fics-not-tragedies

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Twenty-One

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - sixteen - seventeen - eighteen - nineteen - twenty - twenty-one - …

New parts coming now basically when I remember to post after spiralling for days 🤷🏻‍♀️

Words: 2919; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: You and Santino can finally catch a breath for a moment;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 21: “The Unseen Layers”

The day stretched on lazily, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the room. You had spent the morning reflecting on the conversation with Gianna, her words still lingering in your mind. Santino needed someone. More than he'd ever admit. The idea was both a comfort and a challenge. You had seen the way he kept his distance, how he shut people out, even when there was something more beneath the surface. It was clear that trust was a fragile thing for him—fragile and hard-earned.

The soft murmur of footsteps approaching broke you from your thoughts. You knew who it was before the door even opened. Santino. His presence was unmistakable, the weight of his existence felt in the air, even before he stepped into the room.

He appeared in the doorway, looking as though he’d just walked out of a storm. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened at the collar. He looked tired, his jaw clenched, but there was something else beneath it all. Something you couldn’t quite read.

“Ciao, bella,” he greeted, his voice rougher than usual, the flicker of something soft in his eyes as they locked with yours. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as though the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. It wasn’t unusual to see him like this—distant, almost unreachable—but today, something felt different.

You said nothing for a moment, your gaze steady as you took in his appearance. His usual coolness, the silent armor he wore, felt like it was cracking around the edges.

“Everything okay?” you asked, your voice light, but underneath, the concern was unmistakable. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more he wasn’t saying, and it was eating at you.

Santino straightened up, his lips curling into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tutto bene,” he said, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Just… business. You know how it is.” He pushed away from the door and walked toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. There was a heaviness in the way he moved, a stark contrast to the easy confidence he usually exuded.

You watched him carefully, your heart beating a little faster, unsure of what to make of the silence that stretched between you. “I’m starting to get the picture,” you said quietly. “Your world... it’s not just business, is it?”

Santino’s gaze flickered to you, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “Non è così semplice,” he muttered, the words almost like a warning. “You don’t know everything, and I’m not sure I want you to.”

The air between you thickened. You could sense the walls rising again, the familiar distance. But this time, you weren’t ready to let them stay up.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” you said softly, taking a step closer. “But I need you to understand something. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

Santino's eyes softened just the slightest bit at your words, but he quickly masked it, his expression turning back to its usual guarded state. “Lo so,” he replied, his voice low. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

You nodded slowly, sensing the weight of his struggle. “I know it’s not. But it’s not about being easy, is it? It’s about trust. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Dici bene, trust…” He shook his head, as though the word itself left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’ve trusted before. And look where that got me.”

There it was—the edge of the past, the place where the darkness lived. You knew better than to press him on it, but you also knew this was a turning point. You couldn’t let him shut you out now, not when you could feel that the cracks were beginning to show.

“I can’t fix everything, Santino,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “But I can listen. I can be here.”

Santino paused, his eyes meeting yours, searching for something you weren’t sure of. For a moment, there was a flicker of vulnerability, a rawness that he never allowed to show. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, buried behind the walls he had built so carefully over the years.

“Ti ringrazio,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s not enough. Not for me.”

You stepped closer, your heart aching for the man who was so used to carrying the weight of the world alone. “I don’t want to be enough for you, Santino,” you said softly. “I want to be with you. To help you, even if it’s just a little. You don’t have to keep everything locked inside.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak, his gaze intense as if he were trying to decide whether to let you in or shut you out. Finally, he spoke, his voice raw, almost vulnerable. “I don’t know how to let anyone in anymore, tesoro.”

The soft, affectionate word sent a warmth flooding through you, even as you knew it wasn’t quite what you’d hoped for. “Then let me help you learn. One step at a time.”

Santino sighed, his shoulders dropping as if the weight of the world was just a little lighter. But the look in his eyes told you it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“Va bene,” he said quietly, his voice gruff. “But no promises. I’m not an easy person to deal with.”

You smiled faintly, a sense of quiet victory filling you. “Neither am I, Santino.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the silence stretching comfortably between you. You both knew it wasn’t going to be easy, that the road ahead would be filled with challenges, but something had shifted. There was a fragile understanding between you now, a space where trust might just begin to grow.

And as Santino turned to leave the room, his footsteps slow and purposeful, you couldn’t help but feel that despite all the barriers, all the walls, there was a chance—however small—that he might one day let you inside.

The evening settled in slowly, a quiet hum filling the space of the mansion as shadows stretched long across the floor. You sat by the window, watching the world outside fade into the warm glow of streetlights. Your thoughts lingered on the conversation with Santino. There had been a shift, a crack in the walls he had so carefully built around himself. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet. You knew it would take time, and even then, he’d fight it every step of the way.

As the clock ticked past dinner, you found yourself restless, your mind drifting back to the weight of everything. Santino’s world, his past, the dangerous, unpredictable life he led—it all seemed so far removed from your own. And yet, here you were, entangled in it, unsure of where it would take you.

The door to the room opened with a soft creak, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to find Santino standing there, his presence filling the doorway. He wasn’t in his usual sharp suit tonight, just a dark shirt and pants, the collar of his shirt slightly undone. His hair was a little tousled, as though he’d been running his hand through it all evening. His eyes found yours immediately, and for a moment, there was silence.

“Ciao, bella,” he greeted, his voice low but warm. There was something different in his tone tonight—an edge to it that wasn’t quite there before.

You smiled softly, motioning to the seat across from you. “Hey, Santino. Tutto bene?” You could sense the tension in his posture, the way he lingered at the doorway as if unsure of how to step further into the space between you.

He nodded, stepping into the room and sitting down in the chair across from you. He leaned back slightly, as if trying to find comfort in the simplicity of the moment. “Tutto bene,” he said quietly, his eyes locking with yours. “But… I wanted to talk. Parlare... about what we said earlier.”

You nodded, your heart picking up pace as you braced for whatever came next. “I’m listening,” you said, keeping your tone steady, though you couldn’t hide the curiosity that swirled inside you.

Santino sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to push away the weight of his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he started, his voice carrying the weight of everything unsaid between you. “About… letting you in.” He looked at you, his gaze steady but still guarded. “And I don’t know how to do that. Non so come fare.” He let out a short laugh, though it wasn’t full of humor. More like disbelief. “I’ve been doing this on my own for so long, it feels… wrong to need someone.”

Your chest tightened at his words, the vulnerability in his admission stirring something deep inside you. “It’s not wrong, Santino,” you said softly, your voice gentle but firm. “It’s human. We all need someone.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe fear?—flashed in his eyes. “Ma io…” He hesitated, looking away. “I’ve seen what happens when people get too close. People I care about… they get hurt. And I can’t… I can’t let that happen again.”

You leaned forward slightly, your gaze steady on his face, willing him to hear you, to let you in just a little further. “I’m not going anywhere, Santino. I’m not scared of your world. And I’m not scared of you.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. Santino’s eyes searched yours, as though trying to decipher the truth in your words. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter, more uncertain. “Sei sicura? Are you sure about that? About me?”

