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#small wedding new york
poptartmochi · 9 months
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this dress is so insanely beautiful i'm about to start biting
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koffiphotography · 1 year
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“duel”
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queers-gambit · 5 days
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Adore Her, Dior Her
prompt: ( requested ) what good is having all that money if he can't spend it on the woman he loves?
pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x female!reader
fandom masterlist: Marvel
word count: 4.3k+
warnings: author foams at the mouth for Mafia AUs, overwhelming fluff, cursing, not edited.
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"That's the one. That's one we should get!"
"You've said that about the past three dresses, Buck!" You groaned, smoothing your hands over the skirt. "We need to narrow this down, okay? The wedding's in a month!"
"Why did we even agree to go?"
You glared, "'Cause we love my brother and we're supporting him."
"But she's just so - "
"Jen. Her name's Jen."
Bucky nodded, leaning back on the cushioned chair, "Well, Jen's just wrong for him. Literally the definition of toxic."
"Does it count if they're toxic together? To each other?" You sighed, standing on the pedestal and turning to look in the three mirrors beside the dressing room.
"Of course it does," he stood, buttoning his suit jacket out of habit. He approached you, head cocking as he looked your body up and down to get the full view of the gown you tried on. "You're really okay letting him marry her? Turn this way a bit, baby, lemme see the front."
You scoffed, but took his offered hand and twisted on the small platform towards him, "You were there at Christmas, he doesn't listen to reason. So, if Daniel's convinced Jen's for him, as his sister, my only job is be supportive."
"They literally abuse each other," he pointed out.
"Well, he's not changing his mind. Okay? It's been three years, he won't budge, whenever someone brings up them breaking up, he goes into hiding - so, I don't know what else I can do," your hands slapped your thighs when you shrugged, "except just be there for him. Now, focus, please, help me narrow a dress down."
He shook his head as you turned to face the mirrors again, "Actually, you know what? I don't think anything in this store is for us."
The attendant perked up and scurried over, rushing, "Oh, well, we have a much larger selection in the back, Mr. Barnes - "
"That won't be necessary, Barbra, thank you, though," he nodded. "Doll," his hand planted on your waist, head over your shoulder as you still looked yourself over in the mirrors, "go get changed, I know where we need to go."
"Bucky, no, there's plenty of options here," you argued, twisting on the wee little pedestal to face him again. "We don't need to drop a stack on a dress - "
"You let me worry about the price tag," he smirked, leaning in to peck your cheek. "Just go change, pretty girl, c'mon. Step-to!"
You offered Barbra, the attendant, an apologetic smile as you shuffled back into the changing room; quickly stripping from the dress. When you exited in your street clothes, Bucky was tipping the aged woman for her effort in gathering your options, but the moment he saw you, his hand was extending to hold yours tightly.
"What was wrong with that store?" You asked when you stepped onto the noisy and busy street to approach the sleek, tinted car Bucky drove for day-to-day errands.
"We're not shopping at David's fucking Bridal."
"You literally drove us here," you laughed.
"Yeah, and then I had a much better idea," he smirked at you, unlocking the car and opening your passenger door. "C'mon, princess, just gotta trust me."
"Last time you said that - "
"That wasn't my fault," he groaned, cheeks flaring red in embarrassment. When you opened your mouth to retort, he rushed, "Aht, nope, don't say shit. C'mon, I'm taking you somewhere special so get that pretty ass in the car."
He grinned when you laughed and did as bid, feet safely inside when he closed the door after you were settled. Bucky easily jogged around the back of his car, New York busy this time of year as traffic flew past on the street and forced Buck slow. He dropped into the driver's seat, sniffling slightly.
"Reminds me," Bucky smirked as he pulled onto the street, "how would you feel about us going to Aspen this winter?"
You sighed, "Why?"
"You wanna stay in New York for Christmas?"
"Well, yeah! It's so magical."
"Okay, so, we can go over New Years?"
You sighed, "You know, we don't have to go anywhere..."
"Sweetheart," he cleared his throat, "I actually have some business in Aspen, this will just help determine when I schedule the meetings for."
"Oh," you nodded slowly.
He sighed, "I know my job isn't orthodox, but business is business, right, sugar?”
"No, yeah, yeah, I get it. It sounds kinda nice, maybe we can go skiing."
"You know how to ski?"
"No, but I'm sure someone in Aspen could help teach me."
Bucky grinned. The drive was full of easy conversation, neither you nor Bucky dwelling on his business dealings, always feeling as if it was taboo given his station in the Mafia. So when he pulled up in front of a designer store, you gawked. "Now, if we can't find something here - "
"Um, absolutely not," you laughed. "Bucky, I can't even afford to walk into a place like that!"
"Good thing I'm paying," he smirked. He assisted you out of the car, tossing his keys to one of his security guards who had been following in a separate, tinted vehicle. When you both entered the dimly lit store, you were blown away by the gorgeous minimalist design; warm lighting, open floor space, and racks of different clothing options.
"Ah, Mr. Barnes! Hello, hello, hello!" A new attendant greeted with more enthusiasm than you would've greeted any of your clients, approaching you two. She shook your boyfriend's hand vigorously, "To what do we owe this pleasure?"
Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist, "Looking for a dress to wear to a wedding."
She offered you a forced smile, telling your boyfriend swiftly with her teeth on full display, "You came to the right spot!"
"See?" Bucky smirked at you. "All right, Valeria, what's first?"
Valeria waved you both onward to a private changing room, offering complimentary sparkling waters, coffees, teas - even offering to go retrieve anything you two would want from the Starbucks down the block. Valeria took your measurements and dress size, making idle chit-chat with Bucky and making it obvious he was a regular in the store, then scurrying off to collect an armful of options.
"This is - wow," you nodded in impression, petting the material of the display dresses hung along the wall.
"Like it?"
"It's growing on me," you eased with a small shrug, hearing Bucky chuckle and for his phone to chime. You perused the place as he became glued to the little device, sat in front of the dressing rooms.
Valeria returned with another attendant carrying coffees. "Right this way, Mrs. Barnes," Valeria directed you into a changing room, missing the giddy look you sent Bucky over your shoulder at being called his wife. "All right, so," she sighed, hanging up the dresses she selected, "I think these are modest enough for a wedding, but still glamorous to turn a few heads."
You hummed, "They're kinda short, don't know if that's the energy I want to be giving off at my brother's wedding."
"They'll fit differently once on but we can always accommodate," she assured, pulling one from the hanger. "Here we go," she assisted you, zipping you in and looking you over. "Oh, it's just darling on you! Look at that, not a single hair outta place, right?"
You giggled lightly, "It's certainly pretty."
"Shall we show Mr. Barnes?"
You nodded, following her out to reveal Bucky sitting on a plush loveseat, sipping his coffee. His eyes widened when he saw you, nodding, "Oh, yeah. This is what I'm talking about."
"Hush, we're only buying one."
His eyes rolled, "I'll buy the whole damn store if I want."
"You don't own it already? Hm," you teased, perking your brows.
"Keep sayin' shit, I'll cut a check right now - "
"Bucky," you tisked, moving to the runway mirrors. "It's a little tight, isn't it?"
"It's snug," Valeria agreed. "Is there a color scheme for the wedding?"
"Um," you paused, "I'm not sure - I just know it's in winter, like, in a month."
"Maybe a pretty powder blue?" She looked to Bucky, who nodded. "Or how about a pale green? Like an olive tone?"
"She looks gorgeous in anything," Bucky smirked from behind you, taking another pull of his coffee.
"What about that brown number?" You asked, ignoring the way his compliments made you feel like the only girl he's ever seen in the world.
"You have a very good eye, Mrs. Barnes," Valeria nodded. She asked her coworker to go find your size, taking you back into the dressing room. You narrowed down the options without changing again, not wanting anything black or dark since it was a wedding and not a funeral. Though, you knew Bucky would disagree.
You showed your boyfriend a pretty little green dress, but he shook his head. "I thought the black was nice," he told you.
"I'm not wearing black to a wedding," you laughed lightly. "It screams bad luck to me, don't you think?"
"Think it's more of a statement, sayin' the entire event is a sham and they shouldn't be doing this," Bucky snickered, the other attendant, Laura, returning with a pretty brown dress. "That satin?" He asked, rubbing the material when it was presented to you both.
"It's very fashionable now," Laura nodded, "and it's not too dark."
"Since when is it a rule to not wear dark colors to a wedding? I miss the memo?" Buck leaned back to his seat.
All three women offered him a small look, you chuckling under your breath before Valeria was leading you back into the changing room. "If I may, Mrs?" She spoke softly, "I've known Mr. Barnes for a number of years but he's never brought anyone into the store. Then, one day, he tells me he needs a new suit because the 'girl of his dreams' had agreed to a date, and every time since then?" She smiled softly at you, "He's sang your praises. I'm very honored you're trusting me with helping you today."
"Oh," you blinked in shock, giggling nervously, "well, thank you very much, Valeria, now I know why his suits are always top of the line." She waved you off, making you add, "And for the record, I'm not Mrs. Barnes, guess that'd be his mother, wouldn't it?"
"Oh," her eyes widened, gasping softly, "oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I just - he talks so highly about you - "
"No, it's okay, it's okay," you rushed, patting her arm. "I actually kind of like it..."
She hummed, zipping you into another dress, "You know, he's the reason my girl and I are together."
"Really? How'd that happen?"
Valeria chuckled, "He's very bold, your man. We were getting coffee one day, discussing his wardrobe for a business trip he had in Hong Kong, when my lady walked in. I went all silly and stupid, and Mr. Barnes just," she shook her head with a fond smile, "brazenly asked her out for me, in front of the whole shop."
"Oh, Jesus, yeah - sounds like him."
"Well, luckily, it worked, else I don't think he would've come back for my assistance. I was so embarrassed, you have no idea, but my lady - Charlie - thought it was charming and cute. Mr. Barnes hasn't let me live it down since. Says he demands an invite to the wedding." She met your eyes through the mirror, offering, "And I'd be really happy to give him a plus one, hmm?"
"You're so sweet," you whispered, turning to survey the dress. You spent the better part of three hours there, trying on dress after dress, nitpicking almost everything as you just weren't sure what to wear. Bucky wasn't much help, he just approved everything.
So, it was up to Valeria and Laura to help you; bringing out iPads and design books, trying to piece something together that best fit your comfort and the vibe of the wedding. You didn't want to look like a walking money bag since your family wasn't by any means wealthy, thinking it would be a slap to their faces since your boyfriend could spend his money without ever thinking about it. You didn't want to give your family any reason to talk behind your back.
"I like the brown satin," Laura offered softly, looking you over in the mirror. "But the blue is just wow, it really looks like it was made for you, doesn't it?"
"Yes, but I think the green compliments her eyes more," Valeria cocked her head in thought. "Are you wearing your hair up or down?"
"Up," you answered, trying to mimic the look by pulling your locks off your shoulders, "with thin jewelry, I think."
"Diamonds?"
"Pearls, if I can find a dress that looks nice with it," you smiled, seeing Bucky's reflection in the mirror watching you with a soft smile on his face; head titled in thought before his phone chimed again and warranted his attention. "Maybe we could try the pink dress?" You looked to the two women for an opinion.
"No," Valeria shook her head, "it washes you out. And pink in winter? Oh, sweetie, I'd lose my job if I let you leave here with that. Guess that means you'll have to come back in the spring, right?"
You grinned in response as Laura chimed in, "The green's actually really nice, but the brown looks much better with your body type." Then she turned to Bucky, prompting, "Mr. Barnes? Final decision - which dress?"
Bucky paused, musing, "Lemme see them all again, get one last taste. It's between the green and brown numbers?"
"Or the blue," Valeria nodded. "C'mon, sweetie," she offered her hand to help you off the wee runway you were perched on in front of the magnificent mirrors.
"You look sensational in them all, doll, how the hell am I supposed to choose just one?" Bucky teased, his canines on display from the broad grin that stretched his lips.
"You'll find a way," you answered.
"Awh, telling me Mr. Big-Tough-Manly-Business-Man who makes impossible decisions everyday can't choose a simple piece of fashion?" Valeria tacked on.
"You guys can't pick either!" He laughed, "And you do a helluva lot more shopping than I do!"
Laura, Valeria, and you paused to exchange looks, you pointing at Bucky and relenting in a drawl, "Touché."
When you were escorted back into the dressing room, Laura waiting outside the door for your privacy with Valeria, Bucky sat back on the plush loveseat and extended his one arm over the back of the seating. He smirked to himself, shaking his head as if in disbelief - but he was. Bucky was in disbelief.
How did a rugged Mob boss find himself here? Watching his girl like a private fashion show?
His whole life, all he knew was turmoil, pain, drama, and fear. He knew he would inherit his father's well-built organization after he passed and knew what this life would entail; having no preconceived notions about a quiet life. He knew he would have to be tougher than tough, adaptable, intelligent, and confident in his role as the head of the 3-6 Brooklyn Mob. Knowing the idea of a family was farfetched, knowing he'd never know the simple pleasures in life, that he would constantly be on the move - in-able to form real, sentimental, emotional connections. He knew, in this life, he'd remain alone for everyone's best interest and safety, indulging in a series of flings and one-off relationships that couldn't haunt him.
Yet they did. These encounters reminded Bucky how alone, how stranded, how isolated, how different he was. Instead of satisfying an unquenchable thirst, these fleeting partners became heavy anchors to Bucky's reality and reminded him that there was no such thing as love - nor was there any room or logic.
And then... He met you. Bucky's lips silently spread in a grin as he remembered meeting you at a bakery; purchasing the last slice of coconut cream pie to your absolute chagrin. He thought you were gorgeous, something ethereal and unobtainable; authentic, raw, and unfiltered - things his one night stands could never measure up to. So, he offered you the slice of pie if it meant giving him your number as currency.
After that, it was impossible for Bucky to consider ever being alone again because you were the sun; center of the universe that drew everyone into your orbit. He was smitten, content, excited to date you, turned on by the fact you had no idea who he was - a rare occurrence in the city. You were pure as fresh snow; sweet, kind, affectionate, attentive, and borderline overly empathetic.
Bucky knew he was in love with you after only a few weeks when he had shown up at your apartment, dripping in blood. You didn't panic like he feared you would, just checked up and down the hallway before yanking him into your home. You cleaned him up, tending to wounds, offering a safe space for him to relax in; making mindless conversation to help distract him from the pain he endured.
And now? Now, Bucky was sat in Dior, giving his opinion on your wedding guest dress; wondering how he allowed himself to get to this point of being domestic. Bucky wasn't a man to give his opinion on dresses, what color nail polish you should use, to send fresh bouquets of flowers every other week. Yet here he was, sipping too-expensive coffee, deciding between brown, green, and blue dresses that he never would've batted an eye at.
However, that was just the domino effect you caused in his life. You were sweeter than apple pie, becoming Bucky's one tether to reality that saved him from losing himself in this dark, criminal mindset he adopted. You didn't know it, but you had transformed Bucky from a brooding asshole into a boyfriend; someone you were proud to claim and never hid from - never shied away from. He admired the way you came to terms with his job, knowing it was a hard pill to swallow and yet noting the way you just accepted him as he was.
Bucky realized in that moment that he adored this new aspect of life after thinking it was impossible to obtain. He adored sitting here, offering opinions on dresses, his security left outside instead of hovering over him like a brutal reminder he was seedy. He loved having you to come home to, he loved being part of your mundane world - a person who went to weddings, who drank Starbucks, who asked her boyfriend his opinion about how she looked in dresses. Who thought bouquets of flowers were romantic, who baked him homemade cakes for his birthday, who worked overtime in order to afford his Christmas or birthday presents, who walked to the takeout place instead of paying for delivery.
All that you are, Bucky adored deeply; falling in love with you each and every single day. All he wanted to do was protect you, share his life with you, even pick out outfits for weddings you would attend. He knew if any of the men in his organization knew the extent of his affection, they'd surely weaponize it against him... Or at the very least, tease him relentlessly. Yet he never cared, knowing you wanted to be loved out loud instead of hidden away in a storage closet; but did care if it meant his enemies could use you to get to him. It was a risk, an occupation hazard for loved ones to become targets, but that only made Bucky so much more protective of you.
Laura glanced at Bucky and saw the fond smile soften to let his teeth trap his bottom lip, smiling at the Mob boss looking soft, content, smitten being there. She knew most boyfriends would never put this much effort into helping their girlfriends in the fashion department, thinking he must've been truly in love to look so at-ease. Plus his enthusiasm through the entire ordeal assured her that Bucky was genuinely enjoying himself.
Once again, you slipped into the blue dress and showed Bucky. He hummed and snapped a photo, asking you to turn this way and that. Then you tried the green dress, him taking another photo, and finally, you changed into the brown satin dress, facing Bucky for his final verdict.
Bucky hummed in contemplation, swiping through the photos. "You know what?" He asked, looking at you with a grin. "You look delectable in everything, I can't decide - so, let's just get them all."
"Bucky, no - "
"We'll take all three, Valeria, please," Bucky interrupted you.
You waited until the attendants left you alone with a knowing look shot in your direction to ring up the desired purchases, hip cocking and hands to your hips. With an underlying exasperation, you questioned, "What the hell, Buck?"
He grinned and stood, again, buttoning his suit jacket, "C'mon, princess, this is fun, right? Being spoiled?." His arms wrapped around your waist, looking down at you as if you hung the very sun that sucked him into your orbit. "What's the point of all my money if I can't spend it on you? Huh?"
"You can save it for a rainy day?"
He shrugged, "Not necessary."
"Maybe pay to send some underprivileged kids to go to college?"
"Well, there's a thought," your boyfriend mused, "but I already do that through the Stark Foundation. I sponsor a few scholarships."
"Okay, well, buying all three still doesn't help me decide what to wear," you chuckled, you mimicked his action and wrapped your arms tightly around the base of his ribs. Due to his height, your head had to tip backwards to meet his eyes with a small smile.
You could look at this gorgeous man all day, everyday if God ever permitted such an act. Why wasn't dating a paid activity? You'd be the top earner with the way you were absolutely enthralled with all Bucky Barnes was. And what an honor it was to earn his mutual adoration.
"We'll figure it out at home. Gotta get you moving in the material to make an honest judgement," he offered softly. "But you look gorgeous in all of them, baby, seriously. Like, drop dead gorgeous that makes every girl brim with jealousy. Shit, doll, you're gonna run the risk of outshining the bride."
You sighed, "Look, Buck, I appreciate what you're doing, but three designer dresses? Where the hell am I ever gonna wear them? What kinda event calls for overpriced fashion statements?"
Buck eased with a soft expression, "Guess I'll just have to take you out so you can put them all to good use, huh?"
"That's not a solution!"
"Is to me," he let a hand drift to roughly palm the meat of your ass cheek over the brown satin; another symptom of him being whipped, his comfort over public displays of affection. "Seriously, doll, how the hell did I get so lucky?"
"Hmm?"
"Just look at you, my girl," he chuckled lightly, "radiant in anything you put on. It's almost unfair, makes me wonder what I did so right to have someone like you I can call my own. I can't wait to show you off in those dresses, just look so Goddamn tantalizing. I mean, damn, baby, I'm gonna have to fight off men with my gun and the jealous women with a stick."
"You do realize we're already dating, you don't have to lay it on so thick."
"And you do realize being with you makes me the luckiest bastard in the city, right? Least I can do is spoil you, I've already got everything else I've ever wanted."
Your heart swelled at his words, sighing gently as your chin rested on his chest to keep your head tilted. Softly, you admitted, "I don't think you're the lucky one, pretty sure the honor's mine. I couldn't ask for anything more in a man - in a partner. I'm so fucking in love with you, Bucky, it honestly doesn't make sense."
He nodded, asking, "Know what else doesn't make sense?"
"What's that?"
"You refusing those dresses, I mean, c'mon!" He laughed, you groaning and releasing your hold; making his tighten to prevent you from escaping. "Those dresses look phenomenal on you, you really gonna reject my gift? C'mon, you know the rules, doll, if you adore her, you Dior her." You were ready to retort, but Bucky smiled, "For the record, I think you should wear the blue dress to the wedding."
"Blue it is," you smiled, lifting onto your toes and hooking a hand around the back of his neck to meet his lips in a scratchy kiss. "Thank you so much, baby," you whispered, feeling his lips spread against yours before he brought you back in for a much-more passionate kiss. "Hm!" You hummed, pulling away to scold, "But no more, all right? You spend too much money on me - I mean, who the hell needs three designer dresses?"
"You do," he whispered, "you deserve all of this, sugar, and I'll do what I can t'spoil you the way you should be. Might as well get used to it, I got no plans on stopping."
Your eyes rolled in good faith, excusing yourself, "Yeah, yeah, all right. Lemme get changed and we can - "
"Nah," he shook his head, petting the skin of your back exposed from the brown satin dress with his fingertips, "know what? Stay in the dress, I wanna take you out and show you off."
Your lips found his in a breath-sucking kiss, trying to convey your appreciation and giddiness over never having been spoiled like this in your entire life - feeling grateful, refreshed, and privileged for a man like Bucky in your life. Whatever greater force there was in this world, you thanked repeatedly for choosing you to love this man and for this man to love you. There was no telling what you did to deserve him, but blessed be those heavenly powers.
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requesting rules and masterlist
MCU masterlist
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stylesharrys · 1 month
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all that you are | part 1 [mafiarry]
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authors note: okay it's here!! part one of this mini-series, it is a long one and there's lots of violence (and will be in all parts of this series), i will list all warnings so if you’re not comfortable reading, i totally understand!! if you are, 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!
word count: 19,592
warnings: mentions of blood and violence, sexual themes, mentions of r*pe, swearing, arranged marriage, mentions of alcohol and drug use
summary: 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.
//
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!!
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bucky-fricking-barnes · 2 months
Text
The Cards We're Dealt
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Title: The Cards We’re Dealt
Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 15k
Warnings: Arranged marriage, alcohol, cursing, objectification of women and mild sexism, bad parents, angst, fluff, mentions of drugs
Summary: Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.
A/N: Wow! Another long fic because I have no self-restraint. There’s a bit of Irish in this because I couldn’t resist it when I wrote Steve. Translations are at the end, and anything incorrect can be blamed on Google Translate. As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, reblogging, and supporting me in all the ways you do. 
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There is an unspoken rule amongst the mobs in New York that the more drug manufacturers a man controls, the nicer you treat his daughter. So, when Bucky’s father tells him that he’s once again been pimped out as part of a deal, Bucky knows to ask the question,
“How many does he control?”
If Bucky had his way, of course, he would treat all girls as well as he is able (which is very well). He likes girls, and he likes going out with girls. He just wishes he could choose which girls he got to take out.
“Seventy-five percent,” George Barnes says, and Bucky freezes with his glass against his lips. He has a club soda to his father’s whiskey—he’s in a good mood and was actually hoping to enjoy the day, though now he’s reconsidering it. His plan to lounge by the pool with Becca and soak up as much of the late spring sunshine as possible is quickly dissipating. 
“That’s not possible,” Bucky replies. He quickly does the math in his head. His dad owns over half the manufacturers in Brooklyn. “We own—“
“Not anymore.”
The library falls silent as Bucky tries to wrap his head around the news. Just yesterday he’d overheard his father on the phone with one of his men, explaining in great detail what he’d do if they didn’t get him a sample of their newest product by the top of the hour.
“How?” he asks. He sets his glass aside and sits straighter in his chair. “Did something happen? You didn’t tell me about a takeover.”
George takes a sip of his whiskey. “That’s because there wasn’t one.” He sets the crystal tumbler on the small bronze tray nearby. Marta will come clean it up later. “I sold them.”
“You sold them? If you’ve already struck a deal, then why am I taking out his daughter? Isn’t that normally something you have me do to butter their fathers up before you make the deal?”
Bucky watches as his own father stands and goes to watch the landscapers through the library window, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s long since been out of the army, but some habits die hard. Very rarely did the man ever relax.
“You are the deal,” George answers, his voice much too casual for Bucky’s liking.
“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Bucky.
“Watch your tone, boy,” his father replies. He doesn’t turn around to witness the way Bucky grinds his teeth together in response. “In exchange for the majority of Theo’s territory, you and Y/N will be married within a year and a half, though the exact date is up to the two of you. I believe that Theo mentioned his daughter likes spring, so perhaps a spring wedding. June is popular, from what I’m told, though that’s cutting it a little close to the deadline.”
Bucky’s up out of his seat now. He can feel his pulse thrumming and he can’t quite catch his breath.
“So what? You threw me in to sweeten the pot? Am I just another bargaining chip to you now?”
He’s shouting. He doesn’t care.
George turns and regards him in silence, and, like always, his expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by Bucky’s outburst.
“You’re my heir. I make my decisions based on what’s best for our family. Nothing about this decision is impulsive or frivolous, James,” he finally answers, his voice cool and even. There’s nothing familial in his tone—George Barnes is all business. 
“You can’t just decide that I’m getting married. I won’t do it. I refuse,” Bucky tells him. He balls his fists at his sides and he sets his jaw, furious. How dare his father try to control his life like this? It’s one thing to occupy the majority of Bucky’s nights and weekends with dates, meetings, dinners, and weapons runs, but it’s another to throw him into a marriage he doesn’t want.
“I can and you will. If you don’t, there will be consequences. To start, you will be immediately cut off from our family. You will have no money, no home, no resources, and no contact or communication with anyone involved in the business, including your mother and your sister.”
Heart pounding, Bucky glares at him. He’s got a migraine coming on. He knows his father isn’t kidding, but he wants more than anything for Steve to pop out and say that this is all just a joke. He’s never even met Theo’s daughter. He’s barely even met Theo. According to the rumors, his only daughter is his most prized treasure. She isn’t someone who frequents any of the bars, clubs, and restaurants that he and the other “mob children” frequent. Maybe “mob children” isn’t exactly the right term, at least not anymore. After all, Bucky’s engaged now. He’s just part of the mob, another pawn to be moved around the chessboard.
“You have the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” says George. He picks up his glass and downs the last of the liquor. “Theo and his family are coming for breakfast, and then Y/N will be moving in with us. I want you on your best behavior.”
He pauses and Bucky continues to glare at him, not validating his words with a response. George’s eyes grow dark with a thinly veiled threat. Bucky knows that look—if he pushes his father any harder, he’ll regret it. 
“Do you understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinds out.
