them both for a moment and Harry allows for his words to sink into her pretty little head.

It’s a silent reminder that if they try this, a relationship of any kind, she will have to accept every part of him. Even his deepest and darkest parts. If they’re going into this platonically or romantically, he will not hide who he is.

Y/N understands, of course, she does. She doesn’t want him to change, she wants to learn to adapt and understand. She isn’t silly. She knows she’s been sheltered from the cruel and harsh realities of their lives and she wants to learn. She wants to know it all, no matter how dark and sick it is.

She takes a step between his parted thighs and his face is level with her stomach through the towel. She feels bold when she lets her fingers tangle in his dark curls, when her nails gently scratch and massage at his scalp. She does it to let him know she’s listening, that she understands. That she’s thankful he trusts her enough to show this vulnerable side of himself.

Or maybe she’s got it wrong and he doesn’t trust her at all. Maybe he tells her because he knows she’s no threat to him. That she’s not strong enough to be. Y/N doesn’t let herself dwell on the thought too long. Instead, her fingers tighten on his curls and she tugs just gently enough for him to get the hint.

He looks up at her through long lashes, chin raised and she thinks he looks like a fucking angel with brown curls for a halo.

“I was born into the same world as you, Harry. I know it was different because I’m a woman but if you can accept my scars, I can accept yours.”

His eyes are in flames as he lets his hands grip her hips over the towel, needing to feel her, to know he’s not dreaming.

She pretends the simple touch doesn’t ignite her entire body and soul. “I don’t want to be trapped in a contract with a man who doesn’t care for me. I’ve had that all my life with my father,” she swallows and Harry’s can’t look away.

She’s opening up and she’s trusting him and he thinks he might be falling for her. But he’s frustrated -- frustrated that she doubts his care for her.

“I want a relationship with you, as stupid and naive as it may sound. I want for us to trust each other and care -- even if it’s just as a friend. We both deserve that at least.”

He wants to tell her that she doesn't know what he deserves. That no matter how many good and selfless deeds he does, it’ll never even begin to make a dent in the horror and sin he’s caused upon the world. Wants to tell her that he certainly doesn’t deserve her. But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he feels up her hips until his palms are sprawled across the sides of her curved waist and he tugs her down. She bends her knees until she’s straddling his lap, the hem of the towel riding up just enough for her bare core to sit on the clothed crotch of his dress pants. Her arms are around his neck as he noses at her cheek tenderly -- drinking her in.

In the unfamiliar state, she finds comfort under his touch. Her mind is frantic and it’s telling her every reason to pull away but she can’t bring herself to. Not when her heart is telling her she’s safe and this is the right thing. Not when his lips are meeting hers again and she forgets what reality feels like for a moment.

He knows she’s soaked as she gently rubs herself against his crotch. His length is bloating in his pants as she suckles innocently on his bottom lip. He’s licking into her mouth, savouring the sweetness of her on his tongue but he thinks he needs more. “Please. Wanna feel you, please,” she pleads through an unsteady whisper full of eager desperation.

Harry nods against her lips, arms wrapping around her middle and he lifts her in his arms. He spins them and kneels on the bed, gently easing her in the centre of the mattress and her own hands untuck the towel and tug it open. In her exposed state, Y/N’s mind is rolling in fear and anxiety. What if she’s not enough for him? What if he isn’t attracted to her like she thought he was? What if he changes his mind?

“Holy shit,” he breathes and her nerves and worries are eased just as quickly as they were built.

She’s gorgeous, completely bare beneath his body and her nipples have pearled under the cool air of the night. Her breasts are still full as they flatten against her chest and her little kitty looks smooth and delicious and Harry is eager for a taste.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he praises, his hands on her spread thighs and he kisses her knees tenderly.

The affirmation alone has a blanket of safety and comfort settling over her and Y/N’s confidence is quick to begin to grow again -- despite having no experience in whatever is going to happen. There’s just something about seeing his gentle nature hours after being cruel and merciless that she can’t wrap her head around. She knows what he’s capable of but knows more than anything else that he’ll never direct that anger to her. The way he interacts with his mother and sister is enough to speak volumes.

“I want this, Harry,” she promises. “I want to feel this with you.”

The verbal confirmation and tugging on his fingers are enough for Harry and he nods, kissing his way up her thighs as he situates himself between her body. He knows what she’s asking for, to feel him completely but he knows better than her that she’s not as ready as she thinks she is.

His face is level with her pulsing core and she shudders at the sensation of his warm breath on her sweetest spot. Her eyes are fluttering with nerves and excitement and she doesn’t know what to expect. He kisses at the apex of her thighs softly and massages at her hips.

“Relax for me, we’ll do this slowly,” he reassures her but Harry wonders what he’s actually doing.

She’s confessed how she feels and he’s given her nothing back but silence and kisses. Her words replay in his head and he’s torn. Even if it’s just as a friend. He thinks he might be a bit of an idiot. What are they? What are they doing? Will touching her give false hope that they’re building for something more than an arrangement? For something romantic and promising? Who is it giving false hope to?