You nodded slowly, your heart in your throat. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Santino let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “I don’t make promises easily,” he said, his voice low and rough. “And I don’t expect anyone to understand everything. But…” He looked at you, the faintest glimmer of something soft behind his eyes. “Maybe… maybe I’m willing to try.”

The words hung in the air, like a fragile thread between you both. And in that moment, you knew that this—whatever this was—wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t going to be neat and tidy, with a happy ending wrapped in a bow. But it was something. A beginning.

“You don’t have to try alone, Santino,” you said softly. “You don’t have to carry all of this weight by yourself.”

He paused, his gaze flicking to the window for a brief moment before returning to you. His jaw tightened as though he were battling an internal war. “I’ve lived my whole life thinking I could do it alone,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time I stopped pretending I don’t need anyone.”

You smiled, a sense of quiet triumph filling you. There was still so much to work through, so much left unsaid, but this? This was a start. You didn’t know where it would lead, but for the first time, you believed there was a chance. A chance that, despite the weight of his past and the walls he’d built, Santino might—just might—let you in.

“Take it slow,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll take it slow. Together.”

He met your gaze again, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though it was tinged with uncertainty. “Va bene,” he said softly. “We’ll see where this goes. But just so you know, tesoro, it won’t be easy. I won’t make it easy for you.”

You laughed softly, a sense of relief flooding you. “I never expected it to be.”

And for the first time, in a long time, Santino seemed to believe that maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t such a bad thing to have someone by his side.

The night crept in quietly, and the soft hum of the mansion seemed to echo in the spaces between you and Santino. You both sat in silence, the weight of the conversation still lingering, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was oddly peaceful. He hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t withdrawn, and for the first time, you could sense the possibility of something different between you—something real.

Santino leaned back in his chair, the lines of tension that had been etched into his features earlier now softened. He looked at you with a mixture of something like wariness and curiosity, as if he was trying to decide just how much he could reveal without losing control. It was a careful balance, one he knew all too well.

“You’re not scared, vero?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was a little rough, as though he’d been carrying this question for a while but hadn’t been able to ask it.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “Scared?” you repeated, almost smiling at the irony. “Of you? Of this?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Di tutto. Everything about this life—about me—it's not easy, and it’s not pretty." His voice dropped, the weight of his words sinking deeper into the room. "And I don't want to drag you into it if you're not ready."

You felt a sharp pang of something deep in your chest, the familiar tug of something dangerous that you knew would keep drawing you in, no matter how many times you told yourself it was too much. But there was something in Santino—something raw and real—that made you want to stay. To help. To understand.

“I’m ready,” you said softly, your voice steady, even as your pulse quickened. “I’ve been ready for a while now. Per te.”

Santino’s gaze softened, but there was still that guarded edge to him. “Non è così facile, you don’t understand, tesoro. The things I do, the things I’ve done... they don’t go away. They haunt you.” He paused, his eyes clouding for a moment, like memories were threatening to overwhelm him. Then, just as quickly, he blinked, pushing it all aside. “You don’t need to get caught up in that.”

You shook your head, refusing to let him pull away again. “Maybe I don’t need to understand everything right now, but I want to be there for you. Sei importante per me, Santino.” You said it simply, honestly, the truth of it filling the space between you.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away again. But then he leaned forward slightly, his eyes darkening just a fraction. "You know what it means to trust someone in my world, vero?" His voice was low now, more of a whisper than anything else.

You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. “I think I understand. It’s not about just letting someone in. It’s about surviving long enough to trust them.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—almost like respect, but with a mix of something deeper, something more guarded. “Esatto. Trust is a dangerous thing in this life. Ma io... I’m not sure I know how to handle someone who might actually be able to break down the walls I’ve built.”

Your heart twisted, a sharp pang of empathy slicing through you. “Then let me try,” you said quietly, your voice almost pleading. “I won’t ask you to change, Santino. I’ll just… be here. When you need me.”

There was a long silence, his gaze never leaving yours. You could feel the weight of his thoughts, the battle raging within him, and for a moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—he was starting to let himself believe that this, whatever this was between you, was worth the risk.

Finally, he nodded once, slowly, as if testing the waters of his own vulnerability. “Va bene,” he said quietly, the words hanging in the air. “But don’t expect me to make it easy for you. Non sarò facile.”

You smiled softly, relieved that he hadn’t shut you out completely. “I don’t expect easy, Santino,” you replied, your tone light but sincere. “I just want to be your someone. No matter how hard it gets.”

Santino’s lips twitched slightly, the briefest hint of a smile, before he wiped it away as quickly as it came. He stood up, the shift in his posture signaling the end of this conversation, though the weight of it lingered between you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, his voice quieter now, less guarded, but still carrying the weight of everything unspoken.

You nodded, feeling the tension still present, but knowing something had shifted. “Goodnight, Santino.”

As he walked out of the room, you sat in the stillness, the quiet after his departure wrapping itself around you like a blanket. There was no illusion that things would be easy, no promise that everything would suddenly fall into place. But there was a quiet strength in his words, a crack in his armor, and for now—that was enough.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but for tonight, you allowed yourself the smallest measure of hope. Whatever came next, you were ready. Ready to face it by his side, ready to face the unknown together.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Twenty

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - sixteen - seventeen - eighteen - nineteen - twenty - …

Time is just an illusion folks and my life now is a rave I wasn't invited to. New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays, or when I remember to post after spiralling for days.

Words: 4137; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: Gianna turns out to be your unexpected ally in the whole situation;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 20: “Unlikely Ally”

The morning sun had climbed higher, casting a soft golden light through the window as Santino moved around the room, gathering his things. His jacket was slung over his arm, and his demeanor had shifted from the softness of the moment you shared to something more rigid, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him once more. It was clear the time had come for him to step back into the world he had tried so hard to shield you from—the world full of shadows, dangers, and things that couldn’t be ignored.

“You don’t have to go,” you said, your voice quieter now, standing in the middle of the room, watching him with a mixture of hesitation and curiosity. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep him from doing what he had to do, but something about the way he had stepped back into his old role, his old self, felt like a door closing on the moment you’d shared.

Santino paused, his hand resting on the doorframe for a beat longer than necessary. His gaze flickered to you, softening slightly, but there was still a certain hardness in his posture, a reminder of the life he led.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” he said quietly, his voice rough as it always was when he was being honest with himself. “But there are things I need to handle. I’ll be back soon.” His gaze lingered on you, almost as if he were reluctant to leave, as though something in him wanted to stay. But he had a world to return to, a world that always called him away.

You nodded, even though the space between you suddenly felt larger. You had no illusions about who he was or what he did, but it didn’t make it any easier to see him slip back into that role.

"Be safe," you said, unable to hide the concern in your voice.

“I will,” he promised, offering you a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. With that, he turned and disappeared out the door, leaving you in the quiet of the room once again.

A sense of emptiness settled over you, the silence stretching on. You had gotten used to his presence, even in the brief time you’d spent together, and now, without him, it felt as if the mansion had taken on a different atmosphere. You wandered aimlessly for a while, unsure of what to do with the unexpected loneliness that crept in.