Turning on his heel, Bucky stalks out of the library and slams the door behind him. He immediately heads down the hall, then down the stairs and across the ground floor of the Barnes Estate to the garage. His keys are still in his pocket; he’d only just gotten back from a night out with Steve when his father had summoned him.
It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Bucky climbs onto his bike and revs the engine, speeding off down the long driveway that winds around the house. The guards barely get the gate open in time and then he’s flying down the road, heading straight to Steve’s bar in the city. He knows his friend will be there, most likely nursing his hangover and going over the books in his back office. He won’t be hard to convince to go out again, though Bucky knows he won’t approve of the plan to drink as much as he possibly can in the next twelve hours. It doesn’t matter, though—it’s Bucky’s last night as a free man, and he’s determined to make the most of it.
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You sit between your parents, staring at the empty seat across from you. They’d told you this morning that you were going to the Barnes Estate for breakfast, and while you’d expected the grandeur of the dining room and the meal, you didn’t expect the eldest Barnes child to be completely absent. You’ve never met him, but your mother has insisted that you speak to James—George Barnes’ only son and heir—as much as possible during the meal. Supposedly, he’s the same age as you.
Rebecca Barnes is a ray of sunshine and her cheery disposition is a stark contrast to the dark clouds that now hang over your fathers’ heads. Maybe it’s a deal gone wrong or maybe it’s something else, but you don’t like it. It leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Silently, you sneak a hand under the table to find your mother’s. You squeeze and your mom squeezes back, glancing over to give a reassuring smile.
“Y/N,” Mrs. Barnes starts, and you jump a little in your seat. You haven’t been verbally addressed since you’d been seated a half hour ago. The food has yet to be served. “Your parents tell us that you’re very interested in horticulture. Did you know we have a rose garden out back?”
You force a polite smile. “I don’t know about very interested. I have a few house plants that I’ve managed to keep alive, though I would love to see your garden sometime. I’m sure it’s beautiful,” you add.
“Maybe Bucky can take you,” Rebecca says, earning herself a sharp look from her mother. She simply shrugs.
Oh, to be as unbothered as Rebecca Barnes!
“Where is James?” your father asks. His voice is a low, threatening growl and you sink down in your chair, staring at the cloth napkin still folded atop your plates.
“He knows to be here,” Mr. Barnes growls back. “You’ll have to excuse his tardiness, he’s not normally like this.”
Mrs. Barnes gives Rebecca an even harsher look when she opens her mouth to speak, and this time the girl actually looks ashamed. She takes a sip of her orange juice to hide the guilty look on her face. She’s the first person to have actually touched something on the table, and it’s like whatever spell the room has been under is broken.
All at once, the dining room springs to life. A short, slightly heavy-set woman in a gray dress and white apron enters through one door. She’s holding a delicate silver coffeepot and the smell of coffee instantly fills the room. Two younger women in identical uniforms follow behind her, each of them pushing golden carts laden with food. Through the door across the room, a tall man with short, dark brown hair stumbles in. He’s wearing all black, from his rumpled button-up and jeans to his boots and sunglasses. His hair is sticking up in every direction and just like the coffee, you can smell the stench of alcohol coming from him even from your seat.
You grimace at the smell and pull your napkin into your lap as one of the women comes to place food in front of you. It’s a formal dining service and the strange new man who’s entered feels entirely out of place. From his attire to the way he shuffles across the antique rug, everything about him screams that he’d rather be anywhere else. If you acted like that, your father would be pulling you back out into the hallway to reprimand you, and you look anxiously at Mr. Barnes, who’s seated at the head of the table. 
“James,” he greets, his voice unnervingly even. A chill runs down your spine. “It’s nice of you to join us. I trust that you slept well last night?”
James collapses into the only empty chair at the table, the one across from you, and pointedly ignores his father. You risk a glance up at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee that’s already been poured.
True to form, Rebecca leans over and claps a hand on her brother’s shoulder blade. “Good morning! Aren’t you excited to have breakfast with our guests?” she shouts, and her smirk makes it much too clear that she’s fully enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. Rebecca also ignores her parents, including her mother, who leans forward to look past James and give her a look of warning.
James shrugs his sister off of him and starts buttering the toast on his plate. You watch for a moment, then start picking at your own food as your mother also begins to eat. Everyone’s acting so strangely that you’re already on edge, and you’ve only managed to get down a few grapes and two bites of dry toast by the time your father speaks up again.
“So when are we signing these papers?” he asks, sipping his coffee. 
“As soon as the marriage license is signed,” answers Mr. Barnes.
You frown. Marriage license? Who’s getting married?
“And the terms are the same as when we last spoke?”
Mr. Barnes sips his own drink, something that looks suspiciously like whiskey, and sets down the glass. “Yes. I have that contract in my office. We’ll review and sign after we’re done here. Are all of your daughter’s things ready to be moved?”
Your stomach drops and you turn to stare at your father with wide eyes. He nods, not even paying attention to you as he continues his conversation with the other man. Your mother pointedly ignores you, choosing instead to stare at her plate as she eats. When you look around the room, it seems like almost everyone else is doing the same. Rebecca is the only person who actually meets your panicked gaze. She gives you a pitying look as your anxiety rises.
It feels like your mouth is filled with sandpaper, and you grab your glass of juice. You have to drink half of it before the feeling even mildly abates. As soon as you set it down, one of the women in gray appears to refill it.
“What’s going on? Why are you moving my stuff?” you finally choke out. You twist the napkin in your lap with both hands, wringing it as you look from one person’s face to the next.
Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence and the whole room freezes. Even James, who’s pouring something into his coffee cup from a small silver flask, stops what he’s doing.
“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother begins, taking your hand under the table.
You want to pull away. You don’t.
“After breakfast, your father and I are going home, but you’ll be staying here with the Barneses.”
“What?” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t— I don’t want to stay here. You never said anything about me—“
“We’re getting married,” James interrupts. He’s chewing and you look over at him, gaping at the casual way he’s sprawled out in his chair. You can feel his gaze on you even from behind his sunglasses and it makes you feel dirty. 
“Excuse me?”
He chuckles and sits up, then leans forward in the chair. He drops the greasy strip of bacon he’d been eating onto his plate. “We’re getting married. They’re using us like bartering chips, sweetheart. You and me in exchange for all the drugs and all the territory in New York.” James gestures grandly with one hand, a too-wide grin on his face. There must be at least ten rings on each of his hands and you swallow thickly at the threatening display of black and silver metal.
You’re trembling now and you pull your hand away from your mom’s. She reaches for you again but you shake your head, shying away from her touch. Frantically, you look around the room to see if this is some kind of joke or a drunken rambling, but no one is laughing. Even Mrs. Barnes has the decency to look sympathetic on your behalf.
“No, no. You wouldn’t—“ You look back at your parents, imploring them to say that it isn’t true. You swallow thickly, trying to stave off tears, and your voice wavers as you prompt, “Mom? Dad?”
Their silence speaks volumes and a whimper escapes you as you wring your hands in your lap. The napkin slides onto the floor. It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe and when your mom reaches out for a second time and starts to tell you to calm down, you jerk away and stand. The chair falls backwards behind you, but you ignore it as you rush out of the dining room and into the hallway you’d entered from. Everything is unfamiliar. Frantically, you pick a door and yank on the handle. It doesn’t give way and you continue the process until one of them finally opens and you can rush inside. You lock it behind you and press your back against the door. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. You can’t make out much of the furniture through the tears in your eyes.
Out in the hallway, you can hear your mother calling for you and your father arguing with Mr. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes is yelling at somebody too, but it’s hard enough to hear the others over your own gasps and sobs. You’re properly crying now and you sink to the floor, curling up on the carpet as you heave. It’s a good thing you weren’t able to stomach much breakfast.
A knock on the door makes you yelp and then cry harder, and you crawl into the darkness of the room to try and find a hiding spot. You’re lucky enough to find an old, heavy desk right away. It’s the perfect size for you to crawl under for shelter, and there’s no chair for you to move out of the way. The drawers on both sides create a cubby for you, so you crawl into it and curl up into a ball with your back towards the door, just in case someone manages to get in. If you’re quiet enough, it’s possible they’ll walk right past you.
The crowd in the hallway has definitely heard you by now. The doorknob is rattling as whoever’s on the other side tries to get in, but after a few minutes, they stop and the hallway goes quiet. You hold your breath after every couple of sobs, listening for any sign that they’ve found a key or that they’re picking the lock. Nothing happens, however, and after a while, you give up on listening.
You sit in the darkness and cry until you’re thoroughly exhausted. Once you’ve run out of tears, you sit and zone out with your head resting against the side of the desk drawers for a while longer, numb from the news. Your body feels light and a buzzing, tingling feeling makes moving your limbs seem impossible. You could’ve never imagined that your parents would be so capable of treating you so poorly. You’ve always felt so loved by them, and to hear that they’ve practically thrown you away at the first chance of a profit makes you want to puke. Upon that realization, you actually do throw up, and the stink of your vomit on the carpet of whatever room you’re in makes you want to cry all over again.
The door opens just as the stench is becoming too much to bear. Light floods in from the hallway and you squint, curling up in fear. After a moment, the shorter woman in the gray uniform that you’d seen at breakfast appears a few feet away from the desk, right in the path of light. You look up at her. 
“Oh dear,” she sighs, and you instantly feel ashamed at the disappointment in her voice.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. Your bottom lip is trembling again as fresh tears somehow appear in your eyes. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrists. “I can clean it if you—“
“You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says. Her voice is gentle and kind, so much so that you don’t feel the need to argue with her. She waves her hand dismissively and approaches you, then holds out both hands. She’s careful not to step in the mess you’ve made. “Now come on, up you go.”
You let her help you to your feet and then you straighten out your clothes, sniffling and wiping at your nose again in a desperate attempt to look more put together than you feel. Still a bit unsteady, you whimper for a second time, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, dear.” She gives you a warm smile. “My name’s Marta. I’m the head housekeeper here. It’s very nice to meet you.”
You don’t feel the same way about meeting her, given the circumstances, but you hold that comment to yourself and simply nod in agreement. Marta leads you back out into the too-bright hallway. It’s empty except for a bald man mopping the floor on the far end.
The high ceilings and glossy marble floors make it look like you’re in a castle. Even the silence feels regal. Everything seems so cold compared to your home, and you feel too small in the massive space.
“What time is it?” you quietly ask, looking back at Marta.
“It’s almost noon, Miss.”
Your stomach sinks and you press your lips together, inhaling deeply as you look around again. Three hours have passed.  “My parents…”
“They left about fifteen minutes after breakfast,” she tells you. Her words are matter-of-fact, even if she delivers the news in the softest possible way.
Somehow it hurts worse that they’ve left you than finding out they’d practically sold you to the Barneses in exchange for God knows what. Drugs or territory, whatever James had said. Not only did they treat you like nothing, but they’d deserted you after it was clear you didn’t agree with their plans. They hadn’t even tried to reassure you that they still loved you or that you’d still be able to see them. Maybe you wouldn’t be. Maybe they didn’t.
You nod numbly. There’s been nothing to prepare you for this, no precursor or warning, so you keep looking around the hall, though in reality you’re not really seeing anything. 
“Your room is ready upstairs, Miss Y/N. Would you like me to take you?” asks Marta.
You nod again. You feel like you’re underwater as you follow her up a grand staircase and then down a long, narrow hallway. It’s decorated similarly to the ground floor, though with a plush Persian rug running its length. Marta talks as she walks ahead of you, no doubt explaining what the many doors lead to, but her words simply go in one ear and out the other. It’s all so surreal that when you finally get to your own room, you don’t even open the door. Marta has to reach around you to open it, and then she gently ushers you inside when you still don't move.
Just as they had said at breakfast, your belongings have all been moved into the Barnes Estate. The furniture here is different, grander than what you’re used to, but your blankets and pillows are on the bed, and the two bookshelves are packed full of the books you’ve collected over the years. Even the strip from the photo booth at an old friend’s wedding is pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. Someone’s even thought to put your plants on their own table by the window. 
“There’s a bathroom on the left and your closet is on the right,” Marta explains, pointing to each. “If you’re hungry, dinner is at five.”
“Do I have to eat with them?” you ask.
If Marta is surprised by your question, she doesn’t show it. She simply shakes her head with a gentle smile. “No. We can bring food here if you’d like.”
You nod and stand in silence until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then, after another minute passes, you drag yourself over to the bed, climb under the covers, and close your eyes.
If there’s any mercy left in this life, you think, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up again.
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Weeks pass and you still haven’t adjusted to life at the Barnes Estate. The staff is only slightly less friendly than those you grew up with, but they’re more attentive. It helps that there are more of them. For every member of the Barnes family, yourself included, there are at least four staff members to attend to their every need. It makes you feel like royalty, but it also makes you feel guilty. You don’t need this much. You certainly didn’t ask for it.
You haven’t seen James since the ill-fated breakfast, nor have you seen your parents. They’ve gone so far as to block your number. After that discovery, you’d locked yourself in the massive ensuite bathroom and cried for an hour. Marta had been the one to coax you out. The poor maid who’d found you when coming to get you for dinner hadn’t known how to help. You’d spent that entire evening curled up on your bed while reruns of The Nanny played on the TV embedded in the wall across from the massive mattress. Marta had spent every second with you that she could, but eventually Mrs. Barnes—Winnifred, as you referred to her in your mind—had scolded her for neglecting her nighttime duties across the estate. That made you feel even worse.
“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks, and you turn to look at her from where you’re staring out the hallway windows at the gardeners. The backyard is massive, complete with a rose garden in full bloom, an outdoor swimming pool, a forested walking trail, a large green expanse for games and parties, a gazebo, a fountain, and what seems to be stables far in the distance, though you haven’t ventured far enough to be sure. A visit to the rose garden hasn’t been brought up again either, and nothing seems interesting enough to explore on your own.
Nodding, you don’t say anything before turning back to watch the men work. They talk and laugh with each other as they prune, pick, and water. You wish that you could trade places with them. 
“You don’t look okay,” she says. Rebecca props herself up on the window ledge to your right, facing you with a suspicious look on her face. “We haven’t seen you at any meals, and Valerie told me that you were crying in the bathtub three nights ago.”
You should feel ashamed, but you’re too numb to care. It feels like you’re floating through each day, detached from most things. You’ve spent your entire life thinking that you would marry for love and live happily ever after. Now, your parents have sold you to the highest bidder and your husband-to-be is a cruel, disgusting man-child that wants nothing to do with you.
Rebecca’s fingers lacing with yours jerk you back to reality and you look down at your joined hands in confusion. Her nails are bitten short and she wears a single ring with the Barnes family crest. It’s dainty and gold, a stark contrast to the many rings on her brother’s fingers.
“You’re safe here, Y/N,” she tells you, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. If I had any say in it, you could be home right now with your parents, but I’m far from the top of the totem pole.”
“I hate them.” You spit the words out and jerk your hand away from hers. “I hate my parents.”
That’s the first time you’ve ever said that in your entire life and your heart skips a beat as the anger makes your lip curl. You’re baring your teeth at her but Rebecca doesn’t even flinch. She’s a mafia princess, through and through.
“They made me believe that I could have anything I wanted, that I could marry whoever I wanted whenever I was ready, and then they threw that all away and treated me like shit the first time it was convenient for them.”
She nods. “That’s true.”
“I was so foolish to have believed them,” you growl, but the fight in you is fading just as quickly as it came. You burn bright, but you burn quickly, too.
“No,” Rebecca says, shaking her head. “You’re just human.”
You look away, embarrassed by your display of emotion as your eyes begin to water with more tears. You were raised to be reserved. You knew very little about the inner workings of your parents’ business, but you’d learned as a young girl that you’d fare better if you always clung to the edges of the room, avoiding the dirt and grime and blood that surrounded your whole life. Over the years, you’ve grown very good at hiding yourself and your emotions from the people around you. From the spark in her eye, you have the feeling that Rebecca is the exact opposite. She could hold her own if it came down to it. You couldn’t.
“It’s okay to be upset,” she insists.
Shaking your head, you take a deep breath and look back out the window. You lift your chin slightly and when Rebecca tries to rope you into another conversation with her, you ignore her and focus on the men outside. They’re finished tending to the roses on the edges of the garden. Now they’re working their way inwards.
You’re finally left alone a few minutes later and as soon as she’s around the corner, you let out a heavy sigh and relax your posture. Slumping forward, you lean forward into the window ledge, curling up just a little as you continue to watch the gardeners. The silly song from Alice in Wonderland pops into your head and you hum along, eventually mumbling to yourself about painting the roses red.
You feel a little bit like Alice, you realize. You’re out of your element in a strange land where everything you’ve learned about life seems to be turned on its head. In this world, nobody marries for love and the girls are just as entrenched in the business as the men. Does Rebecca conduct business with her father and older brother? You could certainly picture it. Will the same be expected of you?
That afternoon, Marta knocks on your door with a written invitation from Winnifred. Your presence is being formally requested at their dinner table, though from the look the housekeeper is giving you, it’s more of a demand than a request. With her help, you pick out something to wear. By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re crossing the enormous hallway in a dress and heels that you’ve never seen before. It’s far too showy for your taste, but it’s clearly something someone wanted you to wear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put it in your closet.
George Barnes and James stand when you enter the dining room, as do several other men you don’t recognize. Your father is standing near the head of the table with George, though your mother and Rebecca are nowhere in sight. Besides Winnifred, you don’t recognize any of the other women. The only empty seat is beside James and your immediate instinct is to flee, but then he’s stepping aside to pull out the chair and all eyes are on you.
Slowly, you close the distance between the two of you and sit. He helps you scoot in, then takes his own seat on your right. The other men sit as well and then dinner resumes. You sit in silence, staring at the top edge of your plate with your hands in your lap. You’re not really listening to the conversations around you, either, but you can feel someone’s eyes on you as you try to stay as quiet and motionless as possible.
“Are you sick or something?”
You startle and look up with wide eyes. James is watching you. He’s got one hand on the table with his fingers brushing the stem of his wineglass and the other resting on his thigh. Unlike your fateful breakfast weeks ago, James is dressed in a neat, all-black suit. He has no tie, and his rings are all gone except one. It’s identical to Rebecca’s family crest, except his is silver and has a thicker band.
His eyes are full of something you can’t place and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. As quickly as you turned to him, you turn away and look back at your plate. The napkin is folded in some elaborate way on top of the plate. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to resemble anything at all, but maybe if you stare at it long enough, it will look like something.
“Y/N?” he prompts. You nod once, tightly, and then pull the heavy cloth napkin into your lap when a server appears to present the first course.
Between the second and third course, you can feel James’ eyes on you. After the third, he gets roped into conversation with a man sitting across the table, but you know that he’s glancing at you all the while. After the fourth, he bumps his arm against yours. You shirk away and feel him tense beside you.
“Excuse me,” you mumble, and you push your chair away from the table. Immediately, the conversations stop and all the men stand again. It’s too much attention on you and you hurry out of the dining room as fast as your heels and dress will allow. You’re stumbling over yourself by the time you get back to your suite on the third floor. The door slams behind you and you collapse onto the floor beside the bed, too overwhelmed to even climb atop the oversized mattress. You’re on the verge of tears when there’s a soft knock from the door, and that rips a sob from your chest that you hadn’t expected.
Immediately, the door opens and James is standing in the open space, a dark look on his face. You sob again and scramble backwards until the edge of the bed frame is digging painfully into your spine.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
You swallow hard and take several gasping breaths, trying to control yourself. Your mind is spinning with insults, calling you weak and pathetic, and you believe every one.
“It’s just too much,” you answer through your tears. “I don’t want this!”
James huffs. His angry expression has faded, now replaced with something more akin to irritation. “And you think I do?”
You shake your head. “Of course not.”
“These are the cards we’ve been dealt, doll. You’re gonna have to get over it. Let’s just get married and then we can live happily ever after in a big house where we never have to see each other. I’ll do what I want and you can do what you want. Sound like a plan?”
You look down at your hands. A big part of you wants to say that no, it doesn’t sound like a plan. You don’t want that life. You don’t want a house so big that you practically need a golf cart to get from one side to the other. You don’t want a husband who ignores you in favor of his blood money or his side chick or the next shiny toy off the black market. You don’t want James.
Though every part of you is screaming the opposite, you nod. He crosses the room and you inhale sharply to steady yourself as he approaches you with no care. His black dress shoes are tracking dirt across the rug. James holds out a hand to help you up and you take it. The heirloom ring on his right hand digs into yours until you’re standing, and then he drops your hand like it’s on fire.
“We need to go back,” he tells you, and you nod again. “Our parents are pissed.”
“Of course they are,” you mumble. 
James pauses, staring at you critically. You’ve been staring at the baseboards since he helped you up, but when he doesn’t move or speak, you glance upwards at him. He’s got one eyebrow raised. His expression is thoroughly unreadable otherwise and an unsettling feeling blooms in your stomach.
“What?” you ask. You step back a little, but there’s no place to go except up against the bed again.
He shakes his head at you. “Nothing. Come on, princess.”
“Don’t call me that.” You scrunch your nose. “Anything but that.”
“Sugar?” he offers, and when you shake your head, he sighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you, since you’re suddenly the one calling the shots?”
His words cut deep and you look back down, hating the way shame immediately pools in your belly. How could he seem angry and irritated with you, then borderline kind, and then completely disinterested in your feelings the next? It’s disorienting, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.
“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”
Grabbing your arm in a grip just bordering on painful, James pulls you out of your bedroom and back down the hall. He holds on as you stumble behind him in your heels. When you reach the ground floor hallway again, he drops his hand and offers you his arm. You’re hesitant to take it, but he sighs a little and you decide that it’s easier to give in than to put up a fight.
The two of you walk back into the dining room and the conversations immediately hush. James leads you to your waiting seats, pulls out the chair for you, and then helps you scoot towards the table again once you’re seated. As he takes his spot beside you, your father speaks up.
“Have you and James discussed when you’ll be getting married?” he asks.
You pick up your fork and stare at the strange food on your plate, ignoring him. Though your stomach is churning, you force yourself to take a bite. He can’t expect you to answer while you’re chewing—it would be bad manners.
“Next spring,” James answers. “In the rose garden.”
You want to spit on the roses. You swallow your food instead.
“Good choice,” Mr. Barnes agrees. He turns his attention back to your father. “Your daughter is quite the well-behaved woman. She’ll do well with our James.”
Beside you, James tenses again, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. You glance at him, holding your breath, and wait until he relaxes again to take another bite of your food. 
The rest of the dinner passes with mundane, meaningless conversations. Nobody addresses you for the remainder of the meal, not even your parents, and finally the men begin to make their way out of the dining room to an adjoining room. You hadn’t even realized there was a room connected; the door is hidden amongst the paneling and crown molding on the walls.
“You can’t go in there.” James grabs your wrist as you stand to follow the group of men into the new room. His voice isn’t malicious and his grip isn’t tight, but you flinch away from him anyway. It’s only then that you realize the few women that had been in the room are leaving through the door to the hall with their wineglasses in hand.
“Because I’m a woman?” you counter.
“Because you don’t want to hear the things that they’re going to discuss,” he answers. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands, towering over you. After a long second of eye contact, he steps away from you and heads towards the men.
You watch him go and silently weigh your options. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even thought about following the men into the second room. You would have simply taken the same path as the other woman, though your wine would have continued to remain untouched. Now, however, with your wine in hand, you stood at a crossroads. You could go into the room and potentially face the wrath of your father, James, and George Barnes, or you could live forever curious as to what was actually being discussed. 
With your mind made up, you down your wine, step around James, and head through the open door into the room. It’s a study with dark wood paneling on the walls, leather couches, and stale cigar smoke in the air. As soon as you enter, the laughter and conversation stop and all eyes land on you.
“Y/N, you should be with Winnie and your mother,” Mr. Barnes says, stepping towards you. James is behind you now and though you’re hedged in, you simply lift your chin at the older man.
“Why? Am I not allowed to know what family I’m marrying into?”
His face darkens. “Girl, I’m warning you—”
“Don’t speak to my wife like that.” James’ voice from over your shoulder startles you and you quickly turn your head, looking back at him with shock. 
Why is he suddenly standing up for me?
“Hold your tongue, James,” his father snaps. “You aren’t married yet, and Y/N needs to learn her place. One would think her father would have taught her better, considering the problems his wife caused.”
Though you hate your parents for what they’ve done to you, your blood boils at the insult. Your anger rears its ugly head even more when you realize that your father doesn’t look intent on standing up for you or your mom, either.
“That’s enough!”
You swear the room rattles around you when James shouts and you grit your teeth, furious at Mr. Barnes. How dare he insult your father? How dare he talk to you and his son that way?
James grabbing your hand shocks you back into reality. Once again, his grip is almost painfully tight, but you force your face to reveal nothing.
“Y/N and I are going out. If I so much as hear that you’ve said a single thing about her in my absence, you will regret ever giving me any kind of power in this business,” he growls. “The next time you see her, I expect that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.” 
The men stare at you and James in disbelief, and then you find yourself being practically dragged out of the room. You’re too stunned to fight back, so you let him pull you across the ground floor of the estate to a door only two down from the dark room where you’d hit the morning your parents had left you behind.
“We’ll have to take the car, unless you’re okay riding the bike in that dress,” James says, pushing open the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a response.
“Car,” you answer after a few seconds. “Please.”
The room James has led you to is a massive garage, stretching farther than you ever realized a similar room could. Three of the walls are made of light gray cement, as are the floor and ceiling, and the fourth wall is made up of windowed garage doors, each one big enough for several cars to drive through simultaneously. Running down the center of the rectangular garage, there is a row of seven parked cars, with enough space to fit at least another car between each one, and beyond that, you can see a row of several motorcycles parked in a similar manner. The cars are in varying shades of gray and black, with the exception of one red sports car at the far end of the group. You can’t see the bikes well enough from the door, but you catch glimpses of blue, silver, gray, and black.
Four enormous, black and silver tool chests are lined up against the wall facing the hoods of the cars, but there isn’t a spot of oil or dirt in sight. You don’t even see any loose tools or equipment. Looking around, you wonder if the tool chests are just there for decoration, or if someone on the estate actually works on the cars and motorcycles.
Maybe James works on them?