But her insistent, breathless begs of “Please, Harry. Please, want this so bad,” is enough to sway him in her current favour and he supposes the logistics of what they are is something they can discuss another time.

He’s not the only one. Y/N’s in the same boat, worried and doubting that this is a good idea. She pushes the nagging away by telling herself the same thing every time.

Platonic or romantic, she will take what she can get. They have each other until their final breath. They have time.

Harry licks a broad stripe from her hole to her clit, tongue soaking up her arousal and flicking across her throbbing little bud. Y/N’s fingers are tangled in his curls, tugging deliciously at the wanton tendrils that tickle at her thighs.

“Oh my God.” She’s breathless and her eyes are wide, the cool yet warm sensation of his skilled tongue swirling around her intimate little honeypot.

“Tastes so good,” he hums in praises of appreciation.

His words are muffled but Y/N hears them loud and clear. She feels like she’s finally in tune with her body and soul -- like every feeling before this has never compared. His tongue is everything she didn’t know she needed and with every stroke and build of her release, she feels heavier and heavier.

He’s been between her thighs for mere minutes but she can feel an unfamiliar weight that sits heavy on her lower abdomen that she’s never experienced before. Harry can’t get enough of her sweetness or the way her velvety smooth lips feel against his hot tongue. She’s pretty and warm and he’s slurping at every string of wetness she has to offer.

He doesn’t know what’s turning him on more. The sight and taste of her, or the knowledge that he’s the first one to make her feel this way and the last. No one else will ever get a taste of her sweet little cunt or have the privilege to watch it clench and throb when he pulls away. No one will be blessed with this sight but him and it makes his cock twitch and bloat until it’s painful in his pants.

He’s immersing himself in her entirety, lips and chin and cheeks soaked. “Pretty little cunt, baby.”

His lips have taken to her neglected little clit and he suckles teasingly, teeth grazing across her most sensitive nub and Y/N’s thrashing beneath him, pulling at his hair so harshly but he loves the burn. Harry keeps her as still as he can when he feels her squirm and he thinks he’ll try something.

One hand releases his hold on her and his middle finger tauntingly probes at her swollen hole. She thrashes again and tightens at the risk of intrusion but he coos her, slurping her up and she relaxes the best she can.

Y/N’s got his filthy words replaying in her mind and she feels like a dirty little girl. She’s thrown back to all those times her dainty little fingers weaved their way into her panties late at night at the blank thoughts of faceless lovers. Now she’s riding her cunt against her husband.

He eases his digit in her dripping hole and she clenches around it desperately. Harry groans at the sensation of her walls fluttering around his finger and it only makes him impossibly harder. She gets used to the intrusion quickly and the pinches of discomfort twist and ease into waves of undeniable pleasure.

Y/N’s thighs are trembling when he slowly starts to pump his digit in her cunt, curling it in a ‘come hither’ motion and she’s seeing stars. She can’t believe how deep his thick finger is reaching and the way he manages to hit every dazing spot she never even knew existed. Harry continues to suckle on her clit, eyeing the underswell of her breasts as she shudders and trembles.

Her head is thrown back, eyes pinched closed as the burning becomes too much and she can’t control the overwhelming senses that take over her body.

“Oh god, what’s -- what’s hap-- oh my God!” She’s coming on his tongue in a rush of arousal and panic; a feeling she’s never even come close to experiencing with just her nimble fingers.

Harry guides her through her high, sucking and fingering until she’s quivering with tears in her eyes. She wants to look down at him, to see what he looks like in between her thighs but she isn’t ready for such a sinful sight -- she doesn’t think she’ll be able to look without blushing in pure shyness and embarrassment.

He eases his movements when she begins to twitch in the aftershock and he kisses down her thighs, smearing her wetness across the plushy skin until he’s crawling up her body with a glistening face and mischievous eyes.

Y/N can hardly see through the white spots that distort her vision but she makes out his grin and can’t help the bashful smile that tugs on her parted lips.

“Happy first orgasm,” he congratulates her and an outrageous laugh bubbles deep from within her chest and Harry is fucking gleaming at the sound of it.

He grabs the towel she’s laying on and pulls it from beneath her body, bunching it up to wipe his face dry before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She watches him scurry to the bathroom, door pushed ajar but she can still see him taking off his clothes. She sees the thick length of his hard cock slap up against his midsection when he tugs down his boxers and she struggles for breath.

Her cheeks are hot and heavy and she wants nothing more than to feel the weight of his pink tip on her tongue. Y/N has to blink and clear her throat. She can’t believe she’s actually thinking these things. It’s minutes later when he’s crawling back on the bed with just a pair of boxers and the tent is still visible in his briefs, despite how hard he’s tried to hide it.

They talk for hours, whispering the night away with midnight giggles and reminiscent childhood memories that no one else knows. And for the first time, they fall asleep in each other’s arms with limbs tangled, light hearts, and a floating feeling that maybe this is the start of them.

what a fuckin ride lmaooo. please do leave some feedback and let me know what you think of the series. I'm so excited for you all to see what happens next!

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #imagine harry styles #harry styles x you #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagines

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