But before you could fully lose yourself in your thoughts, there was a knock at the door.

You hesitated for a moment, but curiosity won out. “Come in,” you called, wondering who it could be.

To your surprise, the door swung open to reveal Gianna, Santino’s sister, standing in the doorway with a wide grin on her face.

“Well, well, well,” she said, stepping inside with a bounce in her step. “Look at you, living the high life in this big, lonely mansion.” She chuckled as she closed the door behind her, her eyes scanning the room with a mix of casual interest and amusement. Her energy was like a stark contrast to the weight that Santino had left in the air.

You blinked, caught off guard by her unexpected appearance. “Gianna?” you asked, feeling a bit out of your depth. You had heard a lot about her, mostly through Santino’s guarded mentions, but you hadn’t expected her to just show up at your door.

She tilted her head, offering a bright smile that almost felt like a breath of fresh air. “I know, I know. Not exactly expected, right?” she said, clearly amused by the look on your face. “But I was in the area, and I figured why not stop by? Make sure you’re settling in okay.”

Despite the surprise, you couldn’t help but smile, her friendliness almost disarming. “I wasn’t expecting company,” you admitted, still not entirely sure what to make of this. You had seen the tension between her and Santino, the silent but palpable distance, and yet here she was, completely at ease.

“Well, get used to it,” Gianna said with a wink, pulling a chair out from the small table near the window and sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “I tend to pop in when I feel like it. You’ll survive. I promise.”

You laughed nervously, still trying to process everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. “I’m sure I will,” you said. “But—what brings you here? Is everything okay with Santino?”

Gianna’s expression softened for just a moment, her smile faltering. There was something in her eyes that hinted at a deeper story, one she wasn’t sharing with you. But just as quickly as the shift came, it was gone, replaced with that same easy grin.

“Oh, he’s fine,” she said casually, waving her hand dismissively. “He’s just… being Santino.” She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her own words. “You know how he is. Always so serious, always brooding.” She glanced at you, her gaze sharp but playful. “I’m guessing you’ve already seen that side of him.”

You nodded, the corners of your lips twitching into a smile. “You could say that.”

Gianna laughed again, leaning back in her chair. “Well, I’m not here to talk about him, I promise. I just thought you might need a little company. We both know Santino can be… difficile. So I wanted to make sure you weren’t completely alone in this madhouse of his.”

You appreciated the gesture more than you let on, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you were glad for the unexpected company. The tension that had filled the room after Santino’s departure was beginning to fade, replaced by Gianna’s presence. Her warmth and openness made it easy to relax, even though you knew little about her and what she was truly like outside of her brother’s shadow.

“So, tell me,” Gianna said, leaning forward with interest. “What’s it like living with my brother? I’ve heard bits and pieces, but nothing that gives me a real picture. Does he let you get away with anything, or is he as overbearing as I think?”

You chuckled, feeling a sense of ease in her presence despite the earlier tension. “I don’t know if ‘get away with’ is the right phrase,” you said slowly, considering her question. “But yeah, he’s… protective, I guess. Very protective.”

Gianna raised an eyebrow. “Protective?” she repeated, sounding impressed. “That’s one way of putting it. He doesn’t let anyone get close, and you already know he’s not a fan of surprises.”

You nodded, the truth of her words sinking in. Santino had done everything he could to keep you out of the danger that his life constantly teetered on, and yet here you were, in the middle of it all.

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting along,” Gianna said, her tone softening. “Santino’s never had an easy time with… trust. It’s hard for him. So, if you can break through that, you’ve got something special.” She paused, her gaze flickering for just a moment to the window. “He won’t admit it, but he needs people. He needs qualcuno to rely on.”

Her words hung in the air, and you felt something tighten in your chest—something that wasn’t just curiosity but a deeper understanding of Santino, of the walls he had built around himself. Gianna’s gaze returned to you, the smile returning to her lips as if nothing had shifted.

“Anyway,” she said with a sigh, standing up from her seat, “I didn’t come here to get all sentimental. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting lost in this crazy world of ours.”

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, standing as well. “I appreciate it.”

Gianna winked at you. “No problem. You’re a tough one. I can see why Santino’s keeping you close. Just don’t let him get away with too much, okay?”

You smiled back at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And with that, Gianna was gone, just as quickly and unexpectedly as she had arrived, leaving you once again alone—but this time with a different sense of clarity. Santino’s world was a complicated one, but with people like Gianna in it, maybe it wasn’t as cold as it seemed.

The soft click of the door closing behind Gianna echoed in the room, leaving you alone with the remnants of her unexpected visit. The warmth she had brought with her lingered in the air, but the weight of the conversation she’d started—the brief, veiled mention of Santino’s need for someone to rely on—lingered as well. It was clear that there was so much more to him than the man he showed the world, and Gianna’s cryptic words had only left you more curious about the person he truly was.

You leaned against the edge of the window, gazing out at the sprawling gardens, your thoughts swirling. Santino was a puzzle—pieces scattered and scattered again, and yet, you weren’t sure if you had enough to see the full picture.

The thought of Gianna’s words—"He needs someone to rely on"—kept circling in your mind. You’d seen how Santino shielded himself, distanced himself from everyone—including his own sister. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized how much he had let you into his world in such a short amount of time. There was something he wasn’t telling you. Something deeper than just his role as a protector.

Before you could process it further, there was another knock at the door.

You turned toward it, slightly surprised but not entirely so. You had learned by now that people in Santino’s world didn’t always announce their visits. You opened the door, and there stood Gianna again, this time without the playful smile. Her expression was more serious, a shadow of something deeper behind her eyes.

“Possiamo parlare?—Can we talk?” she asked, her tone softer than before. “In privato—in private.”

You nodded without hesitation, stepping aside to let her in. The change in her demeanor made you uneasy, but your curiosity—about Santino, about the pieces of his life that he kept hidden—drove you to listen.

Gianna closed the door quietly behind her and moved toward the small sitting area near the fireplace. She sat down on the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. For a moment, she seemed to be gathering the right words. The playful Gianna who had just left was gone now, replaced by someone who seemed burdened by something far more serious. You could tell she was deciding whether or not to share something with you—something she hadn’t before.

“Ascolta,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know Santino doesn’t exactly open up about… tutto—everything. And I don’t expect you to understand him right away. Hell, even I don’t always understand him. But I need to be honest with you, especially if you’re going to be around him.”

You sat down on the edge of the chair opposite her, your heart beating a little faster now. Gianna was about to share something important, something that could change everything you thought you knew about Santino. You could feel it in the air—thick and heavy, like a storm was brewing.

“Non fraintendermi,” she continued, her voice soft but tinged with something else—regret, maybe even sadness. “I love my brother. But I’m not blind. I know what he’s hiding. And I know you’re starting to see it too.”

You swallowed, unsure of what to say. The truth was, you had already started to catch glimpses of it—the guarded, brooding man he showed the world. The man who wore his secrets like armor. But you hadn’t known how deep those secrets ran.

“What’s he hiding?” you asked quietly, unable to stop the question from slipping out.