“Are all of these yours?” you ask, unable to help yourself. He seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy driving around for fun, and he’s just mentioned something about a bike. You stare at the side of James’ face as he plucks a set of keys off a black pegboard on the wall. There’s a button embedded in the wall beside the board. James pushes it with one thumb and the keys in his hand bump against the wall.
One of the garage doors near the last few cars starts to roll upwards onto the ceiling, revealing the outside of the estate. The sun has completely disappeared from the sky, and the moonlight is blocked by the clouds you’d seen rolling in earlier in the afternoon. The leaves of the large shade trees that surround the estate and form a protective shield from the outside world rustle in the wind. Crickets and cicadas chirp, reminding you of the cool spring nights you’d spent on your family estate as a little girl. You’d run around in the grass near the garden while your mom or your nanny watched you. Sometimes your father’s men would watch from the perimeter of the property, and when you’d wave, they’d wave back, asking what you’d done that day. You always answered them, even if you knew it would get you in trouble. They never stopped asking either, even if it got them in trouble, too.
You stop walking and close your eyes, then breathe in deeply as the night air rushes into the garage. It’s the first time you’ve been even close to the outdoors since arriving at the Barnes Estate. Your skin is still warm from the stifling dining room and the anger you’d felt in the men’s study. The breeze is a blessed relief, even if you do shiver after only a moment. Goosebumps form on your exposed skin—the dress Marta had picked out for you did little to keep you safe from the elements. 
James keeps walking down the aisle formed by the wall and the front of the cars, though you hear his footsteps pause a few moments after you stop following him. 
“Are you okay?” he asks.
You’re a little surprised that he’s not demanding that you catch up. When you open your eyes, you immediately meet his gaze, and a weird feeling bubbles up in your stomach. The expression on his face betrays little, but his stare reminds you of the way your father’s men looked at you all those years ago—interested and almost fond, but ready to push you away at a moment’s notice. You nod and hurry to catch up with him.
Once you get closer, James presses a button on the key fob in his hand. One of the cars in front of the open garage door rumbles to life. The sound it makes is a low purr, almost seductive, and you raise an eyebrow as James approaches, then runs his fingers over the hood. Even if the others aren’t, this car has to be his. It’s a sleek black, with dark tinted windows and a gleaming silver grill in the front. The BMW logo shines proudly in the center. It looks like a car your own father would own. Though you know he’s never owned a BMW, if this car is anything like the ones in your father’s fleet, you know that the inside will be as much a picture of luxury as the outside.
You slide into the passenger seat when James opens the door for you, and in the time it takes him to cross around the front of the car to the driver’s side, you take inventory of the interior. It’s a manual transmission—something your father once said was obsolete, except for car collectors and enthusiasts—which means that you wouldn’t be able to drive it, even if you tried. The car is pristine, so much so that you’re afraid to move. Two water bottles are in the cupholders, and it still smells brand new inside. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on the dashboard, nor on the floor mats. The leather seat is soft and there’s a control for seat warming and cooling on the control panel.
James climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. He buckles up and you follow his lead, and then you sit back as he reverses the car out of the garage and onto a winding driveway that leads you around the front of the estate, then along the other side to a large gate with a guard house. You’d forgotten about the extensive security since the last time you’d been outside the Barnes Estate. Your father had handed over your driver’s license, along with his and your mother’s, before breakfast all those weeks ago, and there’d been a strange code word of some kind. It dawns on you as the guard opens the gate for you and James that you’d never gotten your license back.
“Where are we going?” you ask as James pulls onto the main road. It leads away from the estate and into the city. 
“To get some real food,” he replies. His tone is gruff, and it feels like he’s on the verge of an angry outburst, so you slump back in your seat as he shifts gears and the car accelerates. The tension in the car is thick. You don’t want to be the one to deal with it, especially since he’s the one creating it.
After several minutes of watching the enormous mansions and the forests surrounding them pass by, you look over at James again. His expression, just like in the garage, reveals nothing, but you can tell that he’s more put-together than the last time you’d interacted, and it’s not just the tailored suit. His hair has been trimmed and styled, and he has an even dusting of stubble that frames his jawline nicely.
In the time since you’d learned you were engaged, James hasn’t said anything to you. You’ve heard him talking in the hallways as you wandered, but you haven’t wanted to be near him. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Your brief conversations so far tonight make up the majority of the words you’ve spoken to each other. His words from the bedroom echo in your head, until finally, you can’t help but blurt out your thoughts.
“Do you really not want to marry me?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and pathetic, and you hate it, but it’s too late now. 
He glances over at you with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. “What do you mean?”
You sit up a little in the seat, though you keep your hands in your lap and you try not to move your feet, just in case there’s dirt on your shoes.
“I mean,” you say, watching him carefully for his reaction, “that when you came to get me upstairs, you said you didn’t want to marry me. Is that really true?”
“I never said that.” He shifts gears again as you near a stoplight, and the car slows. 
“Yes, you did.”
“No,” he shifts again, his teeth now clenched, “I didn’t. I asked if it looked like I wanted to marry you, and you said it didn’t. But I never said I didn’t want to.”
Now you’re confused, and you frown at him, ignoring the obvious irritation in his voice. The car rolls to a stop behind a Ferrari blasting music out the open windows. 
“So you do want to marry me?” you ask. 
He sighs and drops his hand from the gear shift, then looks over at you. “Y/N, I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, so if this is you testing to see how I’ll treat you, then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not a monster.”
“It’s not. I just…” You stop, unsure of how to phrase what you’re feeling. It’s strange to be upset over a marriage you don’t even want, but for some reason, you are. 
“What?”
“If you don’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry you, then why are we going along with this?” you finally ask, settling for the bigger question than the one that’s truly nagging at you.
“Because we know that if we don’t, life will be hell,” he answers.
It’s the truth. You know it is, and you know it deep down. If the two of you refuse this marriage, your life will be worse than you could possibly imagine, and you’re fairly certain that your fathers will find a way to make it happen anyhow. They’re well-connected in every sphere of life, not just when it comes to drugs and weapons. Your father probably has a priest on his payroll.
The light turns green and James moves the car forward again, merging into the right lane almost immediately. He slows as you approach a valet stand outside an upscale bar you’ve never heard of. It’s not one of your father’s, which means it probably belongs to George Barnes.
Then again, you think as a uniformed man opens your door, maybe it belongs to James.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” a valet on the other side of the car greets.
James hands him the keys. “You too, Tommy. Listen, don’t park it too far off. We’re not staying too long.”
The man nods and climbs into the driver’s seat as your own valet leads you away from the curb. James meets you next to the valet stand and offers you his arm, then heads towards the doors.
“What is this place?” you ask as he holds open the door for you.
“My friend’s bar,” James says.
Your stomach twists itself in knots as heavy club music starts to get louder. The bass rumbles in your chest and you dig your nails into his arm as you near a set of glossy black double doors. You haven’t been to a club in a long time. The last time you’d gone, you’d been dragged by a childhood acquaintance, but you’d spent most of the night alone after she’d ditched you for someone she met on the dance floor. You’re not particularly eager to relive that experience tonight, especially with the man you’re being forced to marry. Who’s to say he won’t ditch you for someone else right in front of you, just to rub it in your face? After all, he’d said it himself in the bedroom—you’ll do what you want and he’ll do what he wants. It’s the cards you’ve been dealt.
If these are the cards, then I’ve got a sucky hand.
“James—”
“Bucky.”
You stop and squint at him in the low light of the entrance hallway. The two bouncers in all-black suits stop with their hands on the door handles, ready to open them for you once you start walking again. The music pounds in your ears, so much so that you can feel your eardrums vibrating.
“What?” you ask, not sure you’d heard him correctly.
“Bucky,” repeats James, a little louder this time. “You should call me Bucky, if we’re going to be married.”
“Is that… a nickname?” 
Even in the darkness, you can see him laugh, and a bashful, boyish smile spreads across his face. “My middle name is Buchanan. Steve used to tease me about it when we were kids, and he started calling me Bucky as a joke. It caught on.” He shrugs it off, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he speaks of his childhood friend, and it makes you smile just a little.
You loosen your grip on his arm. “Okay then. Bucky,” you add.
When Bucky steps forward again, the doors are pulled open, revealing a much more casual bar than you could’ve anticipated. Though it’s clean, it looks a little run down, and the heavy music fades into jazz piano as you step through the open doorway and into the large, open space. With almost cathedral-height ceilings, walnut floors and support pillars, and well-worn wooden booths and tables, the bar feels more homier than you’d expected. It’s clearly been well-hidden from the busy crowds of New York. Only a few patrons are scattered around the room, sitting in the booths or at two-top tables, but Bucky leads you to the wood, u-shaped bar that juts out into the room from the back wall. A single man stands behind it, drying glasses with a white bar towel. He smiles when he looks up and sees you approaching.
“Bucky,” he greets, and he reaches over the bar to pull Bucky in for a hug. It’s the first time you see Bucky smile—a real, full, genuine smile—and you watch in silence as he hugs his friend.
“Steve,” Bucky replies. Instantly, your brain starts connecting the dots. This is his childhood friend, the one who gave him his nickname.
“Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil.” Steve turns his attention to you, and you quickly look away from Bucky and at him. Your brain whirs as you try to place the language he’s just spoken. It’s not one you’ve heard before, which means none of your father’s men speak it, and neither do any of the Barneses.
“You must be Y/N.”
You nod and offer Steve a small, polite smile. You’re not sure how to act around Bucky’s friends. If they’re also part of the mob, it’s possible they’ll treat you even worse than George Barnes had after dinner, but a new, surprising voice in your head argues that Bucky would never be friends with someone like that.
“It’s okay,” reassures Bucky. He reaches out and touches your arm, gentler than he has all evening. “Steve’s a nice guy, and he knows about our family businesses. You can trust him.”
Steve looks between the two of you before picking up a glass and setting it right-side-up in front of you. “What’ll it be, Y/N?”
You glance at him, then at the wall of liquor behind him. After a moment, you list off a drink that’s not your favorite, but that you know you’ll be able to stomach no matter the circumstances. Steve nods in response before starting to make it.
Silently, Bucky takes one of the chairs at the bar, and you do the same. He sits with his arms folded on the counter. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner. You feel a little out of place in your fancy clothes, and you wonder if he feels the same.
Your drink is placed in front of you a moment later, and after Steve’s silent prompting, you take a sip. It’s delicious, and you can’t help but smile at him.
“Aha, I’ve still got it!” Steve cheers, and you laugh. He grins at you, a charming type of smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You feel a little sheepish at the intensity of his joy, and you fidget in your seat, then with your hair.
Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a round paper coaster at his friend. “Knock it off, Rogers,” he huffs. “Stop flirting with my girl. You’ve already got one of your own.”
You glance over when he calls you that, but you don’t say anything. There’s another weird feeling in your gut now. This one, unlike the one you’d had in the car or the fluttering feeling Steve had given you, you recognize immediately—pride. It feels good to have Bucky call you “his girl”, even if you barely know him. It’s strange, and the thought makes you squirm in your seat again. You drop your hand down to the bartop and take another sip of your drink, trying to quell the strange feelings inside of you. 
What is going on with me? Why can’t I just feel normal about all of this? Is there even a normal way to feel about this?
“You hungry?” asks Bucky, and you nod when you realize he’s talking to you again.
“I make a mean twice-baked potato,” Steve says. He plants his hands on the bar to look between the two of you. “Whaddaya say, Y/N? You up for it?”
“Only if you put the jalapeños on the side this time, punk,” Bucky tells him before you can reply. He seems to remember himself a second later, however, because he looks over at you. “Unless, of course, you want them on top.”
You shrug, not wanting to upset anyone, and Steve groans.
“Come on, Y/N,” he says, and he smiles wide as he gestures around the almost-empty bar. “I’ve got all the time in the world to make your food exactly the way you want it. Don’t make me guess.”
“He’s bad at guessing,” Bucky chimes in.
“Terrible,” Steve adds, nodding earnestly.
Tentatively, you list off what you want, and Steve makes a note of everything on a notepad that seems to appear out of nowhere. Once he’s got your order down, he disappears through a door in the back wall. Before it closes, you catch a glimpse of a shining kitchen filled with stainless steel, and you wonder how many patrons come through the bar if Steve has what looks to be a full-sized kitchen in the back.
“You didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured I’d bring you someplace that actually has good food,” Bucky says. He reaches across the bar to grab a bottle of beer Steve has left out, and he uses one hand to pry the top off. 
You gape at him, too distracted by the blatant show of strength to properly process the very thoughtful thing he’s just said to you. “What?”
“I said that you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured—”
“You just pulled the top off like it was nothing. How did you do that?” You look around on Steve’s side of the bar for another bottle, hoping to try your luck. Maybe it’s some new kind of bottle that he’s trying out before it hits the market, or maybe Steve has bootleg beer with a different kind of cap.
Bucky is staring at you, seemingly just as confused as you. “With my arm.”
“With your arm?” you repeat. You’re certain that he’d used his hand to pry it off.
He stares at you for a second longer before the confusion disappears and is replaced with a glint of mischief in his eyes. It makes the shadows on his face melt away a little, and his blue irises seem bright and youthful again, entirely unlike a man who’s seen too much.
“My arm,” he reiterates, and then he pulls off the black glove you’d assumed to be part of his personal style. It’s not just for show, however, because he pulls it off to reveal a black metal hand with dull gold knuckles. Bucky continues, standing and shrugging off his jacket, then rolling up the sleeve of his button-down shirt. As he reveals more and more, you realize that the black metal continues, making up what would be his left arm.
No wonder it hurt when he grabbed me.
“It’s metal,” you dumbly say, and he snorts.
“Observant.”
You shake your head and look from his arm to meet his eyes. “You have a metal arm. How didn’t I know that?”
Bucky shrugs and drapes his jacket over the back of the chair. He leaves the glove on the bar where he’d first set it down. Once he’s seated again, he rolls up his other sleeve to match.
“Beats me. I figured everyone knew. My dad wasn’t subtle when he was bragging about the arm he had made for me when it first happened,” replies Bucky. He takes a sip of his beer, then sighs and sets it back down.
You don’t want to pity him, so you try your best to school your expression by taking a sip of your own drink.
“Was it an accident?” you ask after a minute has passed. He doesn’t reply right away, and you scramble to save the conversation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen,” he says, and his voice is quieter than before.
You look back down at the drink in front of you. Twisting the glass around and around, you ask, “And it was an accident?”
Bucky takes another swig of his beer. “I was with my dad, working a job. I didn’t even realize I’d been injured until I woke up in the hospital, two weeks later, missing an arm. Apparently, falling shipping containers are heavy.”
You can’t help but curse. What he’s describing sounds horrible, but Bucky only laughs.
“That sounds about right, yeah. I’m lucky I had Steve around to keep me sane,” he tells you. “My friend Sam was a big help too, but he moved down to Louisiana a few years ago.”
“Steve seems like a good friend,” you agree. “They both do.”
You can feel Bucky staring at you now, and you take a sip of your drink while you wait for him to look away again. When he doesn’t, you glance in his direction.
“What?” you ask.
“What?”
“Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are!” you laugh, and you look at him fully this time. Bucky’s grinning, and you ball up a cocktail napkin and toss it at him.
“Okay, I was staring,” he admits, still smiling. “But I can’t help it. You’re pretty, and you’re nice, and you seem smart.”
You feel your cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and you look away. “You don’t have to say that. We’re already engaged.”
“I’m not saying it because we’re engaged. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
You don’t have a chance to reply before Steve comes out with two hot plates. He places them in front of you, joking briefly about giving you the wrong order, and it’s distraction enough that you sit up tall and smile wide. You push Bucky’s compliment out of your head as you chow down, groaning and moaning about the potatoes. They’re exactly what you need after the stressful dinner. Bucky was right—you hadn’t eaten much, and Steve’s cooking is delicious.
Once you’re full, you push your plate away and lean back in your chair. Steve grins at you before he goes back to counting the cash drawer. The other patrons have left already, leaving you, Steve, and Bucky alone in the bar.
“That was amazing,” you tell him for the hundredth time, and Steve chuckles.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell mo bhean chéile—my wife—you said that, considering she still believes potatoes aren’t a meal.”
You notice the wedding band on his left hand as soon as he says it. Above it, also in silver, is a familiar ring. If you weren’t able to see the family crest, you would’ve thought it was the same as Bucky’s, but this ring has an eagle and a star engraved on it, rather than the wolf you’ve seen on Rebecca and Bucky’s rings.
“Potatoes are a meal!” you argue. You can tell that Steve has clocked you looking at his rings because he shifts his hand, instinctively blocking your view as he looks for your own ring. You’d taken your parent’s ring off the day you’d cried in the bathtub and you haven’t worn it since, but no one in Bucky’s family has replaced it with their own. It’s the first time since middle school that you haven’t worn a family ring, and you’d be lying if you said it was a weight off your shoulders. You’d thought it might be, but instead it just makes you feel naked.
Steve laughs and his posture relaxes. He stops hiding his rings from you when he realizes your hands are bare. “Well, whenever you meet her, you can have that argument with her, because I’ve already had it at least a dozen times.” He closes the drawer and fixes his eyes on Bucky, who’s just finishing his food. “Speaking of, when are you two coming over? I promised Peg I’d wait until Y/N had settled in to ask, and you seem settled enough to me.” He glances at you for the last part, and you look down at your empty plate.
“It’s not up to me,” answers Bucky. “We’ll come over whenever Y/N is ready. This is the first time we’ve been together since my dad dropped the bomb on us.”
Steve pauses, his hands on the tablet he’d set down before starting to count the night’s profits. “Wait. Really?”
You nod when he looks at you, suddenly self-conscious again, and you pull your hands into your lap. “I haven’t been the best house guest…”
“You’re not a guest, Y/N. It’s your home now, too,” Bucky interjects.
Reaching over the counter, Steve smacks the side of Bucky’s head. His accent is thick when he huffs, “Íosa Críost, you thick! You didn’t think to go talk to her? To see if she wanted to watch a movie? To see if she needed anything?”
Bucky stammers over in his seat, and you keep your head ducked to hide your smile. Clearly, Steve knows more about being married than Bucky does—most likely from experience, since he’s already mentioned his wife—and he isn’t afraid to tell his friend off for not looking out for your well-being.
“I’m sorry!” exclaims Bucky, ducking another hit. “I wasn’t thinking!”
“Like ifreann you weren’t!” Steve retreats and picks up the tablet with a huff, then looks at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him. He’s actually a nice guy when he’s not being stupid.”
“Stupid?” Bucky protests beside you.
“I wouldn’t have talked to him even if he’d tried,” you admit, finally looking up, “but it wouldn’t have hurt if he had.”
Steve nods, satisfied with your response. He leaves you a minute later when his phone rings. The wide smile on his face is enough to tell you who’s on the other end, but then he says her name as he walks away, the phone already held to his ear.
“So what’s with this place?” you ask. The quick change in subject is purposeful, and you hope that Bucky will take the bait.
Thankfully, he does. Bucky glances around before finishing off the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle closer to Steve’s side of the bar.
“Well, Steve wanted a place that we—and other people like us—could spend time without feeling like there was always a fight about to happen. We didn’t have that growing up, you know? And now that he’s in charge, he can do what he wants with his money. Everything’s filed properly, he doesn’t advertise, and all employees are paid above the table. If other people show up, then sure, they’re welcomed in, but they’re also fully vetted once Steve gets their IDs. Weapons aren’t allowed, and there’s no shop talk of any kind.”
“So it’s your little hideaway,” you say, propping your head up with one hand. The heaviness of the potatoes combined with the alcohol is starting to make you sleepy, and the emotional exhaustion from the night has started to weigh heavy on you, too.
He smiles a little. “Something like that.”
Bucky stands and rolls his sleeves back down, then pulls on his glove. He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.
“Come on, doll. We should head home,” he says.
The warm feeling you’d felt when Bucky had called you his girl comes back, and you smile a little when he holds open his suit jacket for you. A little sheepish at the gesture, you slide off your seat and let him help you into the sleeves, then take Bucky’s hand when he offers it.
“Bye Steve!” you call, waving with your free hand.
Steve looks up from the other end of the bar, where he’s wiping down a counter with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He lets go of the rag to wave back.
Silently, Bucky leads you out to the front, where the valet already has his car pulled up. You’re not sure how they knew to have it ready, but you don’t dwell on it. Stranger things have happened in your world. Bucky tips the valets with another wad of cash before opening the passenger door and helping you in.
You fall asleep on the drive home. You don’t mean to, but Bucky turns on the radio a few minutes into the drive, and he lets the first station that comes on continue to play. The music is soft, and he drives so smoothly that it lulls you to sleep before you’re even fully out of the city.
When you wake, it’s because Bucky’s stubbed his toe on something, jostling you in his arms. He’s muttering curses under his breath and hobbling down the hallway, and though the jerking motion and his tightening grip isn’t the most comfortable for you at the moment, you keep your eyes closed and force yourself to keep your smile at bay. Bucky is a much sweeter guy than you’d first thought him to be, and it seems like he’s trying now to make up for lost time. You’d misjudged him at first; just like you, he has his own ways of dealing with the life forced on him by his parents, but he really is a gentleman underneath it all.
He carries you to your bedroom and carefully lays you on top of the covers. Then, as gently as possible, you feel him lift your foot and pry off the uncomfortable shoes Marta had picked out for you. Bucky stays totally silent as he takes the shoes off and sets them on the floor at the end of the bed. He pulls a thin blanket over you, one that you’re sure is just for decoration when the bed is made, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. You have to force yourself not to smile when he whispers,
“Goodnight, sleep tight.”
The door clicks shut as he closes it slowly, and you peek open an eye after a few seconds have passed. Your room is dark and empty. Silently, you smile to yourself and crawl under the covers, your eyes heavy. It’s been a long, exhausting evening, and you’re happy to be in bed. You fall asleep to the sound of spring rain on the estate windows and with Bucky’s jacket still wrapped around you.
Over the next few weeks, Bucky slowly enters your life in both big and small ways. He smiles at you over meals in the dining room and late night snacks in the kitchen. He drives you to the city to visit Steve, Peggy, and his other friends, and when he finds out that his father still has your license, Bucky argues with him for over an hour to get it back. Marta delivers your license to your room the very next day, along with a handwritten note that the dark blue Mercedes in the garage is there for your use. Sometimes, you wake up to a bouquet of flowers with another handwritten note. Sometimes it’s a text, and sometimes it’s a gift. Bucky develops a habit of purchasing anything you mention enjoying or even vaguely liking, and you eventually have to tell him to stop because he’s bought you so much that there’s nothing left to buy for yourself.
Bucky turns out to be a closer friend than anyone you’ve ever known. He’s kind, and funny, and intelligent, and he remembers all the little things about you that nobody else does. When you’re sick or feeling lonely, he’s attentive and his presence alone reminds you of all the good things in the world. He makes your days brighter, even the worst ones. You find yourself falling in love with him, much to your surprise. You admit this to him one day. He kisses you then, and he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first trip you’d taken to Steve’s bar. 
Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas roll around. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Easter come and go. The Barnes’ grand celebrations for every holiday blur together as the months fly by, until eventually, it’s June and you’re standing in your room, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror.
The wedding dress you’d picked out a few days after Christmas is just as beautiful as you remember it being. It fits you perfectly, thanks to the impeccable work of several tailors employed by Winnifred, and your hair and makeup are flawless as well. There’s no possible way you could’ve imagined how beautiful you look and feel on your wedding day. 
Through the open window, you can hear a string quartet playing outside in the rose garden, where the ceremony is set up. Steve has already come by once to check on you at Bucky’s request, but both men are back downstairs. Bucky’s no doubt at the front of the garden with the priest—the one that you now know for certain is on your father’s payroll—and Steve is waiting with the rest of the wedding party. The only people remaining in your room are Marta, your mother, and Peggy. 
You’ve grown to love Peggy more than any of your childhood friends. She didn’t grow up in the same world as you. She didn’t even grow up in the same country, and you love her all the more for it. She’s rational, cool-headed, and kind, though she’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right. On top of all that, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It’s easy to see why Steve fell for her during his time in the military.
The quartet finishes the song and moves onto a new one, one that you recognize after only two notes. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes, gripping your bouquet tightly. It’s the song you’d been listening to the morning you’d found out about your engagement. You’d discovered it the night before, and you’d had it on repeat before going to sleep that night, then again that morning as you’d gotten ready. You’d even listened to it in the car on the drive from your parents’ estate.
Who added this to the playlist? Is this some kind of sick joke to them?
The same feeling of dread you’d felt that morning comes back, making your mouth dry and your head spin. You try to take a slow, deep breath to calm your nerves and block out the song, but it doesn’t work.
“Y/N?” Peggy asks.
You inhale sharply at the sound of her voice so close to you. She’d been texting Steve from near the window only moments before. You hadn’t thought that anyone would realize your distress, and you’d hoped to be able to collect yourself before it was noticeable. You hadn’t even sensed her coming closer.
“Y/N, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you tell her, but your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers. You try to take another slow breath.
“What’s going on?” Marta asks. Her hand lands on your arm and you pull away, closing in yourself and pulling the bouquet tight against you.
Your mother’s scolding makes you feel like you’re a little kid again. “Careful, Y/N! You don’t want to ruin those flowers. We don’t have time to make another bouquet for you. George is already hounding your father about how soon after the ceremony you’ll be signing the certificate.”
Anger wells up in you at her thoughtless comment, and you open your eyes. She’s standing behind you in the main part of the bedroom, near the foot of your bed. Any guilt you might’ve felt over ruining the flowers is gone now, and you turn and chuck the bouquet at the carpet by her feet. It bounces once, then lays motionless in a heap of smashed petals and ribbons.
“Enough, Mother!” you shout.
Marta rushes to close the window so the guests in the garden won’t hear your outburst.
Your mother gapes at you, somewhat surprised, but she doesn’t budge. “Y/N, dear. What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” you yell, stepping closer. Your dress swishes as you walk, and you normally enjoy the sound, but you’re too furious to care how pleasing it is. “What are you doing? I am your only daughter! You should be treating me like a princess and worrying about how I’m feeling and what I need, but instead you’re too busy thinking about the damn flowers! I’m sick of you thinking of me like I’m an object you can sell, steal, and trade away whenever it’s most convenient! You and Dad are so obsessed with the timeline you’ve created for yourselves that you don’t even notice how much this has affected me! You didn’t even ask if this is what I wanted!”