Gianna looked down at her hands, her fingers flexing with tension before she looked back at you. Her eyes, usually sharp and teasing, were now serious—as if the weight of the words she was about to say was heavy on her soul.

“You probably don’t know this, but Santino didn’t start off this way,” she said, her voice thick with sadness you hadn’t expected. “He wasn’t always the man you see today—the man who walks around like he’s got the world on his shoulders. He wasn’t always so… distaccato—detached.” She paused, her gaze flickering to the window as if searching for a way to distance herself from the pain of the memory. “He had a family once. A life. A different kind of life.”

You leaned forward slightly, sensing the shift in her tone. It wasn’t just about Santino’s past. It was something that had clearly shaped him into the person he was now, something that Gianna was struggling to speak about.

“La sua famiglia—his family?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gianna nodded, her expression tightening. “Yes. A mother, a father—people he loved. But loro—they didn’t survive what he became. What he had to do to survive.” Her voice wavered for a second, and you could see that it wasn’t easy for her to speak of. It was clear she had her own wounds from the past, ones that had never fully healed.

“He became involved in the business—our family’s business—when he was younger. But it wasn’t the way it is now. It was more… personal. He didn’t start out trying to be a kingpin or a boss. It was about protection, keeping the people he loved safe. But over time, that protection became tutto—everything. And it cost him.” She let out a bitter laugh, almost as if the words tasted wrong in her mouth. “He became someone else, someone he didn’t even recognize. And that’s the man you’ve met.”

You sat back, absorbing the weight of her words. Santino, the cold, calculating protector, hadn’t always been this way. He had been shaped by circumstances, by a past filled with loss and betrayal. He wasn’t just the man who carried the weight of his family’s empire; he was someone who had been forced to leave pieces of himself behind to survive.

“But why keep it a secret?” you asked. “Why not tell me any of this?”

Gianna sighed deeply, rubbing her temples as if the conversation was draining her. “Because it’s troppo—too much for him to carry. It always has been. He built these walls around himself so high that even I can’t get through them sometimes. He’s afraid of what’ll happen if anyone sees the cracks. He doesn’t trust easily… and after what happened with our parents, I can’t blame him.”

Your heart ached as you tried to picture Santino, the young man who had once known love and warmth, and who had been torn apart by the weight of the world he had inherited. This was more than just his need to protect. It was the consequence of a past he could never escape.

“So, what happened to your parents?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. You needed to know—needed to understand the source of the darkness that clung to Santino.

Gianna’s eyes hardened as she spoke, the pain etched into every word. “They were taken from us. The same business that Santino got involved in, the one that was supposed to keep us safe… ended up taking them from us. Our father made enemies, and our mother paid the price. They were both killed in a hit that was meant for him. He never forgave himself for it. And that’s when everything changed.”

The silence in the room was suffocating as you processed the enormity of what Gianna had just shared. Santino’s entire existence had been shaped by a violent past, a past that had taken away the people he loved most and left him with nothing but the cold comfort of power. The man you had seen, the protector, the one who pushed everyone away, was a reflection of someone who had been broken by loss.

Gianna stood up then, her expression softening a little. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gentle now. “I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you. But you need to understand, lui—he needs to understand… that he’s not alone. Not anymore.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of her words pressing down on you. You understood now. You understood the man who carried the weight of so many secrets, the man who had never learned how to trust, because trusting meant opening himself up to more loss.

And yet, in this moment, you knew something had shifted. He had let you in, even if only just a little. And maybe, just maybe, you could be the one who helped him find a way out of the darkness that had trapped him for so long.

The air between you and Gianna was thick with unspoken understanding, each word she spoke carving deeper into the complex, fractured past that shaped Santino. She had pulled back the curtain just a little, revealing glimpses of the man he used to be and the man he had become. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. You still had so many questions, still so much you didn’t know.

Gianna glanced at the clock on the wall, her gaze momentarily distracted, before she turned back to you, her expression softening.

"I didn't mean to overwhelm you," she said, her voice still heavy with the weight of the past. “I just want you to understand him... capisci? He may not show it, but he ha bisogno—he needs someone to credere in him." She spoke the Italian words so fluidly, as if they were as much a part of her as her breath. You nodded, understanding the weight behind her words.

You could hear the silent plea for you to see him as something more than the hardened protector, the man wrapped in layers of guilt and regret. Credere. To believe. To believe in Santino, even when he couldn’t believe in himself.

"I... I get it," you said quietly, trying to grasp the enormity of what she had revealed. “But why doesn't he let anyone in? Why push everyone away, even you?” The question hung in the air between you, fragile yet insistent. You wanted to understand why the walls were so high, why Santino had chosen to live a life of isolation, of constant vigilance.

Gianna sighed, her fingers running through her hair in a gesture that was both tired and resigned. "For him, it’s easier that way. If you push people away, you don’t have to see them hurt, capisci?" Her eyes held a sadness that spoke of a thousand conversations left unsaid. “Our family... the business—it made him like this. But the thing is, lui—he doesn't realize that he needs people to survive. He’s always been alone in that world. But now...” She paused, her voice cracking with emotion for just a moment before she steadied herself. “Now, he has you. And he’s scared of what that means.”

You sat back, absorbing her words, the weight of them heavy in your chest. Santino was scared. It was something you hadn’t seen, not in the way she described it. He had shown his fear in ways you couldn’t quite articulate—his sharp edges, his distant demeanor—but to hear it from someone who knew him best made it feel real.

"You don't know what it's like, credimi," Gianna continued, her voice low, almost a whisper now. "To watch him... become this. I’d give anything to take away the burden he carries. Anything to bring back the brother I once knew. But that’s not possible anymore." She looked at you, her eyes searching, vulnerable. "But maybe... maybe you can help him find something of that man again. If anyone can, it’s you."

Her words were both a gift and a challenge. The idea that you could be the one to reach Santino in ways no one else could... it was overwhelming. And yet, somewhere deep inside, you felt that pull, that sense that this was more than just fate. It was a chance to help him heal, to help him let go of the ghosts that haunted him.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I’ll do my best,” you promised, your voice firm. It was a promise to Santino, to Gianna, and to yourself. You would be there for him, no matter how hard it might be. You weren’t sure what that would look like yet, or how you’d even begin to help him let go of the weight he carried. But you knew this much: you couldn’t turn away now.

Gianna gave you a small, approving smile, her lips curling up just slightly. “Brava,” she said, her voice thick with pride. "I knew you were different the moment I saw you. Lui... he may not admit it, but he’s pazzo—crazy about you." She winked at you, the playful glint returning to her eyes. “Not that he’d ever say it out loud.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at her words, a flutter in your chest that was equal parts discomfort and something else, something you couldn’t quite name. The idea that Santino might feel more for you than he let on… it both thrilled and terrified you.

“Gianna…” you started, but she cut you off with a playful laugh.

“Don’t worry, non dire niente—don’t worry about it for now,” she said, raising a hand to stop you. “I’m just saying, there’s something there. And I don’t think you can deny it, no matter how hard he tries.” She stood up, brushing off the front of her shirt with a nonchalant gesture. “But enough about him. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to think about than his mistero—his mystery.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her sudden shift back to her usual, more playful self. “I think I’ve had enough of his mystery for one day,” you said with a soft laugh, feeling the tension of the conversation start to ease. “But thank you, Gianna. For everything. For helping me understand him... and for being here.”

Gianna smiled warmly, her eyes softening as she took a step toward you. “Di niente—it’s nothing,” she said with a wink. “I’ll be around. You know where to find me if you ever need to talk... or if Santino gets on your nerves too much.”

You both laughed at that, the lightness of the moment making it easier to breathe again. There was still so much you didn’t know, so much you had yet to understand. But for now, this—this quiet moment of connection with Gianna—felt like a small victory in a world that was anything but predictable.

As she reached the door, she turned back to you, her expression more serious now. “Just remember, lui... Santino, he’ll push you away. But don’t let him. He won’t say it, but he needs you. More than he’ll ever admit.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving you to sit with her words, the weight of them settling over you like a cloak. You weren’t sure exactly what this would mean, or how it would all play out, but you felt something shift deep inside.

Whatever you were to Santino, whatever this was—whatever it could be—it wasn’t going to be easy. But then again, nothing about him ever was.

And in that moment, you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t ready to walk away. Not now. Not when you had just begun to unravel the truth about the man who had stolen your heart.

The sound of Gianna’s footsteps faded as she disappeared down the hallway, and you were left alone with her words echoing in your mind. You stared at the door for a long moment, feeling the quiet settle around you like a heavy fog. Her advice lingered in the air, a reminder of the complexities of Santino’s world—and of your place in it.

You weren’t sure what you expected from Santino, or even from yourself, but something about the way Gianna had said it—so matter-of-fact, yet filled with an underlying tenderness—made you wonder if you’d truly begun to see him for who he really was.

The thought was both terrifying and thrilling. You couldn’t deny that you had felt the pull of something between you and Santino, something magnetic and intense. But you also couldn’t ignore the walls he’d built around himself, the fortress he kept so carefully guarded.

You took a deep breath, pushing away the weight of the uncertainty. For now, you would take it one step at a time. No grand gestures, no lofty expectations. Just… trying to understand. Trying to figure it out.

Santino may have kept his distance, but you weren’t going anywhere. Not when there was still so much left to discover about him—and about the feelings that were slowly but surely growing between you.

With that resolve in your heart, you stood up, ready to face whatever came next.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Nineteen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - sixteen - seventeen - eighteen - nineteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 3537; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: Even more feelings are felt towards Santino;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 19: “The Weight of the Unseen”

The early morning light crept slowly through the tall windows of your room, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. The mansion, for all its vastness, felt oddly suffocating in the stillness. You sat on the edge of the bed, the sheets a tangle of fabric where you’d spent restless hours after Santino had left. Sleep had come in fits and starts, fleeting moments where you’d manage to slip into a shallow rest, only to be awakened by the weight of your thoughts. The blood. The violence. The quiet promise of something more.

You glanced at the clock—just past seven. The air outside was heavy with the promise of a day that would be anything but calm. But in the silence of the room, it felt like time had slowed to a crawl. The world beyond the mansion seemed far away, like a distant echo you couldn’t quite reach.

You hadn’t expected to wake up with so many questions—or so many answers—but there they were, tangled together in the back of your mind. Santino. His world. His darkness. You hadn’t expected it to pull you in so completely, and yet here you were, with his scent still lingering on your clothes and his blood still etched into your memory. And as much as you tried to push it away, as much as you told yourself to leave it behind, the truth was undeniable.

He had shown you a side of himself—a side he didn’t want you to see. And now you couldn’t unsee it, no matter how much you tried.

Sighing, you stood, your muscles stiff from the hours of laying in the same position, and moved to the window. The gardens outside were still, the morning fog clinging to the grass like a ghost. The world felt distant, untouchable, and yet somehow, impossibly close. You ran a hand through your hair, the weight of the night still hanging heavy on your shoulders.

You knew what you had to do next, but that didn’t make it any easier. You couldn’t just sit in this room, waiting for him to come back. You couldn’t wait for Santino to decide what came next. You were in this now, whether he liked it or not.

A soft knock at the door broke your reverie, and you turned toward it instinctively, your heart skipping a beat. It was too soon for him to return. Too soon for the familiar cadence of his footsteps in the hallway. But you knew better than to assume.

“Come in,” you called, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your chest.

The door opened quietly, revealing a figure standing just inside. It was one of the house staff, a woman in her mid-thirties, her expression professional but warm. She held a tray in her hands, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries filling the air.

“Good morning, Miss,” she greeted with a polite smile. “I’ve brought breakfast, just as requested. Is there anything else you need?”

You blinked at her for a moment, the simplicity of the moment almost jarring after everything that had happened. Breakfast. Just breakfast. You hadn’t expected to feel so grateful for something so mundane.

“No, this is perfect,” you said, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

She nodded and set the tray on the small table by the window, giving you a small, knowing glance before turning to leave. “If you need anything, Miss, just let us know.”

As she closed the door behind her, you found yourself staring at the tray, the steam rising from the coffee cup. It was a small comfort, something simple to center yourself before the storm that was surely coming.

You poured yourself a cup of coffee, the dark liquid filling your senses with its warmth. The silence that followed felt almost too thick, as though it was waiting for something to break it—something that would push you into the next moment.

And then, as if on cue, there was another knock at the door.

This time, you didn’t hesitate. You knew who it was. You had felt it coming.

You opened the door slowly, and there stood Santino, his face still slightly bruised from the previous night, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but there was something different about him this morning. The hard lines of his face were softer, and the tension in his posture, while still present, seemed less consuming than it had been. He wasn’t trying to hide himself from you. At least not today.

He glanced at you, then at the tray of breakfast on the table. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said, his voice lower than usual, like it was a quiet admission.

You didn’t say anything right away, simply stepping aside to let him in. The door clicked shut behind him with a faint, final sound. He moved toward the table, but before he sat down, he looked at you, his eyes searching for something in your expression—an answer to the unspoken question that always lingered between you two.

"I—" He stopped, seemingly unsure of what to say next, before just giving a small shake of his head. "Forget it, bella."

You raised an eyebrow at him, walking toward the table and sitting down. "Santino," you said, your voice steady but soft, "you don’t have to hide. Not from me."

He paused, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he finally sat down, pulling a chair closer to the table. “I’m not hiding, bella” he said quietly, picking up a piece of toast and breaking it absentmindedly. “But... this is a lot, and you don’t have to take it all on. I never asked you to.”

You studied him for a moment, seeing the guarded expression in his eyes, the flicker of something deeper—something unspoken. It was as if he were trying to protect you from whatever he was feeling, as if he could keep you safe by keeping himself distant. But you could already feel the pull between you, the bond that had been forged last night in a way neither of you had expected.

“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” you said, your tone gentle but firm. “I’m here, Santino. Whether you want me here or not.”

He didn’t answer immediately, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet clink of the coffee cup as you took a sip. Finally, he let out a slow breath, his fingers tracing the edge of the coffee cup in front of him.