She scoffs at you, and any trace of motherly care and concern has disappeared from her expression. Your mother is showing her true face—the mafia wife that has almost as much blood on her own hands as her husband does, if not more.
“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she asks. She picks up her clutch from the end of your bed and steps closer until you're standing eye to eye. Her voice is patronizing and infuriating, and she continues, “It’s your wedding day, dearest, and you can’t back out now. We’ve made sure of it. Even James has agreed to the contract.” 
Your anger wavers. “Contract?”
“Yes, the contract,” she repeats, smirking. Her cards are all on the table now, and she’s got a winning hand. You both know it.
There’s a malicious glint in her eye as she says, “It’s already in effect. It has been since we agreed on the marriage.”
“What contract? What are you talking about?” There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like your heart has decided to drop into your stomach, then down to your feet and through the floor. Bucky hadn’t said anything to you about a contract, and you trusted him, but you certainly didn’t trust your parents anymore, nor did you trust George and Winnifred Barnes.
Your mother smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that makes you want to puke. “That’s a conversation for another time. After all, it doesn’t even matter to you until James gets you pregnant.”
The alarm on your phone rings and you close your eyes, your hands trembling. You’d set that alarm to remind you when it was time to leave for the ceremony. Right on cue, the wedding planner knocks on the door to your bedroom.
“Y/N?” she calls, knocking again. “Are you ready?”
Slowly, you squat down and pick up the bouquet. It’s smashed on one side and the petals have fallen off of various flowers, but it’s mostly intact. It shakes as your hands tremble and tears well up in your eyes.
Marta appears in front of you, having pushed your mother out of the way, and over the ringing in your ears, you hear Peggy talking to the wedding planner. Somehow, you make it out to the ground floor of the estate, to the double doors that lead out to the rose garden. You’re dazed by your mother’s strange revelation. The sound of the alarm is still ringing in your ears. Peggy says something to you, but you can only stare straight ahead. 
Your father is next to you then, as Peggy disappears through the doors and joins the rest of the wedding party. You see her glancing back at you, and whispering to the rest of the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Most of them are Bucky’s friends who have now become your own, and all of them look worried. 
“Let’s go, princess,” your father says, and he pulls you forward by the arm.
Numbly, you follow his lead. Not even Bucky’s initially delighted expression shakes you out of your trance, but the way he rubs his thumb over your hands at the end of the aisle pulls you out of it just enough for you to lift your head and look around. You don’t remember walking to him, nor do you remember handing off your bouquet to Peggy, just like you’d practiced last night at the rehearsal.
“Y/N? Darling?” Bucky asks. He crouches and tilts his head slightly to try to catch your eyes. “You okay?”
“I—” Your mouth is still dry and you swallow, your eyes flitting from one place in the garden to another with no rhyme or reason. The world feels like it’s spinning and you clutch Bucky’s hands, unsure of what to do.
“Someone get her a chair,” Bucky orders, raising his voice enough that you flinch. He immediately starts murmuring reassurances to you, and he pulls you into his arms until he can lower you into a seat.
Someone fans you and a cool glass is pressed to your lips. You drink obediently, closing your eyes as the water helps the sandy feeling in your mouth abate just a little. When the water is gone, the glass is pulled away. 
“Y/N, can you hear me?” Bucky asks. 
Slowly, carefully, you nod your head. He sighs in relief and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling down in front of you. His shoulders are tense and his forehead is creased with worry. You’ve never seen him this stressed over anything and it makes you want to cry.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, heat flaming in your cheeks. You feel horrible. Bucky has been looking forward to the ceremony—he’d told you last night at the rehearsal dinner.
“It’s okay,” he quickly replies. He reaches forward and takes your hands, and you glance away from him to peek at the guests, your parents included, who are still watching you from their seats.
“Are you ready for this, or do you need a break?” 
You look back at Bucky. “A break?”
“She’s fine,” your mother says, and you look over at her from your seat. She’s standing in the front row, her eyes fixated on the priest behind you. “They’re fine, Father. Y/N’s been a bit nervous all morning. Wedding day jitters, you know.”
“I—” You frown at her, still clutching Bucky’s hands. “That’s not what it is.” You look down at him and shake your head. “I’m not nervous to marry you.”
“I’m not nervous either,” he says with a small smile. 
“Then shall we continue?” the priest asks.
You turn to shake your head at him. “No. I’m sorry, Father. I need to talk to Bucky—James—in private for just a minute. Is that alright?”
He smiles gently and nods. “Of course.”
There are more agitated murmurs from the crowd, but you ignore them as Peggy, Steve, and Bucky help you up and back down the aisle. When your mother moves to follow you, she’s blocked by Sam and Clint, another one of Bucky’s friends. She calls after you once, but you ignore her as Peggy helps you onto a bench inside, then leaves, closing the double doors behind herself. She’s handed back your bouquet, and you clutch it with both hands like it’s an anchor in the storm.
“Is everything okay?” Bucky asks. He stands near the door, and you can tell from the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s stressed. His prosthetic always bothers him more when he’s agitated, and you suddenly feel even worse about stopping the ceremony.
“Yes,” you say, but then you shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. Obviously, it’s not, or I wouldn’t have stopped everything. I’m sorry, Bucky, but I have to ask you something.”
“Okay…” There’s a wariness in his eyes, one that you loathe yourself for. You put it there, and you wish with all your might that your mother hadn’t told you what she did. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to do this.
“Did you sign a contract? With our parents?”
He frowns and his whole body grows very still. “A contract?”
You nod. “Yes.” With your hands still fisted tightly around the bouquet, you inhale deeply and add, “A contract about getting me pregnant.”
“What?” Bucky’s furious response is immediate. He shakes his head, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be making this up. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”
“Did you sign a contract agreeing to marry me, and agreeing that my parents get something after you get me pregnant?” The words make you sick to your stomach. You haven’t eaten anything all day, which doesn’t help, but the thought of Bucky agreeing to something so vile… It’s enough to make anyone nauseous.
He’s shaking his head at you again. “Why the hell would I sign anything like that? Do you really think I would do that?”
You shrug a little and look down at the bouquet. “My mother…”
“Darling…” Bucky sighs and comes closer, and he kneels down in front of you again, just like he had outside. All the fight and anger has left his voice. “I would never do anything like that. Not in a million years, and especially not to you. I love you.”
“She said you signed it before they’d even told me we were engaged,” you said, quiet now that he’s so close. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, to see what his face might be telling you that his words aren’t.
“Can you look at me? Please?”
Reluctantly, you lift your eyes from the flowers in your lap to meet Bucky’s eyes. They’re just as blue as the ribbons wrapped around the flower stems, a choice you’d specifically made without the wedding planner’s guidance. You’d wanted him to be your “something blue”, even if it felt a little cheesy.
“Do you want to marry me?” Bucky asks.
You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Yes.”
“Do you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with that contract? That I didn’t know it existed?” he questions.
You nod again, tears forming in your eyes.
“And do you trust me to help you find a way to get rid of it, once all of this is over? Do you trust me to protect you?”
You nod for the third time, and Bucky takes both of your hands in his.
“Okay. Then let’s get married, and I swear to you that as soon as our honeymoon is over, the guys and I will start doing some digging.”
“What about me?” you ask, sniffling. You pull one of your hands away to dab at your eyes before the makeup can get too damaged by your tears.
“What about you?”
“Can I dig, too?”
Bucky chuckles and kisses your knuckles on the hand that he’s holding, and then he pulls himself up off the floor to sit beside you on the bench. He pulls you into a half-hug and you cling to him, sniffling and smiling as he rubs the your back and answers,
“You can do all the digging you want, doll. I’ll even hand you the shovel.”
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Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil. = It’s good to see you.
Mo bhean chéile = My wife
Íosa Críost = Jesus Christ
Thick = A stupid person
Ifreann = Hell
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Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.
I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.
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Forever: @aya-fay
Bucky Barnes: @lipstickandvibranium @valhalla-kristin @buckymcbuckbarnes
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tinyhrry · 8 months
Text

Angst
untitled (@avatar-anna)
Grief Pt 2 (@avatar-anna)
The Maid of Honour & The Best Man (@musicforastylesrestaurant)
Why Dont U Love Me? Pt 2 (@alltheloveflowerh)
The Boxer Pt 2 (@ever-since-kiwi)
I wish you were the one who told me (@meetevieinthehallway)
Commitment Pt 2 (@harry-writings)
Friends before fans (@finelinevogue)
Take my money (@gucciharrywritings)
Destiny (@freedomfireflies)
Thick and Thin (@theonewiththefanfics)
Reconcile (@talesofstyles)
High (@harryisalrightig)
Champagne Problems (@allyouneedisbuck)
Love you goodbye (@atharryshouse)
Canyon moon (@gucciwins)
She can see we're lonely down here (@violetsandfluff)
A small phone call (@twohearts-hs)
Trust (@shroombloomm)
Pull me in (@hunflowers)
Just called to say I love u (@avatar-anna)
Better Man (@avatar-anna)
In sickness and in health (@talesofstyles)
Failure (@avatar-anna)
to love someone (@ineffablywriting)
Second (@missmielyhoran)
you are the love of my life (@finelinevogue)
worst daddy ever (@whitemancumslut)
future gf (@avatar-anna)
rivals (@avatar-anna)
interesting (@goldsainz)
Fluff
birthday boy (@finelinevogue)
drive my car (@mulledcherrywine)
No guarantee (@allofurlove)
Girl Gone Live (@avatar-anna)
When in Rome (@finelinevogue)
Drama Queen (@sunflowerkiwis)
Wardrobe Malfunction (@watchmegetobsessed)
Drunk on a wedding (@harryyskiwii)
Favorite Holiday (@tsumtsumrry)
Puppy Love (@watchmegetobsessed)
Highschool Lovers (@haaarry)
Class Buddies (@ever-since-kiwi)
Waiting for you (@watchmegetobsessed)
Chubby Cheeks (@jarofstyles)
Bo Peep (@haarrrys)
Anything for his girls (@flwrsforu)
Shoot ur shot (@finelinevogue)
Wouldn't it be nice (@ill-be-your-honey-bri)
Where the world takes you (@havethetimeofyourstyles)
Princess Jasmin (@harrysmimi
New York streets & dreams (@sweet-creature101)
What dreams are made of (@flwrsforu)
Sick on tour (@musicforastylesrestaurant)
At the brits (@hes-writer)
Times you were at Wembley with harry (@harrysfolklore)
Lots of loving (@daaydreamy)
Finally Free (@be-with-me-so-happily)
Before the show (@avatar-anna)
Home (@musicforastylesrestaurant)
Childhood Friends (@harryyskiwii)
In your rainbow paradise (@anabsolutetrainwreck)
Instagram Live (@astranva)
Good job (@daaydreamy)
Love at the coffee shop (@gucciwins)
Interesting enough? (@finelinevogue)
Brother's best friend (@watchmegetobsessed)
We're really funny (@mosh-4)
asking for her hand (@ameliaskdr)
GQ couples quiz (@glitteredrry)
worth the risk (@gucciwins)
Smut
No more games (@watchmegetobsessed)
Better now (@bopbopstyles)
Series
Pregnancy Series (@avatar-anna)
Our Story (@daisyblog)
Songs of hers (@chaoticloving)
Kiss me in the dark (@finelinevogue)
Young dad!harry (@avatar-anna)
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unreliablesnake · 11 months
Text
Pregnant (Vincent de Gramont x reader)
Summary: You find out you're pregnant, and this little piece of information soon reaches Vincent as well.
Note: Part of the Vincent takes a liking to you series. Find it here. / If you want to know when I post new stuff, follow @unreliablesnakefics and hit the get notifications button. I don't have a taglist.
Warnings: afab!reader, pregnancy
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It couldn't be. It must be the stress from the wedding, you kept telling yourself, although you stopped believing it hours ago when you went to the pharmacy to pick up a pregnancy test. With each passing second it was getting realier, the possibility that you were pregnant.
Marrying a man like Vincent was one thing. You could always get a divorce and live the rest of your life free of him. But giving birth to his child, his heir, was a completely different matter. It made you feel uneasy, and you didn't know what to do to calm down a bit.
“Is everything okay in there?” the employee of the pharmacy–who kindly let you use their bathroom–asked worriedly.
By now, as you were sitting on the cold tiles with two identical tests in front of you, you were already sobbing. You didn't want them to be positive. No, they couldn't be. That would be too much to handle right now.
“Yeah, I'm fine. Give me three more minutes, please,” you called out, trying your best to sound calm.
The time displayed on your phone seemed to have frozen some minutes ago. It couldn't take this long to get the results, you'd been sitting there for what felt like at least half an hour. But according to the clock it had only been three minutes, and by now you'd already been through a nervous breakdown.
It must be a new record.
Then the alarm went off, and you finally got yourself to take a look at the tests lying in front of you. They were positive. They were fucking positive, meaning you were pregnant with the child of a man you weren't even sure you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
Sure, sure, a few years of marriage sounded like fun, but the whole 'til death do us part thing wasn't something you wanted. Fun's fun, but who needs that in the long run? You sign the divorce papers maybe five or seven years from now and get on the first flight to New York.
Now your plans have begun to slowly slip away. You could never be able to leave your child behind, but you were also sure Vincent wouldn't let you take his only heir away from him. There would either be a nasty custody battle he would win with the army of lawyers he could afford, or you would be stuck here with him at least until the kid is old enough to go to college.
With a heavy sigh, you picked up the tests and tossed them into your purse, then looked in the mirror and took a few deep breaths. You were okay. Everything was okay. You couldn't let anyone see that you were upset, especially not the driver who was waiting for you outside.
If he noticed something was wrong with you, he would immediately report it to Vincent, and you hadn't figured out how to tell him the truth yet. You didn't even know how he would react, after all you couldn't just waltz in and start the conversation with it.
The drive home wasn't helping you. He knew. The damn driver knew something wasn't right, and you didn't miss the way he kept looking at you through the rearview mirror.
By the time you got home, you knew your dear lover would be there as well. And just as you expected, he was waiting for you outside, opening the door of the car to help you out of it. He didn't let go of your hand, and he didn't even say a word. He was just watching you with a quizzical look and waited for you to explain yourself.
“Mon amour?” he asked with an expectant look.
“Yes?” you replied, playing dumb.
Shaking his head, he swept a strand of stray hair behind your ear and said, “Something's wrong, I can tell.” But you remained silent, and the only reaction from you was a small smile as you looked up at him. “You do know you can be honest with me, right?”
Sure. Just not about this. “Of course I know. But there's nothing to worry about,” you lied. Oh, if you only knew. He would be livid, you were sure about that.
So you moved past him and walked inside, hoping he would finally stop bothering you with this. You had a lot to think about now, preferably somewhere away from. So you put your purse in the bedroom, then went to take a long, hot shower to clear your mind.
Things would be okay. First, you needed to see a doctor to find out how far along you were into the pregnancy, and to make sure the baby was okay. Everything else came after this. You had time to figure it out. You hadn't had any symptoms yet apart from being a little nauseous, so he sure wouldn't notice.
After you put on your super soft robe, you walked out of the bathroom as you dried your hair with a towel. But you came to an abrupt halt when you found Vincent sitting on the edge of the bed with the two positive tests next to him.
“Care to explain these?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
You were mad. You were really, really mad at him right now. “You seriously went through my purse?” you asked angrily.
He took a deep breath that he let out slowly, his green eyes never leaving your face. You couldn't read his expression, you had no idea if he was angry or happy or totally indifferent. It was hard to tell what was going through his mind and what he was about to say or do.
But after long minutes of deafening silence, he finally looked down at the tests and spoke up. “I was told you went to a pharmacy. I was worried about you so I sent someone to find out what you bought. When I heard you bought these, and that you used their bathroom to do the tests, I asked my man to check the trashcan in there. And what did he find? Nothing. I guessed you had them with you.”
Vincent signaled you to come closer, and you did as he wanted, taking enough steps in his direction to close the gap between you. He reached out to take your hands, pulling you between his legs. You didn't dare to speak up, instead you just watched him cautiously and waited for him to say or do something.
“You should have just told me, love. What did you think? That I would be mad at you?” he asked, his voice sickeningly sweet all of a sudden.
“I don't know,” you admitted.
Suddenly he let out a laugh, then pulled you down so your faces were on the same level. “We're getting married, and now we're starting our own family. Why wouldn't I be happy?” He placed a soft kiss on your lips while he waited for your reaction. “Are you happy too?”
What were you supposed to say to this? You were many things, but at the moment happy wasn't one of them. Confused, scared, uncertain. These words were better at describing your current feelings.
“Listen, I'm here by your side. I'll keep you safe. I'll keep our child safe. There's nothing to worry about,” he assured you before pulling you into his lap. “We're gonna be happy together, I promise you that.”
You rested your forehead against his, and he absentmindedly drew circles on the skin of your thigh. You believed him. You always knew he would protect his child, but he said you first. He really must have loved you.
Maybe him finding out so soon after you was for the best. You weren't sure you could have lied to him for weeks, making it look like everything was okay when it wasn't. But now that you knew he was happy, you knew things would get easier.
Maybe he would raise security whenever you went somewhere, but it would all show you that he truly cared about you. You could handle that. You could learn to handle that.
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scientia-rex · 5 months
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One of my best friends (from med school and we ended up in the same small intense residency so we’re like. Trauma bonded or whatever) went to her fancy New York friend’s fancy wedding and brought me back a candle from Dyptique because she knows how much I love fancy candles, and it is the woodsmoke one and it is so good. It smells like a crisp autumn day before you realize your parents are also human and flawed, and all you know is you’re there in the pumpkin patch to select a delightful round orange friend. Lighting it and smelling it makes me feel so known and loved. She knew I’d like that one, and she was right.
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absurdthirst · 5 months
Text
Dirty Secrets {Dave York x F!Reader}
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 4.8k
Warnings: Suspicions of infidelity, thoughts of murder (It's Dave 🤷🏼‍♀️), invasion of privacy, bondage, derogatory language, thigh slapping, plugs, double penetration, cum play, vaginal sex, anal fingering, mentions of fisting.
Comments: You're hiding something, possibly an affair. Sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night and changing your passwords. Your husband, Dave York, is going to get to the bottom of what is going on.
**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.
|| MasterList || Dave York MasterList ||
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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.
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Dave’s jaw clenches, nearly breaking from the force as the door creeps open slowly, the urge to speak, to let you know that he is awake and aware of you sneaking back into the bed is strong. This bitch….It’s not a very nice thing to think about you, the woman that is his wife, but it's justified. Instead, he stays still, keeping his breathing even as the covers shuffle and the slight jostle of the mattress indicates that you are climbing back into the bed. Thinking that he is still asleep and you are not bothering him. 
You’re cheating on him. It’s the natural conclusion that all of your latest changes in behaviors lead to and it sits in Dave’s craw like a festering wound. He’s never cheated on you. Not once. Not when pretty, fresh faced interns look at him like he’s a fucking God as he walks around the DIA hall, eager to get his coffee or do anything else he would want, including getting on their knees for him. Not when he’s out of town - fuck, out of the country - on business where you would never find out. 
His wedding ring has stayed on his finger and his cock has stayed zipped up in his pants. Looking wasn’t a crime, at least not in his opinion and Dave York likes to look. But he never once crossed a line into what would break your heart or his wedding vows. 
It’s galling, infuriating, that he would be faithful and attentive, as much as he can be when he has a high pressure job with frequent travel, two little girls who want daddy’s attention when he gets home, and a honey-do list that never ends and you would cheat on him. He had thought that the two of you were building a future, working as a team to have the life that the two of you talked about when you were dating. It seemed as if the stars were finally aligning. 
It had started small, something that he had originally overlooked. Your passcode on your phone had changed. Needing to get into the damn thing to look at the dance recital schedule you had forgotten to text him, he had frowned when the code you had for as long as you’ve had a smartphone hadn’t worked. He had almost asked you for the new one, thinking you had just changed it but something had told him to stay quiet. 
That was when he started watching you. Carefully observing the body language and your habits that were as well known to him as his own. You don’t live with someone without knowing them and their routines. Not unless you just don’t give shit.
You were on your phone a lot more. Biting your lip to smother your grin as you type away furiously. Phone tilted away from him as the two of you sat on the couch together. Not angled enough to be dramatically noticeable but enough that he couldn’t see what you were writing, or to whom. 
Then there was your laptop. Another changed password that he discovered this time when he deliberately went to log in. Making him scowl at the screen for a moment as he contemplates smashing the damn thing in a fit of anger. 
When you were on the computer, if he came home or entered the room without alerting you, you would practically slam the lid shut when you noticed him. Jumping guiltily and rushing away from the damning evidence of your infidelity to kiss him. 
He’s poured over the cell phone bill. Looking for a pattern of numbers that you have recently started dialing but there’s nothing glaringly obvious. It would take but a moment to crack  into your phone if he really wanted to and it’s coming to that now. 
You had slipped out of bed nearly an hour ago. One hour downstairs while you communicated with whoever you had met. Who the hell were you cheating on him with? Why were you cheating? What wasn’t he doing to fulfill your needs? No, he didn’t always bring you flowers or chocolates when he was coming home from trips, but he tried to make time for date nights, arranging for the next door neighbors daughter to watch the girls so he could take you out. 
He fucked you often. Even if it was a quickie in the shower before the girls got up and the chaos of the morning started. He would never have said that your sex life was lacking, even if it had slipped into the comfortable routine that time brings rather than the thrill of something new. He had assumed that was normal, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for you. 
You flip and flop for a moment, your sighs soft and Dave opens his mouth in the dark. Nearly confronting you and demanding to know what the fuck you are doing. He feels you freeze, obviously sensing him ‘stir’ since you thought he was asleep, but Dave just gives a small snuffle and adjusts his position before he falls silent again. Feeling you move again a few moments later after you feel like he would have fallen back into a deep circadian rhythm. 
“I love you.” The words are whispered in the dark, not meant for Dave to actually hear them but he wonders exactly who those words are for. 
****
He should feel guilty about lying to you. Telling you that he was going to be late coming home from work tonight, but he actually has no plans on going to work today. He’s used a rare sick day, often only taking them if the girls were sick. He would and could video conference from the home office if he needs to, instead of making you take off from work. That way it wasn’t unbalanced since you would have to care for them if he was out of town. 
Instead, he leaves like he normally does, guiding the car around the neighborhood and parking down the street where you wouldn’t notice him. Watching for when you and the girls leave for the day so he can go back to the house. 
Eyes narrowing as he watches you herd the two children - his children that you had birthed - into the car and climb in. The expensive SUV that you had insisted that you didn’t really need but Dave had wanted you to have. The safety rating was top notch and it had given him peace of mind. There are plenty of unfortunates in the world he lives in, the one that he had hoped you and the girls would never experience, and he hadn’t wanted his wife and children to be in anything but the best. 
It’s insulting, he’s decided. He knows you know what he does. It’s unspoken, but it’s there. You know about his time in the military, you met him right before that fucking building came down on him and the team. You helped patch him back together, figuratively and literally. Your beautiful smile and promises of more exciting activities once he had recovered had fueled him through hours of painful physical therapy. He had seen the flash of understanding when he announced he had been offered a position in the DIA. There is a reason you kiss him like it might be the last time every time he goes out of town. You know what he is. 
So it’s demeaning that you would believe that you were capable of fooling him. To think that you could outsmart someone who pulled people’s lives apart for a living. He had more experience lying that you could ever imagine but he had never thought he would be lying to you. 
Cameras and security systems are already disabled, not wanting to alert you to him coming back home as he pulls into the driveway. His teeth nearly grind to pieces as he shuts the door to his car and tries to look nonchalant as he walks up the walkway. As if he’s forgotten something rather than searching for the trigger to implode his marriage. 
  He might kill the man. Seriously. He might kill the man who has touched his wife when he learns who it is. He’s morally gray enough to not lose sleep over it and have a sense of pride at ridding the world of the man who had ruined his children’s life. Because while he would never touch you in anger, things between the two of you would be over. No amount of couple’s counseling would ever allow him to trust you again. 
Your laptop is sitting in the kitchen, obviously where you had left it last night. He stares at it for a good three minutes, brooding and blood hammering through his veins until he has to take a couple of slow, measured breaths to calm himself down. 
Once he sits down and opens the device, it takes less than five minutes to get into it. He wasn’t exactly setting a speed record but there was some hesitancy in his fingers as he poured through the possible passwords you might use. In the end, it is the girl’s birthday and it makes him huff in disbelief as the screen changes into your screensaver - a picture of you and him wrapped up on the couch and smiling. Dave ignores it and opens your browser to check the history. “What have you been up to, baby?” He sneers, eyes hard as he starts to dig through your computer. 
****
“Come on girls.” Surprised to find Dave’s car in the driveway, since he had said he would be home late, you pull into the driveway and park. Your plans change with him home now and that makes you huff slightly to yourself. It’s not that you were disappointed that he was home, you would never feel that way, but you had been looking forward to a couple of hours on your computer without interruption once the girls went to bed. It was hard to find time that wasn’t interrupted nowadays.
“Girls!” Dave comes out of the house, smiling widely as they tear off towards him, happily yelling ‘daddy!’ as only they can - at ear splitting volumes. You are slower, taking your time and gathering the backpacks along with your own bag out of the car before you close it up and hit the locks. 
He scoops them up, making them laugh and squeal when he kisses their cheeks and necks playfully. Juggling them in his arms in a routine that always makes them happy. 
“Well this is a surprise.” You offer, smiling at the scene. “We were expecting to see you in the morning, weren’t we girls?” 
It might be your imagination but Dave’s eyes flicker with something dark before he nods. “Plans changed.” He tells you, shrugging slightly as if it’s no big deal. “Now girls, Rebecca is going to watch you two tonight. You’re going to have a sleepover at her house.” 
Frowning in confusion, you watch as the girls cheer and hug him before throwing themselves from his arms and practically flying across the manicured lawn towards the neighbors house. You huff when they don’t even look back. “Bye!” you call out sarcastically at them only to receive halfhearted waves from the neighbors porch. They love sleepovers with Rebecca, apparently more than their mom. 
“Why is Reb-”
“Inside.” Your eyes widen slightly and your stomach clenches at the way the word is growled at you. Turning to find Dave already marching back up the steps to go into the open front door of your house. 