“Alright, amore” he said quietly. “But know this—I’ll do anything to keep you safe. Anything. No matter what it costs.” His gaze flickered up to meet yours, and for the first time, there was something almost desperate in his eyes.

You leaned forward slightly, your gaze never leaving his. “Then let me help,” you said, your voice unwavering. “Let me be a part of it, Santino. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He stared at you for a long while, as though weighing the words in his mind, his lips parted in the beginning of a protest, but then they closed again, the fight in him slowly draining away.

Finally, he nodded once, his jaw tightening just slightly. “I don’t know how to let anyone in, bella” he admitted, his voice so soft it almost seemed like he was speaking to himself.

You gave him a small smile, the warmth of it reaching your eyes. "We'll figure it out," you said, as though the words were a promise, as though this was the first step of something neither of you had expected but both knew, deep down, was inevitable.

He didn’t respond right away, but he didn’t need to. The air between you both had shifted, the weight of the night finally giving way to something that felt more real—more tangible. Whatever came next, you were both in it together.

The room felt charged with the silence between you. Santino sat across from you, his eyes shadowed with a mixture of conflict and something else—a hesitation that lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. The connection that had been building between you both felt like a fine thread, delicate but strong, and now it seemed poised to snap.

You weren’t sure when it happened—when the weight of everything shifted from confusion and fear into something else. Something you couldn’t quite name yet. But in the space between your shared silence, you could feel it. His eyes hadn’t left yours for the past few minutes, the intensity of his gaze pulling you in as if he were searching for an answer, a reassurance that you hadn’t yet given him.

His breath, steady and slow, seemed to deepen with each passing moment, as though he were gathering the courage to break through whatever barrier still stood between you. The warmth of the coffee cup in your hands was suddenly an insignificant distraction compared to the heat that radiated between you both.

“I don’t know how to do this, amore” Santino’s voice broke through the silence, rough and raw, like he was admitting something far deeper than he intended. His fingers twitched, as though he was fighting the urge to reach out, to touch, to do something that would shatter the distance between you.

“You don’t have to have all the answers,” you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally lowered your coffee cup. Your gaze never wavered from his face. “We’ll figure it out together.”

His jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with the weight of the moment. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to speak again, to protest, to tell you to leave—something. But then, without warning, his eyes darkened. There was a flicker of something in them, something raw, something unguarded.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t look away. You just held your breath, letting the world slow around you both.

And then, like a storm breaking, he stood suddenly, his movements swift but deliberate. Before you could react, he was there in front of you, his presence overwhelming, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Santino’s hand reached out, hesitating just inches from your face. His fingers brushed the side of your cheek, the touch almost tentative at first, as though he were testing the waters. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, and for the briefest moment, you felt the gentleness of his touch, the tenderness beneath all the rough edges.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, bella” his voice was low, barely a whisper, like the words were both a confession and a warning. The heat in his eyes was unmistakable now, raw and aching. “I don’t know how to keep you safe. How to protect you from all of this.”

You didn’t say anything, your lips parting slightly as your breath caught in your throat. There was something in the way he looked at you, something that made your pulse quicken, a silent plea hanging between you both. You could see the internal battle in him, the man who was used to pushing people away, to keeping them at arm’s length, but who, in this moment, had no idea how to fight the pull of what was happening between you.

Before you could say another word, his other hand moved, sliding into the hair at the back of your neck, his fingers threading through it gently, as though to steady himself. And then, without warning, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours—just the lightest, softest touch, a fleeting moment that both startled and soothed you.

It was a question. A quiet invitation. And, despite everything that had happened, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t allow it, you didn’t pull away. You let it happen.

And then, slowly, the kiss deepened.

His lips were firm, urgent, yet somehow hesitant, as if he feared breaking something. His body was pressed against yours now, his hand moving to cradle the side of your face, keeping you close. Your hands moved of their own accord, reaching up to grip his shirt, the fabric rough under your fingers as you pulled him closer, not wanting to break the kiss, not wanting to let go.

The world outside seemed to disappear at that moment. The weight of everything—the violence, the danger, the unspoken truths—seemed to fall away as his lips moved against yours, each breath a silent plea. A need that neither of you could deny any longer.

Santino’s hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his other hand finding the side of your face again, his thumb brushing over your cheek as if to memorize every inch of you. His touch was searing, like fire against your skin, and you didn’t care. You let yourself feel everything—the raw emotion, the tenderness, the hunger that hung between you both.

When he finally pulled away, it was almost reluctantly, his forehead resting against yours as you both breathed heavily, the space between you still crackling with the energy of what had just passed.

“I don’t know if I’m good for you, amore” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But I can’t stop this. I can’t stop wanting you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you leaned into him, your fingers still resting on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just have to be here. With me.”

His eyes searched yours, a mix of fear and desire flickering in them, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat into the shadows of his guarded self. But he didn’t. Instead, he kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, the weight of everything between you pressing down, but somehow, in that kiss, it felt like a beginning.

The kiss had lingered in the air between you both like a quiet, unspoken truth. When it finally ended, the silence seemed heavier, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It was different. You could feel it in the way Santino stood before you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hand remained on your cheek, fingertips brushing gently against your skin, like he was afraid to pull away entirely.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the weight of everything sink in. His scent was still all around you, and the memory of the kiss—its intensity, its hunger—was a fire that burned low in your chest. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, but it wasn’t fear that gripped you now. It was something far more consuming. Something unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

You opened your eyes again, meeting Santino’s gaze. His expression was unreadable, a mask of uncertainty that didn’t quite match the raw emotion still flickering in his eyes. The man who had been so guarded, so controlled, was now standing here before you, his walls crumbling just enough for you to see the person beneath.

“You’re not going to push me away, are you?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Santino’s hand dropped from your face, his fingers curling into a fist as he stepped back just slightly. The distance between you seemed to grow in an instant, but not in a way that felt dismissive. It was more like he was giving himself space to breathe, as though he feared the closeness might drown him.

“I don’t know how to do this, bella” he said, his voice raw and strained, like every word was a battle. “I’ve never let anyone in like this. I’ve never wanted to.”

You stood there for a moment, unsure whether to close the distance or give him the space he was asking for. The contradiction in him was impossible to ignore. He was the kind of man who had lived with secrets buried so deep that even he couldn’t remember where they started. And yet, here he was, standing in front of you, his walls halfway down, leaving him exposed in a way he never intended.

“You don’t have to have all the answers, Santi,” you said again, this time stepping toward him slowly, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. “I’m not asking you to be someone you’re not. I’m just asking you to be real with me.”

His eyes flickered to yours, and there was a brief moment where you thought he might walk away. That he might shut you out again. But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, as though trying to shake off the weight of his own thoughts. “I don’t know what to do with this… with you,” he muttered, barely audible. “I don’t know how to handle it, amore.”

The vulnerability in his words struck you, sharp and unexpected, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. He’d just kissed you, but he was still the same man who had lived a life of secrecy and violence. The same man who couldn’t let anyone close.

But that’s exactly what you wanted to change. You weren’t asking him to fix everything. You weren’t asking him to suddenly be someone else. You were simply asking him to let you in—even if only a little.

“You don’t have to fix it,” you said, your voice soft but resolute. “You just have to let me stay.”

Santino’s gaze softened, the edges of his tension easing just enough to let the truth of his emotions slip through. He seemed to hesitate for a long moment, his fingers gripping the edge of the chair as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Why?” he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you want to stay? After everything? After what I’ve done?”

The question was haunting, a reflection of the guilt that always seemed to follow him like a shadow. You could see it in his eyes—the weight of every decision he’d ever made, the lives he’d taken, the people he’d hurt. The darkness he carried with him.

You walked toward him, your steps slow but deliberate, until you were standing just in front of him. You placed your hand on his arm, your fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his shirt. His eyes flickered down to your touch, then back to your face, as if trying to read you.

“I don’t know all of it,” you said quietly, your thumb tracing the lines of his sleeve. “But I know you’re not just… that man. You’re more than the things you’ve done. And if you let me, I want to see the rest of you.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His eyes closed for a brief moment, as though your words were too much to process. You could almost feel the weight of his hesitation, the part of him that still wanted to push you away, to keep the walls intact. But it wasn’t as strong as before.

When his eyes finally opened again, they were darker, but there was something softer in them too—a quiet longing, almost as though he were finally allowing himself to want something. Someone.

“I don’t deserve you, amore” he said, his voice barely a whisper, but there was no edge to it, no hardness. Just raw, unguarded honesty.

You shook your head gently. “You’re not broken, Santino. You don’t have to be perfect to deserve someone. You just have to be you.”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the air between you two thick with the unspoken, the impossible closeness that was still so new. And then, slowly, without saying another word, Santino stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup your face, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.

This time, the kiss came with a new weight—a shared understanding that neither of you had spoken aloud. His lips pressed against yours softly at first, a question that you answered with the same quiet certainty that had carried you through the last few hours. His hands cradled your face like he was afraid you’d slip away if he wasn’t careful enough.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, as though this moment held everything that had gone unsaid between you—the fear, the desire, the need for something that neither of you fully understood, but both of you felt. You melted into it, allowing him to pull you closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as your heart beat louder than anything else in the world.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, Santino rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he let the moment wash over him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. In that moment, he wasn’t the man burdened with all of his past. He wasn’t the protector, the warrior, the one who had learned to carry the world alone.

He was just a man with someone by his side.

And for the first time in a long while, it seemed like enough.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Eighteen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - sixteen - seventeen - eighteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 3314; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: Santino is finally back with you and you get overwhelmed with all the feelings;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 18: “Dangerous Feelings”

Back in your room, the mansion felt quieter than ever, its vast spaces almost too still. The journal’s words still lingered in your mind, a blend of warmth and vulnerability that made your chest tighten. You closed the door behind you softly, leaning against it for a moment as you tried to process everything you’d just read. Santino’s thoughts, his admissions—they felt like pieces of a puzzle you weren’t sure you were ready to complete.

Crossing the room, you moved toward the window again, drawn to the pale light of the moon as it spilled over the gardens. The world beyond the glass felt so distant, so far removed from the weight of Santino’s world. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like to step out of this—out of the danger, the secrets, the complexities of him. But the thought was fleeting. Whatever this was, it had already become a part of you, and you couldn’t walk away from it any more than you could walk away from your own shadow.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, Santino’s jacket still wrapped tightly around your shoulders. The scent of him was faint but comforting, grounding you in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just the journal that had affected you—it was everything. The way he looked at you, the way he held you, the way he carried the weight of so many promises without ever letting it show.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the blanket as you tried to find a thread of calm, but it eluded you. Questions swirled in your mind, each one louder than the last. Why had he let you in? What did he see in you that made him vulnerable in ways he wouldn’t even allow himself to acknowledge fully?

With a sigh, you lay back against the pillows, your gaze fixed on the ceiling. Sleep still felt like an impossible feat, but your body ached with exhaustion, the weight of the night pressing down on you. You closed your eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint hum of the mansion around you.

Time passed in fits and starts, your thoughts drifting like leaves caught in a restless wind. And then, sometime in the early hours of the morning, you felt it—a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable. Your eyes fluttered open, the faintest hint of dawn creeping into the sky beyond the window.

The door to your room creaked softly, and before you could even sit up, the silhouette of Santino filled the doorway. His frame was tense, every muscle taut like a coiled spring. But what made your breath catch in your throat wasn’t the raw energy he exuded—it was the blood. It stained his clothes, his skin, dripping from his hands, leaving a dark trail in his wake.

Your heart raced. For a moment, you couldn’t find your voice, your body frozen as you processed the scene before you. His face, usually so composed, was now marred by streaks of crimson, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that was equal parts ferocity and... something else. Something dangerous.

"Santino…" You whispered his name, barely finding the strength to speak, your voice shaking.

He took a step forward, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, and closed the distance between you. Without a word, he stood there for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with controlled breath, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence between you was thick, oppressive, yet his presence somehow managed to fill the room, as if he was trying to say everything without speaking a single word.

And then, in a low, gravelly voice, he finally spoke, the weight of what he’d done sinking into his words.

"They won’t be bothering us again." His eyes flickered to the blood staining his clothes. "I took care of them."

The matter-of-fact tone of his voice made your stomach tighten. You couldn’t reconcile the man standing before you with the quiet, intense man you’d known, the one who had shown you a tenderness you didn’t think existed in someone like him. But this? This was something else. Something darker.

You swallowed hard, trying to push away the sting of fear and the gnawing question that refused to leave your mind. How far would he go to protect you?

He didn’t wait for you to respond, stepping closer, as if instinctively drawn to you. His hand, slick with blood, reached out toward you, but you stopped him with a gentle touch, your fingers resting against his wrist.

“Santino… You—what happened? Who are they?” The words barely formed, your mind struggling to process it all.

His jaw tightened, and for the briefest second, something flickered in his eyes—a flash of regret, or perhaps just exhaustion. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“They were a threat,” he said quietly, his voice colder now. “I made sure it won’t be a problem anymore.”

There was no pride in his voice, no boast. Just the statement of a man who had done what needed to be done. It was almost as if he expected you to understand, to accept it without question. And maybe, for a moment, you almost did.

But then, as your hand lingered on his wrist, you realized what was bothering you most wasn’t just the blood—it was the fact that he’d faced it all alone.

He hadn’t wanted you to see this side of him. But now, standing before you, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was allowing you to see just how far he would go to keep you safe. To keep you with him.

Your voice was softer when you spoke next, your fingers tracing the outline of his wrist.

“You’re covered in blood,” you said, your words hesitant, but honest. “Are you alright?”

Santino’s eyes softened just a fraction, and the hard edges of his posture loosened as if your concern somehow reached him. He gave a small nod, but the shadow of what had just happened still lingered in his eyes.

“It’s not my blood, bella,” he muttered, turning to move toward the door.

But before he could leave, you stood, walking toward him. The tension between you was palpable, thick with the unspoken words that neither of you seemed ready to confront.