Slightly alarmed, you hurry after him only to have him quickly close the door and the click of the lock sounds louder than it is. Like the proverbial cell slamming shut and you find that your pulse has sped up. 
“Dave, what’s going on?” You demand, hanging up the girl’s bags and your purse before you move to take their water bottles into the sink. Feeling him trailing after you like a dark spector. It makes you worry, wondering what the hell has gone wrong that Dave needs to send the kids away and immediately lock the door. Turning, you find him watching you almost like he's trying to figure out what your secrets are. 
He doesn’t speak, making you squirm slightly and you feel your skin start to burn under the intensity of his gaze. It’s as if he’s…waiting. 
The thing is, you know what Dave does. You’ve never gotten into the specifics of what all his job entails, but there have been bruises, cuts, signs of a skirmish. You know your husband is completely capable of handling his shit. And yet, he’s never once raised a hand to you, or even raised his voice really. Not in anger. Dave is wound tight at times, but he doesn’t take his shit out on you or the girls, but you’ve seen the darkness that lurks around the edge of his eyes. The way they can go flat and emotionless, looking like a stranger for a moment before your Dave comes back to you. 
He’s waiting for you to speak, but you aren’t sure why. Making you shuffle slightly as you try to remember if you’ve forgotten anything. It’s not your anniversary but maybe he’s told you something was happening tonight that you are supposed to remember. But why wouldn’t he just tell you?
“Everything alright?” Of course you were going to break. Dave arches a brow, his intense look not changing except to take on a challenging edge. 
“You tell me.” Okaaaaay, this is slightly suspicious but then he keeps talking. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” 
Your stomach plummets and your heart starts to gallop in your chest. Your eyes flickering over to your laptop and Dave hums. “Mmmhmmm.” 
“Did you-”
“Did you think you could keep this from me?” He asks quietly, voice dropping down several octaves. Making your eyes widen at the fucking authority in his tone. “Answer me.” 
“I can explain…” Except, how do you explain this? How can you possibly tell your husband what you’ve been doing?
“Can you?” He purses his lips at you, folding his arms across his chest as he asks. Almost mocking you. “You can explain?”
“It- it’s just-” Your cheeks could fry an eye and you can’t hold his gaze, your eyes sliding away to look at the laptop again. “They’re just stories.”
****
“Daaaaave.” Your plea is low, practically whimpered and Dave chuckles as he watches you twist against the straps that have you tied to the bed. 
After he had wound you up, teased you with the fact that he had read everything that you have written, there had been a frantic urgency to the way that he had dragged you upstairs. An urgency that has been missing from your sex life. 
“Shut up.” The slap to your sensitive inside thigh stings and makes you moan, body on fire from anticipation and embarrassment over how wet you are from this. “You asked for this.” 
  You hadn’t asked for it, not out loud. Unable to voice the desires that swim around in your head and set fire to your cunt, you hadn’t been able to give voice to them to the man who had known your body better than anyone. So you had written them down. 
Expressing yourself through sexy stories, made up fantasies and encounters to work through the desires that you often masturbate to. Not because Dave is a bad lover, he’s always been good about making sure that you feel good in bed with him. It just….wasn’t everything you needed. 
Now he’s hovering over you, darkness clouding his eyes and that blank expression is focused on you for the first time. It makes your heart race again, this time in a very specific kind of way. The kind that makes your cunt ache and your thighs try to close to get some kind of friction on your clit. 
His body prevents that. Thighs spread wide as he keeps you splayed open and his cock bobbing enticingly with a heavy bead of precum pearling up at the tip. Not quite leaking down like the other smears of wetness but getting close and you swear that you’ve not seen him this hard in a long time. 
“Slut.” He chuckles darkly, “writing fucking filthy stories and thinking that I wouldn’t notice. You know what I do, what I am. You wanted to get caught. To have me read what you crave and not have to say it out loud. To pretend that you are innocent and good when you’re just a nasty whore.” 
Biting your lip, you take the verbal abuse that Dave is spitting at you, ashamed at how good it sounds coming from his raspy baritone. Just like you had always imagined it. Dave could, and would talk dirty in bed but he had never called you names and it’s not something you could ask for despite being able to talk to him about anything. 
“Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” Dave hums, fingers brushing over your clit again before he slaps your thigh again. Once more in the exact same spot makes you hiss. He wants welts to raise up on your skin, to give you the things that you have written about in your stories in exacting detail. 
Giving him an insight into what you wanted in the deepest, darkest parts of your soul. The things you wouldn’t say aloud despite the conversations about ‘spicing things up in the bedroom’. 
There is a moment where his eyes soften again, fingers stroking over your thigh as the heat from the three swats starts to set in. He hadn’t been gentle and he can feel the way that your skin prickles with goosebumps. 
There is a moment where he thinks you aren’t going to answer him, that you want your thigh slapped again but then you nod. Eyes heavy lidded and already lust blown as you pant. Your tits lift with every heaving breath and he’s barely touched you. 
“What am I going to do with you?” He asks, not wanting an answer from you really, it’s all rhetorical because he’s going to do what he wants. “Fist you?”
The way you squirm has him grinning, the skin of your lip between your teeth and you can’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh I read it all.” He hums mockingly, not mentioning that he had to jerk off because of your steamy words. He got turned on reading your dirty little stories. Whoever Jack Daniels or Marcus Pike was, they knew how to fucking having fun. “No need to be shy, I know you get off on the thought of me shoving my fist inside you, or having my cock inside you along with a toy.” 
He picks up the toy he had pulled out of your drawer, holding it up to show you what he could potentially do for you. It’s a plug, one that he’s never seen before and it intrigues him. You obviously have some toys that you use for yourself when he’s gone and right now, he’s going to use them on you. 
You tug on the restraints, feeling your heartbeat drumming under your skin every time you tug and meeting the resistance. The limited movement and the feeling of being helpless is one that you’ve always wanted and now you have it. 
You had shocked him, which was rare for a man like Dave. He has seen so much of the world at its worst and the woman he had imagined to be slightly innocent in some things was anything but. “I’m going to push this inside your tight little ass and then I’m going to fuck you.” He promises. “Later we are going to train that tight little cunt to take my fist in it. Aren’t we, baby? You’re going to be my little slut?”
“Dave-”
“Daaaaavvvve.” He pouts his lips, mocking you with a devilish glint in his eyes. “No? You want to see how many fingers I can get inside you now? Maybe I’ll fuck your ass while I’m working you open.” 
Your whimper makes his cock twitch. Watching you pull at the restraints is thrilling in a way that he had never tried to imagine with you. Separating the Dave York for work from the man who came home to his family had been deliberate and yet you want some of the man he had to be to survive. 
His fingers trail over your skin, watching as your breathing hitches and he grins before he leans down and presses his lips to yours softly. “Don’t worry, baby.” He coos, “I’m going to give you exactly what you need.” 
****
He takes his time. Showing you how methodical he can be as he works his fingers in and out of your grasping, leaking little hole. Every gasp you give when he brushes up against the smaller plug that is nestled inside of you makes him chuckle. Mocking you for being so sensitive, even while his fingers are curling up inside you. 
Three, three of his fingers are stretching you out and you don’t know how you will possibly take more. They are thicker than the two that he normally uses, pushed deep just to the edge of being uncomfortable. Making you squirm and bite your lip, watching his eyes as he stares at you. The slightly mocking light in his gaze urging you to take just a bit more. 
“Maybe your dildo in your ass, right baby?” Dave grunts as he starts to scissor his fingers, wanting you to be stretched out. His chest is heaving, watching you so wantonly beg for him. Wanting him to fulfill those dirty little fantasies that you had hidden from him. If you had just told him what you were thinking about, he could have done this sooner. Would have done this sooner. 
The plug vibrates. He had learned that when he had slid it inside you and felt the little switch underneath the silicone that covers the flared base. Now buzzing away inside you and making you whimper his name while his fingers push as deep as they can go. The wrecked moans pouring out of your throat makes him want to fuck it. Imagining how good it would feel around his cock. You’ve blown him plenty of times, but this time it would be like you had written about. He wouldn’t let you control the pace or how deep you take him. He would. 
“Baby please.” Your plea is breathless, gasped out as you tug on the restraints again. Pouting at him like he is torturing you. Dave grunts, leaning down and kissing your jaw, biting your chin. 
“I’ve got you, you can take it. I know you can, baby. Such a good slut for me.” He praises, feeling your soaked walls contract around his fingers like a vice. “You just need to cum for me so I can fuck you. Replace these fingers with my cock.” 
A fourth finger tries to push inside. Making you wince and whine while your hips jerk back from his touch for the first time since this little game started. Dave’s eyes immediately find your face, watching as he pulls that finger back, making sure that you are comfortable. Your safe word in his mind if you should need to say it, but he wants to make this good. This isn’t about him controlling you as much as you putting your pleasure in his hands. 
Once your body relaxes, you start to push down again, your hands flexing around the straps and itching to touch him. To urge him for more, begging him with your eyes to let you cum as the vibrations of the plug and the curling of his fingers draw you close every time he rolls his wrist. 
“Fuck.” The noises you make are vastly different from the normal soft moans and gentle cries that you give when your husband is touching you. Some of that is due to not having the kids in the house, not worrying about little ears hearing. The majority of it is from the pure pleasure that is rolling through your body and making you ache. 
You are getting what you’ve always wanted, what you’ve secretly needed. Too scared to say it out loud for fear of being rejected, or mocked. Or worse, your husband thinking there was something wrong with you. You had never imagined thinking that he would be into it.
“Come on baby.” He urges you, eyes dark and blown wide as he watches you. “Cum for me. Want that pussy creamy when I fuck you full of me. Stretched out on a dildo and my dick and squealing.” 
That pushes you over the edge, arching up into his touch and obeying his command with ease that just seems to shake you apart at the seams. “Dave!” Your scream catches and breaks in your throat, cascading through you and making you shudder. 
“That’s it, oh fuck sweetheart, you look so good cumming.” He praises you, nearly cumming himself as he watches you. Enjoying the way your chest rises and falls, your body shakes and your cunt clenches around his fingers. 
It’s exquisite when he pushes into you, the feeling of being so full is a sensation that you’ve never imagined you would get. Two toys just doesn’t do it. It doesn’t feel like Dave. Nothing could feel as good as he does, the heat, the throbbing. Making you shiver and moan like the little slut he keeps claiming you are. You are a slut, his slut. You will be anything that he wants you to be as long as he keeps touching you like this. Giving you what you have craved. “I’m- it’s so much.” You whimper, eyes rolling back in your head. “So full, fuck Dave I’m so full.” 
His chuckle rolls over you like a dark wave, filling your ears and senses with the pleasure that he is pulling from this. He’s enjoying himself, the smug smirk on his face when you finally open your eyes to find him looking down at you. 
“Yes you are.” You are stretched out, the little plug in your ass swapped for a smaller dildo so you aren’t pushed too far, but he could imagine a bigger toy inside you. Pressing against him through the thin skin. “You are going to take everything I give you, baby. You’re gonna take it and you’re gonna love it.” 
You will, you trust Dave. He’s your husband, he’s got your best interests in mind and so far he’s been amazing. Completely in control and still giving you what you need. His thrusts start to speed up now that you are slightly relaxed. Groaning as he starts a rhythm that takes your breath and leaves you unable to do anything more than to watch his jaw clench and flex as he fucks you. 
Grunting every time he buries himself deep and gasping when he pulls out of your grasping cunt. It feels amazing, every nerve alight with pleasure and you feel like your nipples are hard as diamonds as the scrape against his chest. Heightening the sensations and making it even better as he stuffs you full with the tilt of his hips pushes the toy deeper inside you. 
“Dave, oh fuck, Dave.” You moan, unable to do anything but take it since you are still restrained. “Please, baby. Please.” 
“Shit.” He hisses as he starts to rock his hips faster, chasing his high and pushing you towards to yours. “You dirty fucking girl, you love this.” He grunts. “If you - fuck - if you weren’t my wife I’d get another guy to fuck you with me.” He bares his teeth. “No one else touches you. You’re mine.” 
“Yours.” You pant, nodding as he continues to wreck you. “I’m yours baby, only yours.” 
He growls, pleased with your answer. “I’ll give you what you need, I’ll take care of my little slut.” He taunts. 
He will, he is. It’s all you can think before your entire body seizes up and you cry out hoarsely. Stars bursting and your entire world exploding on an atomic level and your vision whites out. 
Dave groans your name, pushing deep two more times before he is cumming. Filling you with hot spurts of his seed as he pants out your name again and relaxes against your body. Breathless as he tries to catch his breath so he can take care of you. You had kept secrets from him, secrets that he had thought were going to change your marriage. And they have - for the better. He has been very pleased to learn your dirty secrets. 
322 notes · View notes
creedslove · 18 days
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when i tell you i'm going feral over javi having breeding/praise kink, i mean it.
this man can go from a total slut to our sweet domestic husband who will bring you flowers everyday and ask for help with tying his tie.
every time he appears on my screen i'm literally screaming into the pillow and kicking my legs. because honestly? that man could fuckin step on me and i'd say thank you.
but having his last name? having his children and be their mother??
i live for that dream 😭✋
hope your day was better than mine's and you feel okay. you're my comfort person and if it weren't for your blog i would never found out about javi or dave york, thank you so much <3
Javier Peña x f!reader
A/N: I love you my beautiful bestie, you are my comfort person and I love you and sorry for taking so long 😘💘 I hope you're doing alright love 😘
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• alrighty bestie, Javi is the definition of praise kink; that man will praise you at any given opportunity and he will enjoy everything single minute of it, because he lives for complimenting you as whole: your looks, your bodies, your laughter, your intelligence and of course, let's never forget about how he compliments your nails 🗣️
• he will always tell you you look pretty or mention you are wearing a beautiful color, he's gonna notice when you get a haircut, if you change your perfume and your lipstick usual colors (but let's cut him some slack here, the first thing he thinks of is that new color on your lips while you have his cock in your mouth hehe)
• and of course during sex Javier Peña is a fucking praiser™
• I mean it, he's gonna mix that with that filthy mouth of his, telling you the most explicit sinful things, at the same time he can be very sweet about you, always working on boosting your self confidence even if he doesn't really realize that
• and while doing so, of course he's gonna speak spanish too, knowing it drives you crazy
"just like that, mi amor, take all of it, all my cock in your beautiful mouth, tus labios tan bonitos..."
" you have such a delicious tight cunt, cariño, I love how you gush for me..."
"tu culo me vuelve loco, amor... Let my cock inside of it, I'll promise I'll go nice and slow"
• 🫢
• but he also likes receiving the praise; Javi suffers a lot from stress and those cruel thoughts about not being good enough or not doing a decent job, when it's time to lose himself into you and relax, he appreciates the way you remind him he's just as great
"you're amazing Javi, I'm proud of you, mi amor"
"your cock is so delicious, hermoso... Dejame cuidarte..."
• it will just melt your seemingly grumpy DIA boyfriend and he's gonna be all soft all for yourself
• also, I don't take any contrary opinions on this: Javier Peña is a family man and he just (wants) and needs a woman to make an honest man out of him; the moment he falls in love for real, he falls hard and there's no turning back, that man will love you for life
• and he's gonna change his mind about being a bachelor, he's gonna be a husband, and a great one at that matter, he's just gonna love being a husband, the fact he has a wife and that he won't have any other lonely nights, but instead, someone waiting for him at the end of the day, as he goes to his home instead of going just to a house
• he would such a proud husband, excited about wearing a wedding ring and such, everything in order to show how happy he is with marriage
• he's also the kind of husband to bring you flowers, chocolates, body lotions and any other small gifts here and there for no specific reason other than making you happy
• and not only that, he would always remember important dates, such as engagement and wedding anniversaries
• and of course, while being a loving husband, he would want to take the next step which consists of having a baby with you; it would probably start after seeing how beautiful you look with Murphy's kid in your arms, and just the general thought of having a whole family of his, would be enough to spark the idea
• and then the fun part begins: trying for a baby, which consists of you jumping on him at any opportunity
• and that man would finish inside of you every single time, hoping that time will be the charm and the baby Peña won't take very long ❤️
____
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carmens-a-bear · 9 months
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the wedding chronicles - the announcement
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A/N: thank you all for your love on the new york diaries! this is another part of that same universe, but focusing on their wedding <3 hope you enjoy! feel free to drop by and talk about our beloved chef, always down to chat! I take o warnings: fluff. alluding to smut but no smut. language. 1.7k words.
The dining room of the Bear erupted when Carmy and his new fiance walked through the doors. 
“Let’s go, Jeff!” Tina cheered, running up to him and pulling him into the biggest hug. 
“Okay okay, let’s see the ring, it’ll be the final verdict on how down he is for this girl,” Richie said, holding his hands up and walking towards the soon-to-be-Mrs. Berzatto. 
She held her hand up, the diamond gleaming on the freshly cleaned rose-gold band. The girls erupted in squeals, Carmy shaking his head, a small smile on his lips as Marcus came up next to him and clapped him on the back. 
“Congrats, Chef,” Marcus said, a smile a mile wide across his face. 
“Thanks,” Carmy said, eyeing his fiance, who gushed over her ring with Tina, Sugar and Sydney. 
“See, you were all nervous for nothin’,”' Sweeps said, elbowing Carmy in the ribs. 
“Woah- I mean like, damn Carmy, that thing’s massive,” Sydney said, an eyebrow raised, holding his fiance’s hand in hers, inspecting the diamond. 
His cheeks flushed, hands dug into his jean pockets. “She deserves it,” he said, throwing his fiance a loving, soft smile. 
“Okay so like I get to be in the wedding right? I’m like your best friend, man!” Fak said. 
“But I get best man, right? I’ll make the best fucking speech,” Richie said, chuckling. 
“Now I get to really call her Mrs. Jeff!” Tina laughed, pulling her in for a hug. 
“Okay so like, when’re you thinking, Carm?” Sugar asked, eyes wide, hands on her very pregnant belly. 
“Uh,” Carmy sighed, licking his lips and looking over at his girl. “Six months?” 
Sugar’s eyes widened further, leaning forwards slightly. “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “Carm, get a grip, you can’t plan a wedding in six months!” 
“Yeah, Cuz, I mean really, what’s the rush?” Richie deadpanned over to her. “Wait, are you pregnant?” 
“Oh shit!” Fak screeched. 
“Wait-what? No-no, Richie, she’s not pregnant!” Carmy said, everyone talking over each other in speculation. Carmy’s voice got louder. “Okay, just to be clear, she is not pregnant!” he said. “N-not that it’d be a bad thing,” he said, blushing as he looked at his love, who was eyeing him adoringly. 
“Yeah, guys, she’s not pregnant, they’re just deeply in love!” Fak said. 
“Thank you, Fak,” Carmy’s fiance said, a giggle in her voice. 
“Baby,” Carmy motioned for her to come near him, needing to touch her, feel her, have her right against his side. She obliged, reaching for his hand. Their fingers tangled. 
“We’re gonna start planning like-today,” she told everyone. “We’re having the wedding here in Chicago, probably a little outside of the city? It’ll be winter and yes, Carm is gonna wear a suit,” she smiled. “You all are invited, of course, and we’re outsourcing the catering so we can all just enjoy the day,” she said. 
“We love you!” Fak said. 
“Ah, fuck, does that mean we gotta deal with her dad, again?” Tina asked. 
“Tina, that was one time, there will be no fires this time, everything is gonna go perfectly,” Carmy assured her. I mean it was only one time. They smiled, chuckling to themselves at the memory of that terrible night. “Alright, everybody, let’s get ready for dinner, yeah?” 
They all grumbled a ‘yes, Chef,’ before returning to the kitchen. 
Carmy and his fiance made their way through the kitchen, to the office. He pushed the door closed behind them, her hands on him immediately as he clicked the lock in place. “I love you, Carmen Berzatto,” she breathed, sinking to her knees in front of him. 
A half hour later, Carmy collapsed onto the couch next to her, chest heaving. “Fuck,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around her. 
“Sydney was quiet,” she said, tracing the outline of his tattoos on his arms. 
“Yeah she uh– she’s nervous I’ll get distracted so,” he said, pressing a kiss to her neck. “You are a bit of a distraction,” he smirked into her neck, nibbling on the tender skin. 
“Carm,” she giggled. 
“I know, I know, I don’t make any efforts to deny you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her tighter. “How could I though, really?” he asked. “Lookin’ the way you do all the time.” 
She giggled. “I could say that about you, too, Chef,” she said, turning around to face him, her legs threading through his. “You gonna talk to her?” 
He nodded, eyeing her lips. “Yeah, I will, after close. It’s the two of us tonight,” he said, pressing a kiss to her lips. 
“Cuz, put your pants back on, thirty minutes to open!” Richie called from the other side of the office door. 
Carmy grunted, sitting up, running a hand over his face. She sat up, rubbing her hand over his back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Go do what you do best, Chef,” she smiled as he looked over his shoulder at her. 
“I just kinda-wanna stay in this happy bubble we’ve got, though,” he told her, leaning back against the leather of the couch. 
“You’re happy in there,” she said, nodding towards the direction of the kitchen. 
“No-no,” he shook his head. “I’m happy when I’m with you. I’m distracted from all the fucking noise in my head when I’m out there,” he corrected. “A-and when I’m kissing you,” he smiled softly, leaning in to kiss her. 
“You’re pretty romantic, you know, Berzatto?” she asked, rubbing her nose against his. 
Another knock from the other side of the door. “Twenty five until open, Chef!” This time it was Sydney. “I really don’t wanna have to pick this lock!” 
“Go on, Chef, I’ll be waiting for you at home,” she smiled at him as he reached for his Chef whites that were hung up on the back of the door, neatly ironed and starched by her last night and carefully delivered after close last night, along with an ice cream sundae for the two of them to split, and one for Sydney. 
She pulled her dress back over her head, shoving her lacey bra into her purse, Carmy biting his lip seeing her peaked nipples under the thin fabric of her dress. “You’re gonna-gonna drive home like that?” he asked, buttoning his Chef’s coat.
“Yeah?” she challenged, sliding her perfectly pedicured feet into her sandals. 
“You do things to me, you know that?” he asked, rolling the sleeves of his jacket up slightly, revealing his veiny and strong forearms. 
“Right back atcha, Chef,” she said, walking over to him and kissing him, smoothing his hair down. “See you tonight,” she smiled. 
A lovestruck look on his face, he nodded, his hands on her hips. “Yeah, yeah see you tonight, baby. I’ll try not to be too late, but if you’re tired, don’t wait up, okay?” he said tenderly to her, a slight note of dominance in his voice. 
“Okay I won’t,” she said, pressing a kiss to his lips. 
“Cuz, twenty minutes, what the fuck are you doing in there?” Richie asked from the other side of the door. 
She rolled her eyes before flinging the door wide open. “Chill, Richie,” she said, walking past him. 
“Bye, baby!” Carmy called after her. 
“Bye, lovey,” she said over her shoulder, throwing him one last smile before she disappeared into the kitchen. 
Richie’s eyebrows raised. “Lovey, huh?” 
“Shut up, Richie,” Carmy grumbled, brushing past him and into the kitchen, taking his place next to Sydney on the line. 
“Won’t get distracted, huh?” Sydney asked, an irritated look on her face. 
“Can we not do this now, please, Chef?” he asked, unsheathing his knife from its case, moving to score a piece of beef for the second wave of dinner rush that would inevitably hit around seven thirty.
“Yeah, sure, that’s what you’ve said the last three times I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but it’s fine, yeah we can do this later, when you’re more available to talk, which will probably be like never, given your track record of never wanting to talk about anything, and when you have time to, you run off, so yeah, later is cool,” Sydney said before walking towards the walk-in. 
That night, after everyone had gone except Sydney, he decided he’d try again. “Okay, can we talk?” he asked, wiping the counters with sanitizer. 
She sighed, shoulders sagging. “I just need you to be focused,” she started. “You’re like-all over the place. And we’re supposed to be working on the fall menu, which by the way is supposed to be debuting in eight weeks, but every time I try and arrange a time, you always have something going on with her, and like I get it, dude, you’re madly in love, but, if this isn’t your first priority I need to know because-” 
“Syd,” he cut her off. She took a deep breath. “This place still means everything to me. But it’s not-not at the top anymore, you know? Like-like I still have this insane drive to make this place everything we want it to be, and I will, I swear, but, for the first time, ever, I have something outside of a kitchen that makes me wanna live, that makes me feel alive, and so,” he furrowed his brow, raising a hand to rub on his forehead, feeling a headache forming. “So, I uh, I’m sorry that I’ve been absent minded lately I just uh-I’m really excited.” 
Guilt washed over Sydney. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry, I never thought about it that way.” 
“It’s okay,” he said softly before returning to sanitizing the workstations. 
“Some rock you put on her finger, though, Chef,” she said. “How many carats?” she asked, a wide smile on her face. 
Carmy blushed. “Enough,” he chuckled. “I had some New York money put away,” he explained, emptying the bucket of sanitizer. 
“Oh, yeah, from when you were making the big bucks,” Sydney said in jest. “Before you started freeloading off your girl,” she joked. 
“So we could keep our staff! And that was her idea,” he countered. 
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Sydney said. 
That night as they locked up, stepping into the alley, Sydney turned to him as she headed towards the L. “Chef,” she said as he turned towards the van. 
“Yeah?” 
“I really am happy for you. She-she makes you better,” Sydney said. 
“Thanks, Syd,” he said before heading to the van to drive home to that sweet, sweet angel who did make him better. 
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superhoeva · 2 months
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aww simone i love that you’re letting us know more about them! i want to know what richie thinks of them lol
richie and bunny grow tight, partially because of how much he reminds her of her brother back in new york.
like i said before, he's always giving carmen shit because, in richie's own words, "bunny is bunny and carmen is carmen. like what the fuck??" but secretly, he loves them together. cannot wait for the wedding.
he's even told bunny this. during her and carmen's apartment warming party. his tongue is pretty loose when he's sober, so it's not surprising that it slipped out that night.
they had snuck out to the small terrace balcony that convinced carmen to get the place. tipsily giggling over inside jokes and beers. it happened after a calm quiet.
"'m real happy for you guys, you know? you're killin' it at school, things are going good at the bear. got this great place, too. it's very... carmen, which yuck. ew. but it's also very you, which is awesome. just seriously, kid, you guys uh... you guys better invite me to the wedding. and i gotta be best man, okay? can't have some other schmuck in my place–oh shit. shit, you're cryin'. did i–did i say somethin' wrong? fuck. what did i do?"
wiping away a tear, bunny shakes her head with a wet laugh.
"nothing, richie. i just love you a whole lot."
now richie's tearing up, damnit. he tries to blink away the tears, shielding her from seeing them with an arm around her shoulders. he pulls her into a a hug, placing a kiss onto her head.
"...love you too, bunny. i'm serious about that best man shit, though. and if i can't be a best man, then i'll be male-maid of honor. won't wear a dress but i'll sure as hell make sure yours is bangin'."
the bunny and the bear au || bunny!reader and bear thoughts? <3
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koffiphotography · 10 months
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“blue stone”
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ginnsbaker · 9 months
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In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (9/22)
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Chapter summary: Several weeks later, an unfortunate situation drives Wanda to seek you out, only to be met with someone she least expects.
Chapter word count: 9k
Pairing: Wanda x Reader, Yelena x Reader (heavy in this chapter)
Author's note: And we start the second phase :)
Next chapter: Ten
AO3 | Masterlist 
Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta | @secretbackrooms | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez | @justyourwritter69 | @stanolsevans | @aliherreraaa | @diaryoflife
-
Nine
Five Weeks Later
“By the power invested in me, by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The minister reads from his pamphlet without as much as a glance to the enamored audience.
Wanda hadn’t known that she was going to attend a wedding near the start of autumn; if she had, she’d have been more than ready with an ensemble that’s appropriate for both the event and the cold season. To be fair, Pietro hadn’t known either. Just a week ago, Shannon surprised him with a date, a venue, and a business card of some designer that she commissioned to provide Pietro’s suit for the ceremony. Wanda might have considered it a trap if it hadn't been for the fact that Pietro was the one on his knees with a ring a year ago. Shannon had simply grown tired of his excuses and took matters into her own hands. Wanda still thinks it’s a colossal mistake but his history with women and commitments tracks. She just wants to know how many more of these she’ll have to attend for the rest of her life. 
“You may kiss the–”  
The minister is cut off by Pietro diving in for a sloppy kiss, and the small crowd of thirty people cheer the newly weds. Wanda claps for the sake of being a good attendant. She almost feels sorry for Shannon, but if she wanted this, she probably wanted it for the wrong reasons. 
And, well, karma is a bitch.
Having been sober for exactly thirty-two days, Wanda’s been nursing the same mocktail she’s had before the start of the program, and she finds it difficult to enjoy anything that’s watered-down. A longing to light a cigarette tugs at her, but the establishment's strict no-smoking policy extends even to the outdoor gardens. Pietro asked that she stays until the party’s over, and knowing how much her presence means to him, she reluctantly agreed. 
“Stop brooding at my wedding, for god’s sake.”
It’s Shannon, dressed in her second gown, a simpler one that makes it hard to tell her apart from her bridesmaids.
"Hi, Shannon," Wanda drawls, swirling the tiny ice left in her rocks glass.
"It's Mrs. Maximoff now," Shannon mutters proudly, displaying both her wedding and engagement rings.
Wanda hides her grimace behind her drink. “Try not to get used to it though. I’m pretty sure you’re aware that there had been two other Mrs. Maximoffs in his past.”
“Don’t sass me on my wedding day, it’s just disrespectful.”
“Point taken. I’d offer to get you a drink, but I think that’s just gonna push the stick further up your ass.” 
Shannon sourly responds with one of her signature fake smiles, but Wanda can see through the facade. She takes pride in having hit a nerve.
Taking the seat next to her, much to Wanda's dismay, Shannon changes the subject. "Anyway, your ex-wife is doing exceptionally well at our company. She's managed to turn around all the bad practices that have been going on for ages."
Wanda’s brows stitch together in confusion. “Your company?”
“Stark Industries.” Shannon says, taking a sip of Wanda’s untouched water.
The revelations throw her off. You didn't appear too thrilled when Wanda saw you right after your interview, so she had assumed you either didn’t get the position or you passed up on the opportunity. But what surprised her even more was discovering that someone like Shannon held a high-ranking position at a popular tech company–which now explains where the extreme confidence comes from.
Shannon smirks. “Don’t look so surprised that I work for the number one company in the world.” 
“Number one?” Wanda scoffs, rubbing her nose with her middle finger. “Hardly. And why are you keeping tabs on her?”
“She works in my department and I interviewed her. She was a disaster, by the way,” Shannon says. “But her references were solid. I mean, Scott Lang? I hired her solely by his recommendation.”
Wanda can't help but smile at the mention of Scott, reminiscent of the old days when she used to host dinners for your boss and your co-workers. She doesn’t, however, dwell this time about the people you’ve brought with you when you walked out of her life. The reality is, people take sides, and rightfully, they have chosen yours. 
"I'm happy for her. She's brilliant and hardworking. You won't regret having her on your team," Wanda says softly, her voice a little bittersweet; she remembers a time when she used to be the first one to know every little thing about you, and it's a feeling she misses.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re hearing this just now?” Shannon smacks her lips together and then fixes her lipstick that has stained the rim of her drink. “I thought I saw you at our lobby right after her interview.” Shannon gives her a knowing look, her eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and malice. It's as if she's perfectly aware of the unspeakable things you did to Wanda that day.
"Y-You did?" Wanda stammers, her blood rushing to her face.
“I assumed you were seeing each other again. You looked like a lost little housewife in your little jeans and little shirt.”
“I stopped by to bring her food. I didn’t know I had to dress up for that.”
“How sweet,” Shannon says, though her tone is barely mocking. “Well, if you’re not back together, then I have a piece of information you might find useful.”
Wanda leans back on her chair and crosses her arms in front of her. “And what makes you think I’m interested?”
“Because despite my wrong assumptions earlier, it’s clear that you’re still head over heels in love with her,” Shannon says. “Or am I wrong?”
Wanda looks away and takes a sip of her watered-down mocktail and tries to hide the displeasure on her face. 
Shannon takes this as her cue to continue. “She recently changed her address in our database. I know because those things usually undergo my approval.”
You moved out? Wanda hadn't attempted to contact you, but while running errands for her cafe, she had found herself in your area a couple of times. Each time, she observed that your curtains were drawn and the lights in the living room were always turned off.
Wanda looks on quietly as Shannon reaches into her purse, retrieves an eye pencil, and grabs a napkin from the table. With deliberate movements, she begins to scribble on the napkin.
“Here,” Shannon hands Wanda the napkin with your address scrawled neatly on it. “You’re welcome.”
Wanda hesitantly accepts it, and then asks, “Why are you doing this?”
"Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic," Shannon shrugs, though the glint in her eye betrays her nonchalant demeanor. It almost penetrates Wanda’s defenses, but then she says, “Or I’m supporting your unhealthy obsession knowing it won’t lead anywhere.”
Wanda finds herself laughing. Unlike Pietro, Shannon had never treated Wanda delicately, even after her hospitalization. She finds it oddly refreshing and, in a peculiar way, endearing.
Shannon adopts a small, awkward smile herself. 
“Fair enough.” Wanda says, folding the napkin carefully before putting it inside her bag.
Shannon gets up and runs her palms over the creases on her gown. “Good luck, Wanda. I’m sure you’ll be needing a lot of it.” 
Pietro finds her in the gardens, rubbing her arms to keep herself warm. The nighttime breeze isn’t particularly chilly, but Wanda’s always been susceptible to the cold regardless of the season. He looks particularly dashing in the dark blue suit that Shannon picked for him; and with his hair back to its natural brunette color, the similarities between them have become uncanny once again.
“Sorry about that.” Pietro mutters as he approaches.
Wanda tilts her head at him, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "Sorry about what?" she quips, her voice laced with humor. "You mean this wedding?"
Pietro laughs and then shakes his head. “I saw you talking to Shannon and I could tell you weren’t having the best time.”
Wanda doesn't hold back as she speaks her mind. "She's still a bitch," she says bluntly, not mincing her words. "No offense."
“Do I hear fondness in the way you said ‘bitch’?” 
“Not a chance.”
“Between me and her, you forget I’m actually the asshole, right? I know she told you I cheated on her countless times.” Pietro says, somewhat seriously.
“You are,” Wanda says. “But I stand by what I said.”
Pietro sighs. “Anyway, I’m not here to negotiate how you feel towards my wife. I’m here to say goodbye.”
Wanda sobers at that. She’s been so used to having her brother in the same city, a call and a cab away. 
“You’re returning to LA?”
“The day after tomorrow.” Pietro confirms with a nod. 
“Doesn’t she work at Stark Industries?”
“Oh, did I tell you that?” 
“She told me a while ago.” Wanda says.
“She can work remotely,” Pietro explains. “And she prefers doing that from our home in LA.”
The wind begins to pick up, its gentle breeze evolving into a stronger gust. The air becomes alive, stirring the surroundings and causing leaves to dance and swirl in a mesmerizing display. 
Wanda sweeps her hair back from her face, and asks, “Tell me, honestly, why did you stay here for so long? Even before the–” Wanda finds herself having difficulty naming the accident she had more than a month ago. 
But if there’s something she’s learned from therapy so far, it’s that confronting her inner demons requires acknowledging their existence.
“Before my overdose.” Wanda finishes, managing to keep her tone even.
Pietro regards her with a tender look that conveys his immense pride in her recent growth and progress.
“At first, I just wanted to check in on you,” he says, fiddling with the cuffs of his suit. “And when I saw you and the cafe, I thought ‘see, she doesn’t need you’. But at the same time I also realized it was me–I needed you.”
Pietro pauses and rubs the back of his neck–something he does a lot when he’s trying not to be emotional. 
"I missed you, Wands. These past few months, I've felt more like myself than I have in years. I know I'm free to visit you anytime, even when you and Y/N were still together, but it's just not the same when–"
“–when it’s just us.” Wanda finishes for him, her voice thick with emotions that her brother is trying so hard to hold at bay.
“Yeah. I had a really great time with you here, it was good to be home after so many years.”
“LA is your home.” Wanda reminds him. 
"You're my family, Wands," Pietro says, wrapping an arm around her and giving her a warm side hug. "You're my home too."
“I love you, Piet.” 
“I love you too, sis,” Pietro says. “I’m rooting for you–your happiness. Whether it’s with Y/N or someone else or no one. You deserve to be happy. You have a big heart–I know this because you love me just as I am.”
“Then why don’t you just stay here so we can be close to each other all the time?” Wanda sniffs. So many losses. So many changes. Wanda craves normalcy and consistency–things you used to provide in her life with your steady presence.
“Shannon’s family lives in LA, and we’ve already talked about settling there once we’re married.”
Wanda shakes her head, smiling in contempt.
Pietro notices the change in her demeanor and starts rubbing her arm in comfort. “Don’t blame Shannon for this. I suggested it because she’s more comfortable living there if we’re going to start a family.”
“You’re already talking about babies? Piet, that’s a huge step.” she says.
Pietro falls into a thoughtful silence, weighing the decision of whether to share the news with Wanda now or wait a little longer. However, the anticipation and joy of becoming a father soon overpowers his doubts.
With a burst of excitement, he finally speaks up. "Actually, she's pregnant."
"Wow," Wanda exclaims, embracing him tightly, more than thrilled at the news. But as suspicion creeps in, she pulls away abruptly. "Hold on, is that why you rushed into marriage? Because she's pregnant?"
“No. She actually just told me last night, as a wedding gift.” Pietro says. 
“I’m going to be an aunt?” Wanda giggles. “I mean, congratulations! You’re going to be a dad!”
"Thank you, Wands," Pietro says, returning the hug.
Wanda pauses for a moment, a realization dawning on her. "I should stop being mean to her," she admits.
Pietro chuckles. "My advice is to take everything she says or does with a grain of salt."
Wanda's expression softens. "I'm going to miss you, you know? Your future kid, and, fuck it–even Shannon. I'll try to visit this Christmas, okay?"
"You better. I already got you plane tickets."
“Oh, and Piet?”
“Yep?”
“I’ll cut your balls off if you cheat on your wife again this time. Not because she’s having your child, but because it’s… not normal. It’s fucked up. We’re fucked up. The stakes are higher for you now, but even if it wasn’t, it just ruins everything in its wake. it's the biggest regret of my life," Wanda states firmly. Although she feels like a hypocrite as the words escape her lips, she feels compelled to express her feelings in the hope that it carries some weight.
“I know,” Pietro says, looking down at his feet. “I’ve been seeing a professional for two months now.”
“You are?”
Pietro smiles and takes Wanda’s hand, leading her back inside the reception. “Where do you think I got your therapist from?”
***
"You've really nailed it with this restaurant choice," Natasha exclaims at you, her fork stabbing into the juicy medium-rare steak. Her mouth waters as the meat releases its flavorful juices. She’s sitting to your left and Yelena’s right, and when you haven’t developed a psychic link with your partner yet, navigating a delicate situation feels like a sailor and a pilot has come together to figure out how a tractor works. 
Natasha had phoned you earlier today, informing you that her flight from Washington D.C. was scheduled to depart in a mere two hours. This left you with approximately three hours to prepare for her arrival, as well as to have a conversation with Yelena on how you’re both going to break the news to her unsuspecting sister. However, due to Yelena's demanding work schedule, it was difficult to abruptly pull her away from her assignment and so you took it upon yourself to organize this impromptu dinner. 
Your girlfriend, in a state of panic, had only just read your texts an hour ago and arrived late. Since then, there has been absolutely zero opportunity to discuss what your relationship entails for Natasha.
Delaying the inevitable, you focus on other topics.
“So, how was your flight?” you ask Natasha.
“Quick.” 
“When did you find out you’re coming home?” you inquire, eyebrows wiggling at Yelena, attempting to seek her support in engaging in the conversation
“The other day.” Natasha says.
“How do you like your steak?”
Natasha gives you a funny look.
Shifting in your seat uncomfortably, you try to think of more questions to ask, but Yelena beats you to it.
“We’ve been seeing each other.” she announces over her plate of untouched meatballs. 
Your eyes widen in alarm as you look at Yelena, but she nonchalantly shrugs at you, then whispers, "I thought that's what you were trying to tell me with your eyes."
Natasha serenely savors her steak, taking a graceful sip of wine before responding, "Yes, I'm aware."
Surprised, you murmur, "How did you...?"
With a hint of amusement, Natasha replies, "If I were to reveal my skills, I would be violating at least ten pages of a non-disclosure agreement."
"Right," Yelena huffs, a feeling of ease finally settling over her. She indulges in her own plate, eagerly digging in and savoring each bite.
“You know,” You start, shoulders dropping and feeling some of the tension leave your body. “I thought I’m used to what you do, but it’s still weird that you disappear for several weeks and then you come back like,” you snap your fingers. “And we can’t ask you questions.”
“It’s why I love my job so much. People are literally not allowed to ask questions,” Natasha says with a satisfied smirk, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “But I can. So, how did this happen?” she says, motioning between you and Yelena with her finger.
“Didn’t you already know?” you say with a teasing smile. 
Natasha fixes you with a piercing gaze, the kind she typically reserves for her job, making you retreat but not before a nervous gulp catches in your throat.
"Yelena?" she prompts, noticing the uncharacteristic silence.
“I, uh–”
"Hotdog sandwich," you blurt out abruptly, interrupting Yelena's non-existent train of thought, while your mind drifts back to the night when you and Yelena officially started dating. Two pairs of eyes fixate on you, their faces a mix of surprise and bewilderment, as if questioning your sanity. Realizing the awkwardness of your outburst, you quickly clear your throat and gather yourself to continue, "I asked her out one night, shortly after I started my new job, and we kind of just decided to give it a shot while eating a hotdog."
When you look up, Yelena’s eyes carry a fondness, effectively deepening the blush on your cheeks.
“That’s a nice story, Y/N, but I didn’t mean literally. More like… how did you arrive at the decision to be together?” Natasha says, her gaze on you unwavering. You avoid her eyes, suddenly determined to finish the remaining vegetables in your dish.
“It came to us organically, Nat. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding a bit cheesy.” Yelena says. 
“I don’t mind cheesy. Cheesy is good. Love is often cheesy, right?” Natasha says, her gaze directed at you. The mention of the word 'love' catches you off guard, and you almost choke on your peas. Although you feel it deep in your heart that you love Yelena, neither of you have actually said those words to each other.
Yelena nods, her expression serious. "Okay, then. It happened because we still have deep feelings for each other, and we felt it was necessary to give it a chance."
You smile, fully understanding and appreciating Yelena's sentiment. "I agree." 
“Can I speak to Y/N in private?” She tells Yelena, who just shrugs, and then turning to you, Natasha says, “Is that okay?”
“Sure.” you reply, rising from your seat.
You and Natasha emerge from the cozy Italian restaurant, deciding to take a leisurely walk through the neighborhood. The rain has just subsided, leaving behind glistening streets and puddles that dot the pavement, making each step a bit precarious. The dampness in the air seems to mirror the tension in your chest, and you can't shake off the feeling that this walk holds more weight than just enjoying the post-rain atmosphere. The droplets on the ground reflect the streetlights, creating a mesmerizing shimmer that momentarily distracts you from your unease. 
Yet, as you walk alongside Natasha, the silence between you only heightens your anticipation for the impending "sister talk." 
You value your friendship with Natasha deeply, and the prospect of jeopardizing that bond fills you with uncertainty. 
Just as your pulse falls into a steadier rhythm, Natasha breaks the silence, her voice filled with a sense of pride. "I'm proud of you," she declares. "Honestly, I half-expected to return and find you still unemployed, living in my apartment. But look at you now: a new job, a new place... and a new girlfriend," she adds, without a trace of animosity in her words.
“I was the crutch you had to get rid of after all.” Natasha says. 
You laugh nervously at the ‘girlfriend’ remark, appreciating the genuine support from your best friend. "I suppose I relied on you heavily after my divorce," you admit. "It was easy to succumb to self-pity and a meaningless routine because you were there to take care of me. Eventually, I knew I was rotting away no matter how indulgent these Netflix shows are,” you laugh a little. “And well, things simply worked out, you know?”
“Yeah, I can see that it worked out pretty well with my sister.” Natasha quips.
"I care about her, Nat. I always have." you say, coming to a stop to face Natasha and properly look her in the eye.
Natasha nods and takes hold of your elbow, urging you to continue walking. "I know," she acknowledges, a knowing smile touching the corners of her lips. "She may not have shown it earlier, but she’s giddy as fuck. Kind of grosses me out seeing her eyeing you like a piece of candy.”
“But kidding aside, you have my blessing.” Natasha says, and you give her a soft smile in return.
A slight pang of guilt tugs at your heart as you decide not to mention your encounters with Wanda. You understand why Natasha requested this private conversation, and you don't wish to complicate matters by bringing up the brief rupture caused by your connection with Wanda. You and Yelena had reached a mutual understanding regarding Wanda, recognizing that your current relationship should not be overshadowed by your past with your ex-wife. 
Besides, you haven’t talked to Wanda since you and Yelena entered into a relationship. Things have been going well; consequently, you see no justifiable reason to stir up any unnecessary complications or rock the boat.
But nobody reads you the way Natasha does, as she brings up the person you’ve been trying to forget all this time.
“And Wanda? Is that over?”
Lying to Natasha is akin to attempting to deceive a lie detector machine; there’s just no way out of it but the truth–or at least some of it.
“We were briefly in touch,” you admit, carefully filtering the story in your mind as you speak. "Coincidentally, she happened to be at the same club where Clint organized your going-away party."
Natasha raises an eyebrow; you read her well enough too, and it tells you that she hadn’t had an inkling that Wanda had reentered your life at one point.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Natasha asks, the level of her tone masking how she feels about that new information.
“Because you hate her?” You say, daring her to deny it but Natasha only rolls her eyes. “And, uh, I don’t know… Maybe because I knew you’d be disappointed?”
Natasha takes a deep breath, the crisp evening air filling her lungs as she gathers her thoughts. "Did I," she begins, "did I push you into making choices in the past that you weren't entirely comfortable with?"
"Why would you say that?" you inquire, puzzled by Natasha's question.
Natasha's gaze softens, and she replies with earnest sincerity, "Because I never wanted you to feel like you couldn't be completely open with me about anything. I never wanted you to fear my judgment regarding your decisions."
You wonder if Natasha would say the same thing if she knew you had fallen into Wanda’s bed post-divorce. You think about how Natasha urged you to file for it in the first place, how she helped in preparing everything from finding a suitable lawyer to ironing out the details of the agreement. Despite your emotional state during that period, you acknowledge that you made those decisions and chose to take responsibility for them.
“You’re like family to me, Nat. Of course your opinion of me will always matter.” you say.
“I’m happy you stood by your decision without me,” Natasha says. “I was worried you’d go back to her as soon as I was gone.”
A nervous smile tugs at the corner of your lips as your eyes flit to anywhere but your best friend; the weight of deliberately concealing a significant portion of the story makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Now more than ever, you regret being with Wanda that way. It had every potential to jeopardize your friendship with Natasha.
“How about you and Bruce?” you say, taking the spotlight away from yourself.
Natasha’s smile is sad as she shakes her head. “That ship has sailed. For good.”
“I’m sorry.” you say.
“Don’t be. He can finally allow himself to be happy. He’s a good man. He deserves more than I can give him.”
“What about you?”
“I’d like to believe I deserve more than he’s willing to give,” Natasha says, her voice not harboring any resentment; but it’s clear that she has accepted the fact that their desires and needs diverged, leading them down separate paths. 
“Are you happy?” you ask suddenly, widely curious.
Natasha takes a moment to reflect, her eyes scanning the surroundings. "As happy as I can be," she contemplates. "I've learned that life shouldn't solely revolve around falling in love, you know? I have my work, my sister, my friends, and well, you're not that bad either," she adds with a light-hearted chuckle.
Turning the last corner back to the restaurant, you both bump into Yelena who’s wearing a frown after being left for so long.
“You were both gone for a while already so I thought I’d settle the bill and join you guys for a walk.” Yelena says. “You guys are okay, right?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t we be?” you say, taking her hand and interlacing your fingers together.
Natasha ignores Yelena’s question and says, “How much do I owe you for the food?” 
Yelena pushes the receipt in her sister’s hand and says, “Everything.”
Settling beside Yelena on the bed, you reach for the lamp on your nightstand and switch it off. The room is cast in a soft, bluish glow, as the moon's radiance filters through the blinds. It hasn’t been too long since you and Yelena started sharing this room, and despite initially intending to take things slow, the pace of your relationship accelerated naturally. With busy careers, it felt right to embrace the opportunity to spend more time together without the added complexities of planning and scheduling dates.
“It was weird introducing you to Nat as my girlfriend,” Yelena says, turning on her side to face you as soon as your head hits the pillow.
"I think you handled that quite smoothly," you say with a quiet chortle, the sarcasm failing to come across as strongly as intended.
"You were absolutely perfect though," Yelena whispers, her hand gently cupping your cheek as she pulls you in for a kiss. It begins with a slow, tentative pace, reminiscent of the other kisses you have shared since becoming a couple. 
Tonight, however, there's an undeniable intensity in Yelena's kisses that sends a fiery sensation rippling through your body. Her touch, tracing the skin below your belly button, ignites a rush of heat that intertwines with the passion of the moment. With your hands threaded in her hair, you boldly deepen the kiss, your tongue exploring the depths of her mouth, eliciting a surprised moan that you eagerly swallow.
As Yelena's fingers venture past the waistband of your underwear, a sudden jolt of surprise shoots through your body, causing you to abruptly sit upright. In the process, Yelena loses her balance and falls back onto the bed.
“Y/N?”
"Sorry," you stammer, attempting to calm your nerves and the racing of your heart. "I just remembered I have an important work email I haven't sent yet and..."
Yelena nods understandingly. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead. I've got some editing to do anyway."
You offer a grateful smile and lean in to press a tender kiss on her forehead. Then, you trail another moist kiss just below her ear, eliciting a soft sigh from Yelena's lips. 
“I’ll wait up, okay? Hurry,” Yelena purrs against your neck. 
“I’ll be back.” you say.
At half past midnight, you return to a snoring Yelena, her arm sprawled over the empty spot where you’re supposed to be. It was one email and you got carried away. And even if Yelena’s awake, you’re too exhausted to continue earlier’s steamy exchange.
Carefully, you remove her arm from your side of the bed and mold yourself to Yelena’s sleeping form. 
You haven’t had sex with her yet. The desire is there–a hot burning coal of it–and you have entertained the thought numerous times, but each time the moment draws near, you find yourself hesitant and not quite ready to take that step. It's a decision you have consciously made, respecting your own boundaries and wanting to ensure that the timing feels right for both of you.
Kissing the back of Yelena's head, you savor the softness of her hair against your lips. With a contented sigh, you nuzzle your nose into her locks, finding comfort in her presence as sleep gradually envelops you.
***
“Ms. Maximoff? Over here.”
Wanda looks up to find Sparky’s doctor motioning for her to come inside the check-up room. She gets up and hurries to where Sparky has disappeared into for almost twenty minutes now, and sees him hooked up to an IV, dozing off on his side. 
“Is he going to be okay?” Wanda asks immediately.
“The results of Sparky’s blood test don't look good. His liver is significantly higher than the normal range, and that could be the cause of his recent vomiting. For now, we’ll keep him confined here for one or two more days, depending on his condition, and if he’s responding to medication, you can continue giving them at home.”
“And what if he doesn’t respond to his medication?”
“We will conduct further tests to see what’s going on there. Surgery could be an option, depending on the outcome. While liver diseases in dogs can be treated and managed, there is always the possibility of expiration, I’m afraid.”
Expiration. Dogs have significantly shorter lives; Wanda knows this. But hearing it spoken so soon directly shatters Wanda’s heart. “W-What could have caused this?” she asks.
This is her fault, Wanda makes the conclusion, even before the doctor is done explaining the common causes in detail. She successfully fucked up another important thing in her life. 
In the absence of a little furry baby wagging its tail to greet her, Wanda returns home to a dark and empty apartment. Seeking solace, Wanda clings to the hopeful possibility that Sparky may return home in the next few days. 
Without bothering to turn on the lights, she kicks off her shoes and curls up into a ball on the couch. Her eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, eventually focusing on the small desk where the potted chrysanthemums you gifted her rest. The faint light casts a peculiar shadow on the wall, capturing her attention. Yet, it is the piece of napkin discreetly slipped beneath the pot that her mind is apprehensively fixated to; a thin, fragile thing that would ultimately lead her to you.
It has remained tucked away in Wanda's study, for a month now, as she couldn't bear to disrupt your life once again. She imagines that you are likely doing well, leading a quieter and less tumultuous existence without her. As for Wanda, she has been diligently working on herself, taking each day as it comes. However, the passage of time hasn't diminished her feelings for you, not even in the slightest. The void in her heart, shaped by your absence, remains steadfast, but she has learned to adapt and coexist with it, allowing herself to grow while carrying its weight.
And she wouldn't—not even for a moment—consider disturbing your peace if it weren't for the dog. If your roles were reversed, and you were the one keeping him, Wanda would undoubtedly want to be informed if his brief existence was endangered by an illness.
But then again, you've made your choice. You didn’t want anything to do with her. It was evident in your absence, when you stopped your visits to her apartment, her café; when Wanda's phone could no longer detect any recent online activity from you. You had simply vanished without a trace.
It would be unjust to intrude on your decision when you clearly didn't want to be found.
…And she’s still, quite literally, debating it when she finds herself at your doorstep an hour later.
Your new building looks lavish, Wanda can only imagine how much you’ve spent on the deposit alone. It was a little intimidating when she was asked to leave an ID and the receptionist had to ring your unit to inform you that you had a visitor–dropping her name to you in the process. More interesting than that, however, is that she gave Wanda the go signal to proceed to the elevators, meaning that you gave your consent for her to see you.
There's a sense of relief in realizing that you wouldn't go to the extent of turning her away just to avoid her altogether. She sets aside the questions that her heart desperately wants to ask, knowing they would only thwart the initial intention she has of seeing you.
She is fully aware of how guarded and cautious you were the last time; memories of her well-crafted plans to lure you and get close to you for the obvious reason of winning you back are still fresh in her mind. Wanda understands that she needs to approach this meeting with sensitivity and genuine concern, keeping her intentions clear and focused on Sparky's well-being.
But as she’s about to knock, the door swings open.
“Hi, I–” Wanda’s words die on her tongue and the nervous smile on her face fades into uncertainty.
Standing there, clad in nothing but a t-shirt (which she recognizes having bought it for you) that goes past her thighs, is the woman from the club. The woman who drew the curtains for you in your living room. Her blonde hair cascades in messy beach waves, framing her face and reaching her shoulders. 
She is breathtakingly beautiful. 
But what strikes Wanda the most is how effortlessly the woman seems to blend into the space, appearing more like a tenant than a mere guest who just happened to visit you at this particular time.
Does she live with you?
“Is Y/N home? I’m Wan–” 
"Wanda. I know. I’m Yelena," Yelena interrupts, her tone firm yet not unkind, like she’s struggling as much as the brunette. "She's still at work. Is there something you need from her?"
“You’re Yelena? Natasha’s sister?” Wanda asks.
Yelena nods tentatively, her eyes studying Wanda's reaction; she was surprised to get a call from the reception that a certain Wanda Maximoff wanted to come up to her unit. Despite the nagging question of whether you've been seeing Wanda all this time behind her back, she makes a conscious effort to maintain her composure in front of your ex-wife.
Meanwhile, something in Wanda's mind clicks. It's Yelena, not you, who allowed herself to go up to your floor. It's her, not you, who wanted to meet her. Wanda's mind races with questions. Does Yelena know about her? Did Yelena feel the need to introduce herself to your ex-wife?
"Uh..." Wanda's voice trembles with the onset of a panic attack. It turns out, coming here was a mistake, and she’s just grateful you’re not around to witness it. "I'm sorry. Please forget that I came here. Don't let her know I was here, please? I'm really sorry. I'll just go."
Yelena sucks in her cheeks as she reads into Wanda’s sudden panic. "Sure," she replies before softly closing the door on Wanda.
-
The nights are longer at Stark Industries. You knew what you signed up for when you accepted the job, but now you're starting to feel the repercussions. The stress is taking its toll not only on your work-life balance but also on your relationship with Yelena. You haven’t had dinner together recently, much less a conversation that lasted longer than a few exchanges of “how are you” and “I’m fine”. There’s a lot to make up for, but no date in sight to actually start doing so.
The office is empty except for you and the maintenance worker assigned to the night shift, so when your ringtone cuts through the stillness, the sound of it reverberates off the walls of the empty room, making it too loud for you to ignore.
With your eyes concentrated on a formula on your spreadsheet, you answer your phone without looking at the caller.
“Hey, I’ll be home soon.” you say, assuming it’s Yelena on the line.
“Y/N.” A vaguely familiar voice that’s definitely not Yelena greets you. That’s when you remove your phone from your ear and notice the unknown number on the screen.
“Who’s this?”
The caller doesn’t answer right away. Instead, you can hear rain pouring heavily in the background, something you haven’t been aware of due to the thick windows of the office blocking out outside noises.
“It’s Vision,” The voice cracks over the speaker before you can decide to drop the call. “Wanda needs your help.”
The rain had been relentless throughout the day according to the weather app on your phone. You’ve just been too busy to notice, and so you find yourself without an umbrella. Thankfully, by the time you arrive at the location Vision instructed, the downpour has subsided into a gentle drizzle.
“Jesus, it’s freezing.” you mumble to yourself, wrapping your jacket tighter around your body.
You recognize this part of the city, having gone here numerous times in the past to visit your favorite dive bar where you, Natasha, Clint, and Wanda would hang out for hours just talking and having a good time. Although Natasha and Wanda don’t really talk, they engage in group shots, and Wanda would always challenge you to a game of pool, and you would win one or two matches in a best of seven, because your wife–ex-wife–is just so gifted in just about all kinds of sports. 
However, it's not the same bar where you find Wanda. Instead, it’s near a dead-end street and you stumble upon her slumped against a light post in a sorry state. It's obvious that she has consumed a significant amount of alcohol, leaving her almost blacked out. It makes you suspicious if this happens often–Wanda getting shitfaced in random places with Vision in tow. 
The sight of Vision doesn’t bother you as much as before, but it still leaves a bitter taste in your mouth to see them together in the same place. Vision, to his credit, keeps a respectful distance, yet the yearning in his face is unmistakable. It's a familiar look, one you've witnessed on Wanda's previous boyfriends when they believed you weren't paying attention.
As you draw closer, Wanda's head tilts back, and her intoxicated eyes, heavy-lidded and unfocused, widen ever so slightly in recognition as they lock with yours.
“Y/N? Is that really you?” Wanda drunkenly slurs, her struggling eyes attempting to focus on your face. “If you’re not, please tell Y/N that I’m not with him,” Wanda says, pointing her thumb in his direction, refusing to even look at Vision. “He just showed up out of nowhere and I told him to stay away. I swear, I’m telling the truth. Vision, tell her, please. Tell her to tell Y/N.” 
The street lights become too much for Wanda to bear, and she buries her head into her arms, her knees drawn to her chest. She looks so small and insignificant against the backdrop of a vibrant metropolis. 
Steeling yourself against her sorrowful pleas, you turn to Vision instead. “How did you find her?” you demand.
“I was out with my friends, and happened to pass by this area on our way back,” Vision recounts. “I saw two men trying to take her home, and we intervened. I tried asking Wanda where she lives so I can take her home myself, but she refuses to tell me. I tried calling you using her phone, but I think you blocked her number, so I tried calling you myself.”
You’re inclined to believe him, but there will always be bouts of suspicion lingering on the surface when it concerns Wanda. Though as your eyes return to Wanda’s shivering form, you can’t help but wonder if she would truly rather die in the ditches than accept help from him. For the first time, you find yourself contemplating the possibility of believing her, although a part of you wonders if it's simply your enduring soft spot for her attempting to sway your judgment.
“Thank you,” you say to Vision, surprised to find a little sincerity in your voice.
“If I find out you’re the reason why she’s this miserable, I’m putting everything on the line to make sure you stay away from her.” he declares, igniting a cigarette as you support Wanda, draping one of her arms over your shoulder and lifting her up. In that moment, she feels noticeably lighter than before, and your hand can discern the protrusion of her ribs as you secure her against your side.
“Is that a threat?” you say, clenching your jaw, your own clothes getting soaked fast, not realizing early on just how drenched Wanda is from the rain.
“It’s a warning,” Vision answers coolly. “As far as I know, you haven’t atoned for anything. And it’s not because you don’t deserve it. It’s because of her.”
He’s right–you walked out of that bloodied room unscathed from the law. All along you thought the consequences of what you’ve done to Vision just miraculously resolved on its own with the help of Natasha, but if Wanda had anything to do with how you’re not being served with at least damages for physical assault, what price did she have to pay in return?
It’s a conversation for later–you don’t need Wanda to protect you, especially if it means being coerced into complying with Vision's demands.
“I’m ready for anything,” you tell him, goading him with a smirk as you feel Wanda nestle closer to you, seeking your warmth. “Now, get your jacket off her and I’ll take it from here.”
As Vision gently takes off the garment from Wanda's shoulders, your eyes catch sight of a distinct mark on her finger, a faded indentation left by a ring that she no longer adorns.
-
Upon arriving at Wanda's place, there is no sign of Sparky. You feel a twinge of disappointment, as you had been somewhat anticipating him despite the circumstances. However, your attention swiftly turns to Wanda, who appears even worse now that you have brought her home: her lips are dry and pale, the flush all over her face down to her neck is still there, and she feels excessively warm to touch, almost as if she is–
“Shit, you’re burning up,” you mutter as you place your hand on her damp forehead.
Then all of a sudden, Wanda forcefully pushes you away, her hand covering her mouth, as she rushes towards the bathroom. In her haste, the straps of her sandals snap, breaking under the pressure. Swiftly, you trail behind her, conscientiously removing your shoes along the way to prevent leaving any dirt tracks on her pristine floor. 
When you enter the bathroom, you find Wanda hunched over the toilet, emptying her stomach. Grimacing at the sight, you kneel beside her and carefully gather her dark hair, holding it up while you wait for her to finish. Once she's done, you flush it down for her. Wanda, seemingly drained, rolls away from the toilet and crawls towards the shower where she simply sits in one corner, closing her eyes with the clear intention of settling down for the night right there.
Faced with a decision, you find yourself contemplating your next course of action. You weigh the responsibilities you had undertaken which was to get Wanda to her apartment safely. What happens to her thereafter should no longer be your concern. After all, Yelena is most likely still waiting for you back at home.
Home. A year ago, the extent to which your definition of it has changed would have been unimaginable.
“Y/N,” Wanda’s weak voice draws your attention away from your thoughts. “You should g-go.” she says hoarsely.
Your fingers close around the doorknob, silent and unmoving, as anger wells up within you; Anger at Wanda for getting herself into this mess. Anger towards Vision for asking you to come to her rescue. Anger at yourself for feeling unable to leave Wanda behind, despite everything.
"Did she tell you about me? I told her not to, Y/N. I'm so sorry..." Wanda's whisper reaches your ears, her eyes remaining shut and her head tilted back, revealing the graceful column of her neck. You instinctively avert your gaze.
“What are you talking about?” you ask.
“I-I went to see you. But she said you were still working. I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted you to know about Sparky…”
She? Yelena? You didn’t think Yelena would allow Wanda to go up to your apartment just like that.
"He's not well," Wanda continues, her gaze focused on your face as she takes in every detail of it, as if trying to capture the memory of you in case this is the only opportunity she gets.
Your grip on the doorknob tightens. So that explains why Sparky is nowhere to be found.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Is he okay?”
Wanda hiccups, thoughts too jumbled to put together anything coherent. "Liver–not normal," she manages to say, her voice trailing off. She had convinced herself that she wanted to see you for a legitimate reason, but as she gazes at you now, it becomes painfully clear that it was her deep longing for you that has ultimately prevailed.
"Is there anything I could-" you start to offer your help, your concern for Sparky overriding whatever tension lingers between you and Wanda.
"You should leave, Y/N," Wanda interrupts, mustering the strength to open her eyes and meet yours. The shame and despair swirling in those green orbs are hard to ignore, but you try to remain steadfast. "She's probably worried about you."
You chew on your lower lip for a moment, and then, instead of doing as she says, you close the door behind you. Silently, you begin removing your own clothes, stripping down to your underwear.
"I have to dry them anyway," you mumble after feeling the weight of Wanda's stare. "Come on, let's fix you up and get you ready for bed."
Wanda reaches for the hem of her shirt, her hesitation evident as she refrains from removing it. Sensing her struggle, you take the initiative, hoping to expedite the process so you can attend to her needs and leave soon. With gentle care, you lift her shirt up and over her head, exposing her trembling form. 
That's when you notice it–her wedding ring that Wanda used to wear on her finger, even after your divorce. But now it has taken on a new form, transformed into a pendant hanging delicately from a chain around her neck. It rests there, nestled between her breasts, a symbol of a past chapter in her life–and yours–that she carries with her, in a different way.
Wanda notices where your eyes are lingering and removes the necklace herself when you remain passive and unmoving. 
The next task is unclipping her bra, and as your fingers reach for the hooks, Wanda's hand covers yours, halting your actions.
“Is this–I mean, do you think should…?” she stammers out, and you’re unsure if the blush on her face is still from the alcohol.
"It's nothing I haven't seen before," you say, feeling your own face heat up. "I think you have a fever. I need to get you out of these wet clothes, is that okay?"
Wanda nods meekly, giving her consent.
A few seconds later, Wanda is naked except for the pink she wears on her cheeks. You help her get up and move under the shower. You twist and turn the knob of the shower until you find the desirable temperature, and then start shampooing Wanda’s hair. 
As the water cascades over her and rinses away her self-loathing, Wanda finds herself surrendering to your care, allowing her to cherish this rare, tender moment she never knew she’d get to experience again. She is grateful for the water, realizing how weary you must be of seeing her cry; it’s just not possible to restrain herself from it when you’re this gentle with her.
“Can you handle the rest?” you ask Wanda, putting your hands under the shower to get rid of the soap.
“Yes,” she answers.
“Okay. I’ll go get some towels.”
Collecting both yours and Wanda's clothes from the floor, you quickly step out of the bathroom before you can start processing what you’ve just done.
Don’t think, just do, you say to yourself as you put the clothes in the dryer. 
Don’t think, just do, you repeat as you get fresh towels from the cabinet.
Don’t think.
When you’re both dry and you’re back in your work clothes and Wanda in her pajamas, you accompany her to her bedroom. You tuck her in and touch her forehead once again to check her temperature. The heat still radiates from her body, and it becomes clear that her fever isn't letting up soon. It won’t go down unless she takes something, but with alcohol still in her system, you don’t think that’s a good idea.
Here, drink this," you offer, extending a sports drink to Wanda.
"Thank you," Wanda murmurs, taking a generous sip before returning the bottle to you.
"Try to finish it. You're likely dehydrated," you suggest. Wanda, acknowledging your advice, obediently continues to drink.
“Better?”
Wanda nods with a small smile. “Thank you, Y/N. I’m sorry you had to go through all that trouble. I didn’t think Vision would–”
“You’re welcome,” you interject as soon as she mentions his name. “We’ll talk soon.” 
Wanda's gaze remains fixed on her folded hands in her lap. "You don't have to," she whispers. "You don't have to talk to me or see me if you don't want to. I'm sorry. This doesn't happen a lot anymore—not as often as you might think. Just something happened, and... I didn't mean to involve you, Y/N. I'm really sorry."
Something? What exactly happened? Regardless, you don't think it's healthy for Wanda to subject herself to such a high level of intoxication, no matter what the circumstances may be.
"We'll talk soon," you repeat, keeping your tone firm but gentle. "Take care, Wanda. Good night."
-
Yelena is wide awake in the living room, her attention focused on a book resting on her lap as you arrive home. The soft glow of a lamp illuminates her features, casting a gentle light on her face. There's a stillness in the room, interrupted only by the turning of pages and the sound of your footsteps.
You hesitate for a moment, taking in the sight of her. 
"Hey," you greet her wearily. "You're still awake?"
“I couldn’t sleep without you,” she says, somewhat bashfully. "There's salad in the fridge if you haven't eaten." she offers.
You pause for a moment, and then meeting her gaze, you ask, "Do you have something to tell me?"
Yelena levels you with a look, putting her book down, she says, “No. Do you?” 
Taking a deep breath, you tell her you do. “I took Wanda home,” you declare, bracing yourself for Yelena’s reaction but her face remains stoic. There's a flicker of something in her eyes, almost as if she had been anticipating your words.
“Can you clarify?” Yelena finally speaks up when you make no further effort to elaborate.
"In the office, I received a call from Vision," you explain. “He said Wanda needed my help. She was in no condition to go home on her own so I took her.”
“Why didn’t he take her home himself?”
You shrug slightly. "Wanda refused to go with him.”
There's a quiet intensity in her eyes, a depth of emotions that she holds back, yet you can sense them lingering beneath the surface. And then, she asks, “And nothing happened?”
“I helped her get change and manage her fever,” you say. “Nothing else happened.”
Yelena's gaze softens, and any trace of her being bothered by your confession finally reveals itself in the form of a soft sigh that escapes her lips.
"Thank you for telling me," Yelena says, wrapping her arms around your neck. "In that case, I should have mentioned that Wanda came by, and I let her come up here."
"Why didn't you say anything?" you ask curiously.
"She told me not to let you know," Yelena reveals quite casually. "And I didn't think it was important anyway."
You hum in response, grateful for her honesty and openness at least. Although, you sense that there might be more to the story than meets the eye.
"Aren't you going to ask me if I've been in touch with her?" you inquire, unable to ignore the nagging curiosity in your mind. Yelena's seemingly mild reactions in response to her encounter with Wanda is slightly unsettling.
“I wasn’t going to,” Yelena confesses, lowering her gaze before they come back up with a vulnerability that wasn’t there before. “But have you?”
You shake your head in response, indicating the truth. Yelena’s shoulder slackens and she steps closer to you. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore. I missed you,” Yelena mumbles the words like a secret, before capturing your lips in a short, sweet kiss, effectively stealing you away from your thoughts.
"Me too," you whisper back, feeling the day's events weighing on you, you take her hand and guide her towards the bedroom. "Let's go to bed."
412 notes · View notes
stylesharrys · 27 days
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all that you are | part 2 [mafiarry]
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authors note: 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!!
word count: 26,163 (i’m not even sorry)
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.
summary: the time has come for harry’s initiation as capo dei capi, and y/nhas mixed feelings about the steps he has to take.
//
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!
638 notes · View notes
arlana-likes-to-write · 2 months
Note
Loved the 3 part of monet issue❤️. I thought about this. How about the doctor that experimented on reader became obsessed with us, infiltrated the compound as a new doctor and required that we go to observation, there she starts to do things again. I know it’s a little vague but that was what I could come with. See you and I hope you have a good day and take care of yourself.❤️❤️
-💣
My Beautiful Creation
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Finally Part of the Monet Issues AU
Warnings: stalking, kidnapping, gun violence, swearing, forced experiment, death, killing, panic attacks, guilt, pregnancy, protective Avengers,
Word Count: 7.3k
New York City was known as the city that never slept. So many people (sometimes too many people, in your opinion) came from so many walks of life. Everyone came to this city to chase a dream. As you walked to a busy sidewalk, you were just another fish swimming upstream and weaving through people on the phone, listening to music, or performing on the street corner. There was always something to look at: massive skyscrapers, fights on the street, or trying to pick somewhere to eat because of the million and one options. So it was odd that you felt eyes on you. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. However, when you turned around, no one was there. It had to be your nerves since you’ve only been back in the city for two months. It would take time for you to feel safe since HYDRA altered your life.
The first step to returning your life to normal was meeting with Taylor and a few other friends for lunch. Opening the door to the small hole in the wall, you welcomed the quiet and peaceful environment. It was a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk. You saw Taylor in the corner, and you pointed to the table. The hostess nodded, and you walked over to them. “Look who finally is here to grace us with her presence,” your friend, Brooke, teased. She stood up and did a slight bow. “The princess has returned.” You punched her shoulder at her joke attempt, but it made you smile.
“Leave her alone, Brookie,” Emma said. “She’s been busy being an Avenger or something.”
“More like fucking one!” Brooke and Taylor high-fived across the table.
“Are we done?” You asked. “Because I will leave.” Emma grabbed your hand and forced you into the empty seat next to Taylor. You met Emma and Brooke through Taylor. While you went to college out of state, she went to Columbia. Brooke and Emma were her freshman-year roommates, and they were used to you staying over every weekend.
“We love you, Egghead,” Taylor kissed your cheek.
“And we missed you,” Emma added. You missed them, too. Lunch was spent picking on one another, catching up, and filling your stomach with cheap but good Italian food.
“So, are we going to be invited to the wedding?” Brooke asked, looking at you. You raised your eyebrows. “You and Natasha. Aren’t you guys like engaged?” You chuckled.
“Not even close,” you said. “We only have been dating for a few months officially. I doubt she would even want that,” Taylor scuffed, shaking her head.
“Have you talked about it?” Emma asked before you could question Taylor.
“Well, no,” you admitted. “There has been a lot going on.” Taylor chuckled. “Do you have something to say?” Your best friend pinched your side, and you glared at her.
“Natasha looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and painted the stars in the sky,” you tried to hide your embarrassment by picking at the pasta in front of you. “She would 100% be down to marry you.”
When lunch was over, you paid for the meal at the front. As you waited for your card, you felt that eerie sensation that prickled at the back of your neck. Your gaze darted around the restaurant’s other patrons to find the source of your uneasiness, but you couldn’t figure it out.
“Hey,” you were pulled away by Taylor’s voice. She was holding your card and frowning. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you smiled and took the card from her. “Let’s get out of here.” Was it a trick of your mind, or was someone watching your every step?
*
“Get off of me!” You gasped, trying to push Yelena off of you. Her body became dead weight. “You are so annoying,” you tickled her sides, and she quickly got off you. Her eyes were wide in fear.
“That was dirty,” she sat next to you while Kate and Peter joined you on the couch, hands filled with snacks and drinks. You rolled your eyes and stood up to help them.
“I thought you were supposed to help them,” the blonde shrugged and grabbed a beer from Kate. It was routine for you to find yourself with the trio when you were at the compound. You liked training with Wanda and Vision, eating dinner with Tony and Pepper, and cuddling up with your girlfriend. Since the ‘I love you’ confession, you both grew more confident in the relationship in front of the team. Movie nights were spent in each other’s arms. Natasha would grab you by the waist and kiss you, much to the disdain of Yelena and your father. The business was going well, your relationship with your father was better than ever, and life was good.
“You bitch!” You threw a piece of popcorn at Peter. “I can’t believe you stole my star.”
“I picked random!” He defended.
“Kate has four stars?! You stoke from me, and now I have zero.” You heard laughter from the kitchen and saw Tony. “I’ll be right back. Don’t start the mini-game without me,” you climbed over the back of the couch and walked over to him. He was in a meeting when you arrived at the compound.
“Hi, squirt,” he hugged you. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” you watched him fill a mug with the leftover coffee in the pot. “You should cut back on the caffeine.” He shook his head.
“You should like Pepper.”
“The woman in your life is usually right,” the CEO squeezed your shoulder as she walked past you. Accepting Pepper as your father’s girlfriend turned-wife was hard for you. You saw her as someone that was trying to replace your mom. Another person is stealing Tony’s attention. So you treated her as a business associate but ran in the same circle. It became impossible to ignore her, and soon, you began to look for her at every Gala or event, finding a strange sense of peace from the older woman. “Have you asked her yet?”
“No, I was busy getting yelled at by my questionable habits,” you and Pepper rolled your eyes. “Are you free to have dinner with us?”
“Of course,” you smiled.
“Mini game time,” Yelena yelled from the couch. “Get your ass over here.” You flipped the blonde off, told the couple you could see them later, and joined your friends back on the couch.
*
“You’re pregnant?!” You gasped, putting the glass of wine that Pepper paired with the dinner she made. It was just you, Tony, and Pepper in their section of the compound. “Have you told anyone?” Pepper shook her head.
“We wanted to tell you first,” your father took his wife’s hand.
“And you are okay with this?” You heard the worry in his voice. Why wouldn’t you be okay with this?
“I mean, the idea of you having unprotected sex kind of gives me,” you faked a gag. Tony glared at you, but Pepper covered her mouth as she laughed. “But I’m so happy for you! I can’t wait to be an older sister!” When dinner was finished, you helped Pepper clean the dishes while Tony took a phone call from Rhodey.
“He was worried,” she glanced at him to ensure he was still on the phone. “About how you would reach the news.
“Really?” You questioned, drying a few plates and putting them away. “Why?” She sighed.
“I think he was worried you would feel like he was replacing you,” you frowned. “I know it’s not ideal timing, especially since you still trying to build your relationship with him. But-”
“Pepper,” you placed a hand on her arm, promptly cutting her off. “I’m happy for you both. You are going to make a great mother, and I know from first-hand experience,” the CEO smiled, kissing your temple. Suddenly, you felt arms around your waist, and you were lifted off the ground.
“Are you trying to steal my wife?” Tony asked. You squeaked as he spun you around. “Don’t you already have a girl to call your own? Or are you trying to get all the women in the compound?”
“It’s the Stark charm,” you laughed, a little out of breath from his tickling assault. “It’s hard for a woman to resist it,” he let you go, and it took a moment to gather your bearings.
“Ain’t that the truth?” He whipped a fake tear. “I’m so proud of you,” you saw Pepper pick up the drying towel, twist it, and snap it at Tony’s back. He yelped and jumped around to face Pepper.
“You sabotaged my help,” she handed him the towel. “Dishes are your punishment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you giggled as Pepper linked your arm with hers.
“Stark charm,” you said, looking over your shoulder. The pout on Tony’s face made you laugh. “Ladies can’t resist it.”
*
“There you are, malyshka (baby girl),” you looked up from your laptop and saw Natasha standing in the doorway. Her arms crossed against her chest, and her long-sleeved shirt came down to her thighs. “Where have you been?”
“Planning,” you said, closed your laptop, and put it on your nightstand. She raised a questioning eyebrow as she walked over. “I’m just trying to move some meetings around and delicate responsibilities.” Your girlfriend climbed onto the bed and swung her legs over to sit on your lap.
“Are you leaving the company?”
“I would never. I want to spend more time with you, my dad, and the team,” what you wanted was to be here at the early stages of her pregnancy. With the father being Iron Man, it was uncertain how often he would be around when the world called for him. You told Pepper you had no problem with being there. The CEO wasn’t ready to tell the team yet, so lying to your former spy girlfriend was challenging. You knew she wasn’t buying your story. “Everything is fine,” you squeezed her thighs. “I promise,” you leaned forward and nudged your nose against hers. “Can I kiss you?” You asked. The Black Widow chuckled.
“You never have to ask,” you kissed her, taking in the taste of Natasha. It was addicting. You felt her smile in the kiss and soon pulled away.
“Movie night. What do you want to watch?” You asked, moving your hands up and down her back.
“Moonraker,” you huffed. “Please, sweetheart,” she gave you her best puppy dog eyes that always seemed to melt you.
“Put it on,” She grabbed the remote and fell to your side. As the movie began to play, Natasha curled up into your side, and you wrapped your arms around her. “I love you,” you mumbled.
“I love you too.”
*
“Ooo,” you looked at Pepper as she rubbed her stomach. She was three months pregnant, and every sound of discomfort sent you and Tony into a fit of anxiety. “Come here,” she held out her hand, and you were quick to your feet. She took your hand and placed it on her stomach. “Just wait,” you waited and soon felt the small kicks.
“Holy shit,” you sat down next to her. “That is so weird.” Pepper chuckled.
“It’s even better when she wakes you up at 2 in the morning,” she sarcastically said.
“Can she hear us?” You looked at her.
“Doctors say once they are about 23 weeks, they’ll be able to make out voices outside the womb, but that hasn’t stopped your father,” she explained.
“Can I?” She nodded. “Hi, little one,” you spoke to Pepper’s stomach. It was a little strange, but a weird emotion bubbling in your chest. “I’m your big sister, and I’m so excited to meet you, spoil you, and fill you with all the sweets in the world,” you glanced up at Pepper as she laughed. Tears were forming in her eyes. “But,” you continued. “I’m going to protect and love you with every fiber of my being.” Pepper kissed your forehead and brought you into her arms.
“You are going to be a great sister.”
“I agree,” you looked at Tony. His facial expression was hard to read. “I need you to be part of this meeting, squirt,” you said. You looked at Pepper, and she had a reassuring smile.
“Okay,” you whispered. Why was there a knot in your stomach?
*
“She escaped,” was the only thing you could comprehend as you sat in the meeting room with the Avengers. There were a few here. Clint retired to Iowa with his family, Bruce and Thor were off-world, and Steve, Sam, and Vision were on a mission. Natasha held onto your hand. “I don’t understand. How did she escape?” Maria explained that the doctor responsible for your newfound ability escaped the prison. Unlike her boss, she wasn’t sent to the RAFT. The jury found her guilty but believed her actions weren’t entirely her doing and that HYDRA brainwashed her. Stockholm Syndrome was what they called it. So, she was sentenced to a medium-security prison.
“She got help from a guard that worked there. His name is Johnathan Anderson,” Maria brought up a picture of him. His black hair was closely chopped, and he had a beard. His blue eyes had a no-nonsense expression. Starring at this picture, you felt that eerie sensation on the back of your neck. Subconsciously, you grabbed the back of your neck. “When his supervisors searched his lockers, they found love letters between him and her.”
“Do we know what she wants?” Wanda asked.
“Me,” you whispered. Their heads snapped to look at you. “I-I was her only success. All the others died, so it makes sense that she would be after me,” Natasha squeezed your hand, and instead of looking at her, you placed your head on her shoulder.
“We won’t let that happen,” Tony firmly said. “We’ve been tracking Anderson’s movements. When he’s not at work, he frequently visits two locations. A home in Connecticut and a warehouse in PA. She has to be there,” you’ve never seen him this determined. “We find her and lock her in the RAFT like she should have been in the first fucking place.”
“Language,” Natasha gasped. Tony glared at your girlfriend, but a smile crept onto his face. She attempted to lighten the mood of the situation, but you knew the redhead better than anyone. She was scared, terrified of the prospect of losing you. You were terrified yourself.
*
“I can stay,” Natasha said for the 10th time. You were in the kitchen, busying your hands and making you and Pepper a small snack. “I’ll stay if you want me to,” you wanted her to stay and feel safe in her arms while the rest of the team went off to fight the bad guy. A clash of thunder caused you to look out the window. Even the weather seemed to know you were in a mood.
“You can’t,” you dropped the knife and cupped her cheeks with your hands. “The team is far too thin to search 2 locations, and Tony is making last-minute adjustments to FRIDAY to keep me and Pepper safe.” She turned to kiss each of your palms.
“I hate this,” she admitted.
“So do I, but you will stop both of them, and I’ll be safe again,” Natasha moved her arms around your waist and pulled you flush to her. You could feel her heartbeat, the organ rattling in her rib cage. Her warm breath caused goosebumps to cover your skin as she burrowed her face deeper into your neck.
“I love,” she mumbled. It was barely audible to your ears.
“I love you too,” you kissed her head. “Go get ready, baby,” you squeezed her. “I’ll make you a peanut butter sandwich,” she huffed, removed herself from your arms, and sighed when she was out of sight. Thunder shook the compound, and you wondered what Thor was up to that was causing this storm. You loved rain storms, listening to the rain hitting the roof and the lightning that brightened up the sky. Now, it filled you with dread, an omen for darker times ahead.
*
As soon as the team left, Pepper asked if you wanted to help her paint the nursery. You agreed right away, hoping to find a helpful distraction. Soft music was filling the comfortable silence. They chose a light lilac for the walls; well, you figured Pepper picked it, and Tony swiped his card. There were boxes of furniture that still needed to be put together and clothes that were ready to be folded. Oh, you could not wait to spoil her. “How are you?” Pepper asked. She was taking a short break, resting in the rocking chair that Clint made. Sighing, you placed the paintbrush on the tray and looked at the half-finished room.
“I’m okay,” you said. “I feel like I finally have my footing, you know?” You looked at the CEO. “I just don’t want to lose the momentum I have.”
“You won’t,” she stood up and made your way over to you. She is quick to pull you into a hug. You slumped against her, desperately missing your mother’s hugs. “You are so courageous and strong. Your father and Natasha won’t rest until you are safe.” You knew that, so you nodded against the CEO.
“Miss. Stark,” FRIDAY said. “I do apologize, but your presence is being requested in med bay. It is time for your monthly check-in.” You groaned, stomped slightly, and pulled away from the CEO. It was Tony’s doing. He wanted to make sure the powers given to you weren’t causing you any problems. Pepper chuckled.
“Do you want me to come with you?” You shook your head.
“It won’t be long. I’ll be back, and we can finish painting, maybe tackle some of these boxes.” Pepper smiled, kissing your forehead. It was rare that you used your powers outside of training. Sometimes, you could use it to warm your body temperature and cuddle up to your cold girlfriend. Or you could create a small fire for Yelena to cook smores. Fighting wasn’t your thing. When you were younger, you hated the Avengers. It was another thing that took Tony away from you. When your mind was busy, you forgot about the power you could wield, forgot what happened to you. Sighing, you stretched your arms and opened the door to one of the medical rooms.
“Doctor Cho-” your voice trailed off as you stared at the woman in front of you who was not Helen Cho. “Who are you?”
“Doctor Cho is busy with other matters,” that voice. A chill went down your spine. The doctor spun around to face you, tablet in hand. “I will be conducting your exam today.” Charlotte Williams is the woman responsible for your newfound ability. You turned to leave, but the doors slammed shut and locked. No amount of pulling on the handle made the door move.
“How did you get in here?” You asked, facing her.
“You silly girl,” she laughed. “I gave you the ability to manipulate fire. do you not think I can hack your daddy’s AI?” You could fight and defend yourself and Pepper. With a flick of your wrist, fire engulfed your hands. “Not so fast,” she clicked a few buttons on the tablet, and the fire went out. You fell to your knees; a pained groan barely left your lips.
“What did you do to me?” Her footsteps echoed in the quiet exam room, closing the distance. She stood in front of you.
“I like to call it a fail-safe. With powers like yours, they can be unpredictable; I had to ensure you are under my control,” she ran her hand over your hair. “But it’s smart to have collateral,” she turned the tablet to show you security footage of Pepper. Johnathan Anderson had a gun pointed at her. Your eyes flickered to her, then the screen.
“What do you want?” You whispered.
“My beautiful creation,” she softly spoke. “I have missed you so much.”
*
Charlotte had you chained down to the table, an IV in your arm, and a nasal cannula for oxygen. She moved the security footage of Pepper to a bigger screen, a reminder that she was in charge. “Can I ask what you are doing to me?” You questioned. She ignored you and focused on your vitals. You sighed and looked up at the ceiling. There had to be a way out of this, but she had you under her control with whatever she typed on her tablet. Your attempt to escape had to be a surprise, so you had to wait. Wait and have some patience. Charlotte placed a warm towel on your veins. Once satisfied, she removed the towel and gently messaged the area to draw out your veins. Doctors always had difficulty finding an excellent place to draw blood. She tied a tourniquet around your arm and cleaned the spot. There was no pain when she pricked you with the needle, and the syringe filled with your blood.
“Have you experienced any fatigue? Headaches? Fevers? Insomnia?” She asked, taking your blood over to a microscope. The fact she had your blood didn’t sit right with you. You tugged on the chains.
“No,” you answered her.
“Have you felt any pain when using your powers?” Her back was still facing you.
“No,” you spoke.
“Any extreme mood swings?” She faces you, hands behind her back. “Anger? Jealously? Depression?” You shook your head now that she was facing you. She brought over a chair and sat down. “Do you know why you were chosen for this?” She questioned.
“Because I’m a Stark,” you whispered. It was the only reason that made sense. You were a Stark, a connection to Iron Man and the rest of the Avengers. Charlotte scuffed, shaking her head.
“You are more than a ridiculous last name. You and I both know that” she trailed her fingertip up and down your veins—goosebumps formed under her touch. “So sensitive,” she giggled. “I wanted you because you are resilient. You overcame so much to get where you are. I am in awe of that raw strength,” you weren’t sure if you could take what she said as a compliment. You’ve heard those exact words from close friends and Natasha, who understood the truth behind your relationship with your father. It didn’t sound enjoyable coming from her. “My beautiful work of art,” your stomach dropped. Bile filled your throat at the name. “We are going to do amazing things for the world.
*
You were tired, even though you were laying in bed and watching her take more of your blood, took a hair sample, and swapped your mouth for your saliva. Whenever she took something from you, she turned her back and worked on whatever she tried to figure out. It wasn’t proving easy. There were subtle changes to her behavior. Shoulders were tense. There was mumbling under her breath. Her eyebrows were pinched together. She was growing frustrated.
Charlotte had a stethoscope around her neck. The cold metal made you jump. “What are you trying to figure out?” She ignored you. “You are running out of time,” she grabbed a needle and filled it with a liquid from a small bottle. You caught the name: Gadolinium. It was a chemical dye used in MRI scans to help improve and enhance the quality of the image. Why would she need that? Unless… You laughed.
“What’s so funny, Stark?” She asked, injecting the dye into your veins.
“You don’t know, do you?” You asked. “You may have selected me, wanted me for my raw strength, but you don’t know how I survived. If I were to guess you expected me to die in that chair,” her silence was all the answer you needed. “I bet your little trick earlier was nothing more than a placebo. You know nothing about what you created,” you focused your power on increasing your body temperature. The metal chains that once held you down melted on your skin. There was pain, but the adrenaline that was moving through your veins overpowered it. Charlotte grabbed a scalpel as you jumped out of the bed, ripping the IV out of your arm. You reached for the tablet she had, and she swiped at your hand, but you were fasted. Grabbing the tablet, you threw it to the ground. The last thing you wanted was for her to contact Anderson.
“I understand you completely,” she slashed again, but you jumped back. “You want approval,” she attacked again. “You want acceptance.” Again, you dogged her. “You want love, and I can give you all of that.” You understood how she was able to convince Anderson to help her. Her words were sickly sweet, and she knew what insecurities to target. There was a part of your brain that wanted to give in. To believe her. Your eyes glanced at the security footage. There were others you had to think about, such as Pepper, your unborn little sister, and your friends back in the city. You had Yelena, Kate, and Peter. Most importantly, you had Natasha and Tony. They gave you love. They accepted you. You would never need her.
Charlotte lunged for you again, and you grabbed her arm to disarm her. However, being without a weapon didn’t deter her. She threw her body at you, and you tumbled to the floor, both fighting for control over the small metal knife. In the end, you were strong. It was a gut instinct as you drove the blade into her stomach and twisted. You were above her and watched her eyes fill with panic and her mouth pool with blood.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “But I can’t allow you to hurt me and my family anymore. You understand that, right?” She nodded and shakily put her hand on your cheek. You allowed her to have her moment. “I hope you find love and acceptance in the next life.” Her hand fell from your cheek, and you watched her breathing stop. Biting back your tears, you closed her eyes. On shaky legs, you left the room. You couldn’t take your eyes off her body until the doors closed.
The hallway was spinning. Your chest was heaving. You pressed your palms to your eyes. “Stop, stop,” you mumbled on the verge of a panic attack. “Breath. Just fucking breath.” You heard a muffled scream from the hall closet, and it pulled you out of the panic attack. “Helen!” You called out and ran towards the noise. Another muffled yell and you open the closet. Helen was gagged and bonded with rope. “Helen,” you removed the towel from her mouth, and she took a gasp for air. “Are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that,” she said, and you began to undo the rope around her wrists and ankles. “Where is she?”
“She is,” you trailed off. “She’s been dealt with.” You killed her. Her blood stained your hands. “Look, Pepper is still in danger, and I need to get to her. Can you call my dad? And don’t use anything that has been connected to FRIDAY.” You weren’t sure how far her reach was. Once Helen was standing on her own two feet, and she reassured you that she was fine, you took off with one of the ropes in your hand. Pepper was on her and Tony’s section of the compound. If the feed was accurate, Anderson had her on the couch. There was a door behind him that you could use, and it was hidden by furniture and a wall if you were fast enough.
*
Quietly, you closed the door behind you and were covered by a bookshelf. You heard footsteps, pacing back and forth. “I don’t get it,” Pepper spoke. “Why are you helping her? You must know what she put my daughter through.” Your heart skipped at the term Pepper called you. You saw her as a mother figure these past few months, but hearing her call you her daughter made your stomach flip.
“She’s not your kid.”
“She might as well be. I didn’t give birth to her, but I love her as my own,” you let out a shaky breath and heard Anderson’s footsteps stop.
“Then you must understand why I’m helping her,” you moved closer, now covered by a small wall. You peeked your head out, and Pepper’s eyes darted to you. Her expression never changed. “I love her,” he kept talking, unaware of what was happening behind him. “And she loves me.”
“Are you sure?” Pepper questioned. “I sense some hesitation.” You let out a shaky breath and wrapped the rope around your hands to create a taut line. You could do this; using your powers was too risky with how close Pepper was.
“She loves me. She’s just busy. Once her experiment is done, she will be mine,” he was obsessed with her, and you weren’t sure if she felt the same.
“I get it,” Pepper whispered. “We do crazy things for the ones we love,” you slowly stood up. “Even putting our own lives at risk.” It was your cue, and you moved quickly to wrap the rope around Anderson’s neck. He struggled against you, but you kicked in his knees. His legs went dead, and he fell. You pulled tighter.
“Sweetheart,” it was a mistake to look at Pepper as Anderson took the pause and flipped you onto your back. The air was knocked out of your lungs. Pepper stood up, picked up the gun he dropped, and helped you up. The guard was coughing and rubbing his neck.
“Get somewhere safe,” you told her. “Tony should be on his way.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he was slowly standing up.
“Go! Now!” You punch him, making contact with his nose. A horrible crack filled the silence, and pain radiated through your fingers, but you refused to let up. You were tired of these people having control over your life. You were supposed to be safe here, and they went and ruined it. Why was this happening to you? Why? Why? WHY? You weren’t sure when you straddled Anderson; each punch you threw was more brutal than the next. His bloody face began to blur with tears that formed in your eyes. You were exhausted and drained, and the adrenaline was running its way out of your system, but a burning rage kept you going until solid arms wrapped around you. “No, no, no,” you struggled against the hold. Were there more? Did Charlotte have other people under her control? How did you miss that? You needed to find Pepper and fast. But they wouldn’t let go of you.
“Hey, malyshka (baby girl), it’s me,” Natasha held onto your face and forced you to look at her.
“Natty,” you whispered; your eyes must have given away your frantic state because her green eyes filled with concern.
“Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe. You’re so safe,” she repeated. You numbly nodded, burrowing your head in her neck. Your whole body shook as you looked over her shoulder and saw Tony checking on Pepper. His eyes locked on yours, and you had to close your own. There was a quilt filling his own. It was too much too much.
*
“You wanted to see me,” you stood in Tony’s lap. After you were treated with your wounds and a long shower, Wanda told you that Tony wanted to see you. You didn’t trust FRIDAY’s announcement. So you scrubbed and scrubbed your skin raw until you were happy with how clean you were. Until you no longer saw the blood on your hands. Tony looked up from his computer; there were bags underneath his eyes.
“Hey,” he smiled. “I wanted to see how you are doing,” you shrugged and walked over to him, arms crossed against your chest.
“Can I stay in here with you for a little bit?”
“Of course,” he went to put his hand on your shoulder but hesitated. When you nodded that it was okay, he hugged you. You felt him release a shaky breath, which told you how much you needed a hug from him. Your hands gripped him tighter, and the faint scent of coffee filled your nose. It made you feel safe. Finally, you ended the hug, whipped a tear that fell from your eye, and crawled into the bean bag he held in his lap. He watched you settle and turned his attention back to what he was working on. A hologram appeared before him, and he began moving different components. They were moving so fast you couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was trying to do. Soon, the items flashed red. He grabbed his coffee mug and threw it against the wall. It shattered on impact, leftover liquid staining the wall. You let out a squeak, surprised by his sudden outburst. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” he began to pick up the porcelain pieces, but you saw his hands shake. Quickly, you stood up from the bean bag and grabbed some paper towels before walking over to him. You heard each hitch in his breath.
“Tony, it’s okay,” you spoke softly. “Let me take care of it.” He rapidly shook his head; breathing became shallow and erratic as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. “Dad,” he looked at you. “I’m going to hug you now, okay?” A simple nod was all you got as you sat up on your knees and brought him into a hug. His head slumped against your chest, and his body was tense with panic.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped.
“Sh,” you told him. “Just follow my breathing. Nice and slow.” You saw his hands release the shards of the cup. Red patches of blood appeared on his palm. The cuts weren’t life-threatening, so you could attend to them later. Soon, his body relaxed against yours, and his breathing was under control. “Good. Let’s move to the couch, maybe a little more comfortable.” He had no fight as he allowed you to stand and move him to the couch. He refused to look at you, not even when you cleaned up the mug or brought a first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, carefully cleaning the minor cuts. You were familiar with panic attacks, having many yourself, and helping your friends through them. “Are you with me?”
“Yeah,” he whispered, licking his lips. “Yeah, I’m here.” You sat beside him on the couch, knocking your leg against his.
“Do you want to talk about what caused the panic attack?” He sighed, opening and closing his hands.
“I was trying to figure out how she did it,” he gestured to the still flashing red items. “She beat me. She was better, and I can’t let that happen and risk you and Pepper’s life. But I can’t fucking figure it out,” he slumped back. “How can I protect her when I keep failing to protect you?” You stayed quiet, tapping your fingers against your thighs. You stared at the blinking hologram. “I am Iron Man,” he mumbled.
“Yes, you are,” you spoke. “You are Iron Man, a part of the Avengers, playboy, genius, billionaire, and philanthropist,” he chuckled. “But you are human, and we sometimes get it wrong. We make mistakes and can’t find the answers to everything. That’s life,” you said. You looked back at him, and he was already looking at you. “The human existence is so uncertain, but that is one thing I know. You will love and protect that little girl and aren’t doing it alone.”
“Morgan,” he said. You whispered it back to him. “It’s the name we decided. Pepper wanted to wait, but I wanted to tell you.”
“I like it,” he held out your hand, and Tony took it. “What happened to me and Pepper was not your fault. Sometimes things happen a little out of our control,” he pulled you into a hug, kissing your temple.
“I’ll never get over how lucky I am to call you my daughter,” you leaned into the hug more and felt your body warm up at the praise.
“I’m pretty lucky I get to call you my dad,” you said. “Do you want some help on that?” You gestured to the hologram. “Two eyes are better than one.”
“Yeah, I’ll take you up on that.”
*
You found Natasha in the training room past midnight, and she wasn’t slowing down anytime soon. Only wearing a sports bra and leggings, she punched and kicked at the sandbag in front of her. Her body was glistening with sweat. Any other time, you would spend the time ogling your very sexy girlfriend, but she was hurting. It was different from seeing Tony’s panic attack or how Pepper hugged you tighter. She was more subtle, but you knew Natasha well. “Hi baby,” you made your presence known, but she kept punching harder and harder. “Do you want to shower and go to bed?” Still no response. You sighed and walked over to her, keeping your footsteps slow but loud. You felt her gaze on you, analyzing your next move. Instead of stopping her, you stretched, crumbled up her shirt, and she took off and lay on the ground. The shirt wasn’t a great pillow.
“Go to bed,” she said.
“Not without you, and you are going to be here for a while, so I’m going to be right here,” you closed your eyes. The rhythmic sound of her punching almost rocked you to sleep, but the sudden quiet pulled you awake. Opening your eyes, Natasha was sitting in front of you. “It’s rude to stare, you know,” she smirked.
“I just like looking at my beautiful girlfriend.”
“Creep,” she laughed, and you knew it was the most beautiful sound in the world. “Are you alright, my love?” She scuffed.
“I feel like I should be asking you,” you said, sitting up and intertwining your legs with hers.
“It’s okay to not be okay with all this. I mean, someone broke into our home,” she looked down, and you forced her chin up to look at you. “Talk to me, beautiful.”
“Do you like living here?” You were stunned by her question. “Your home is here and the city, but do you like both places.”
“Where are you going with this, Natasha?” You asked.
“Sometimes I just want to walk away from this. I want to live where no one can find me and take you with me because I can’t stay somewhere you could be in danger.”
“What about the team? Yelena?”
“Fuck them,” you glared at her knowing she didn’t mean that. “I’ll miss them and this life, but they could come and visit. You are more important than any mission I fight,” she moved closer to you, carefully laying you down on your back. Her body covered yours. “Would you go with me? You could still work, and we would wait till Pepper gave birth. I’d leave this to start a family and keep you safe.” You ran your fingers through her red hair.
“This sounds like a marriage proposal without a ring,” you teased.
“Who said I don’t have a ring?” she kissed your cheek and lingered above your lips. “So what do you say?”
“Show me the ring, and I’ll say yes,” you forced her down, lips colliding into a messy kiss. She tasted mint and a hint of strawberry from her electrolyte drink, and both covered her natural taste. But you couldn’t care less. You kissed her as if your life were dependent on it because, at that moment, it was.
*
“Auntie Nat!” Your five-year-old sister’s side, rushing out of the car and sprinting up the stairs of your log cabin home. Morgan pushed past you and jumped into the arms of your wife. The ex-Avenger dramatically kissed the girl’s cheek, which caused her laughter to fill the quiet space.
“What am I, chopped liver?” You asked.
“She wouldn’t stop talking about spending time at Auntie Nat’s house and playing with Liho,” Tony laughed. You met him halfway to grab Morgan’s bags.
“Unbelievable,” you mumbled, hugging your father and Pepper. “Betrayed by my sister.”
“Thank you for watching her. We appreciate it.” They were leaving on a week-long, no-kid vacation to Europe. You loved watching Morgan, and it seemed only fair since they gifted you this property up in Maine as a wedding gift. Natasha stepped away from Avenging, and you delegated more responsibilities to your company. It was strange at first not having a meeting to attend or waiting by the phone when Natasha was away on a mission. You could relax. You found your sister in the living room, with her toys scattered on the ground, and captured Natasha’s attention in whatever game of make-believe she created.
“I see what you’ll be doing for a week.”
“Can I come to Italy with you and leave them to their devices?”
“Maybe next time,” Pepper laughed, squeezing your shoulder as she walked over to where Morgan was sitting. You placed her bags on the foot of the stairs.
“This looks good,” you hummed in question. “This life away from Avenging and the spotlight. It looks good on both of you,” you smiled as you watched Morgan rope her mother into whatever story she was spinning. “I was hesitant when you said you wanted to move,” you knew he was. “But I’m glad you did it, squirt.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Suddenly, you felt a little body run into your legs.
“Mommy said you were upset because I didn’t say hi,” you picked her up with a slight grunt.
“Hi, Princess Morgan,” you kissed her cheek.
“Hi, sissy,” she wrapped her arms around your neck. “You’re my favorite sister.” You looked at Tony; his mouth hung open slightly.
“Do you have more of us running around I don’t know about?” He shrugged. “Alright, say goodbye to your dad,” you weren’t sure how well she would take being away from her parents for so long. So you and Natasha planned a week filled with fun. Tony took his daughter from you and squeezed her tight.
“Gonna miss you, princess.”
“Miss you too, Daddy,” she whispered. “Are you going to bring me something back?” You chuckled and shook your head. She was a firecracker, always keeping you on your toes. Once more goodbyes were said, and you watched their car drive away, you looked at Morgan.
“Ice cream time?”
“Ice cream time,” she repeated and returned to the cabin. Before you could follow her, Natasha’s arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you close. Her hands rested on your stomach; they seemed to find their way there a lot.
“I love watching you with her,” she kissed your neck. “Makes me excited to meet our little one,” you giggled and turned to face her.
“Are you excited to tell Tony and Pepper when they return?”
“Hopefully, he doesn’t threaten me like when I asked for his blessing.”
“Auntie Nat! Sissy! You said ice cream time!” Morgan’s voice called out.
“Duty calls,” you stole a quick kiss from Natasha and ran into the house, where Morgan waited patiently in the kitchen.
You were married, expecting your first child, and your home was filled with laughter, happiness, and warmth because your life didn’t end when you were trapped in that chair. The doctor was right you were reborn into something beautiful but it wasn’t what she had in mind.
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