"Santino," you said again, your voice steady now, as you reached out and gently grasped his arm. He stopped, but didn’t turn to face you. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The silence stretched out between you, heavy and charged. Slowly, Santino’s head turned, his gaze meeting yours, and for the first time, you saw something vulnerable beneath the hardness—a flicker of something raw and real.

He didn’t say anything. But as he let his body relax under your touch, you knew. You knew he didn’t want to face this alone—not anymore.

With a steady breath, he nodded once, the smallest of acknowledgments. "I don’t plan to."

And for the first time, the darkness that surrounded you both didn’t feel so overwhelming.

The silence between you stretched out for a moment longer, filled only by the faint rustle of his clothes and the low hum of the mansion, as if even the house itself held its breath. Santino didn’t move, his back still facing you, yet you could feel the change in him. His posture had softened just enough for you to sense it—the subtle shift in his defenses. For all his strength, all his forceful presence, there was something vulnerable in the way he stood now. It wasn’t his bloodstained form or the ferocity he’d shown earlier. It was the way he allowed himself to be seen in this moment.

You took a step closer to him, and his body tensed slightly, like a man on edge, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t push you out. Instead, he allowed you to bridge the space between you, to stand close enough that you could feel the weight of what had happened still pressing down on him.

"Santino," you repeated, your voice soft but insistent. "You don't have to hide from me. Not anymore."

He let out a long breath, the sound almost too soft to hear. His hand, still slick with blood, dropped to his side as if the simple motion exhausted him. The rough edges of the night had caught up to him, and you could see the fatigue in the lines of his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. But there was also a weariness that ran deeper than physical exhaustion. It was the weight of everything he’d been carrying, the burden he’d been shielding you from. The kind of burden you now understood had been eating at him for far longer than he let on.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m a burden, amore” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed forced out, as if it took all his will to admit the vulnerability they carried.

You shook your head gently, taking another step closer, your fingers brushing lightly over the blood that had begun to dry on his jacket. “You’re not a burden, Santino. You never were.”

His eyes flickered to yours, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, but he only stood there, the tension in his shoulders speaking louder than words. He was so used to carrying it all himself—used to being the one who bore the responsibility, the one who took the blame.

But this time, in this moment, you didn’t want him to carry it alone.

“You’re not alone,” you repeated, more firmly this time, as if to reassure both of you.

He finally looked at you fully then, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if trying to read something in your face—some hidden meaning, some lie. But there was none. You weren’t offering him pity or a false promise. You were offering him what he had refused to allow himself before: a partnership. An acknowledgment that whatever this was between you, whatever kind of storm was swirling around you both, you would face it together.

His lips parted, his gaze still searching yours, but no words came. He was a man who communicated in actions, not in sentimental words. He had shown you the depth of his world in ways you couldn’t deny. But now, there was an opening. A shift.

“Sit with me,” you said, your voice still soft, but you pulled him closer without hesitation. You led him to the edge of the bed, guiding him gently down until he was seated, his head hanging slightly in exhaustion. He didn’t resist, didn’t push you away. He simply followed your lead, his movements mechanical but not without a trace of gratitude.

You moved to sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, but not quite touching—just enough to allow the quiet comfort of presence to fill the space between you. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t need to. The words had already been said—the understanding already established. The air between you hummed with the unsaid, the promise of whatever came next, but also the raw recognition of everything that had led you both here.

His breath was still uneven, like he hadn’t fully exhaled the tension of the night. You reached up slowly, carefully, and placed your hand over his, the bloodied one. It was warm beneath your palm, the blood now beginning to clot in places, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were here, that you were offering him a silent comfort he hadn’t asked for but needed more than he realized.

“Let me help,” you murmured, your touch gentle, almost hesitant, as you moved to wipe the blood from his skin with the edge of your sleeve. He watched you for a long moment, a flicker of something passing through his eyes—a mix of confusion and something that almost looked like tenderness.

“You don’t have to do that, bella” he murmured, though his voice was softer now. The harshness that had marked his earlier words had all but faded away, replaced by something almost like... vulnerability.

You didn’t answer right away, instead continuing to wipe the blood from his skin, your fingers tracing the jagged path it left across his hands. It was almost a ritual, this quiet act of care. But more than that, it was a moment of connection, something more real than the violence of the night or the weight of what lay ahead.

Finally, when his hand stilled beneath yours, he looked at you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

“You should go, bella” he said quietly. “It’s dangerous here.”

The words should have sounded like a dismissal, but they didn’t. They sounded like a warning—an acknowledgment that, even now, he was still trying to protect you. But you didn’t want to run. You didn’t want to hide. Not from him, not from the storm that raged inside him, nor the one that seemed to be building between you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied firmly, your voice unwavering. "I'm not leaving you."

His eyes softened just the slightest bit at your words. The hardness in his posture began to melt away, if only for a moment. You could almost hear the invisible weight lifting, but you knew it wasn’t gone. Not yet.

But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to crush him anymore. Not when he had you by his side.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Santino sat still beside you, his bloodied hands now gently cupped in your own, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that was both calming and unsettling. His shoulders, once rigid with tension, slowly began to loosen, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t pushing you away. The fierce protector, the silent warrior, was… just a man in this moment. A man who was worn, vulnerable, and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, willing to let someone else share the burden.

The air between you felt charged, as though the universe had just handed you a delicate thread, one that could either bind you closer or tear you apart. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into the quiet storm that churned between you—because you knew, deep down, that it was this storm that had shaped him. And, whether he liked it or not, you were no longer a mere bystander in it.

“You’ve carried this for so long, haven’t you?” you asked softly, your thumb brushing over the scarred lines of his hand. The question wasn’t just about the blood on his clothes or the violence he had just committed—it was about everything that had led him here. Everything he had kept locked away.

Santino’s eyes flickered briefly to your touch, the smallest of reactions before he exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice quieter now, the steel in it muted by exhaustion. “It’s how it works, how it’s always been. People like me… we don’t get the luxury of letting our guard down, bella.”

There it was again. That wall. The wall he had built around himself, brick by brick, each one forged from years of survival. He wasn’t used to this—he wasn’t used to letting someone in, much less someone like you.

You didn’t say anything at first, instead letting the silence settle between you both. You didn’t need to answer. You didn’t need to fix him. But you needed him to know that you were here, that you weren’t afraid of the man in front of you, not the blood, not the violence, and certainly not the shadows that clung to his soul.

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore,” you said finally, your voice quiet but resolute. “You’re not alone.”

Santino’s head tilted slightly, his dark eyes searching yours, looking for some hint of insincerity, some sign of weakness in your words. But there was none. You weren’t speaking out of pity or a desire to save him. You were speaking because it was the truth. And deep down, you could feel him wrestling with the truth of it, even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it yet.

For a moment, his gaze softened, just a fraction, before he pulled his hand away from yours, rubbing his thumb along his jawline in that familiar motion, the one that betrayed his thoughts. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, amore” he muttered, his voice rough, like he was trying to warn you. Trying to shield you from the storm he had unleashed.

“I don’t care,” you replied, surprising even yourself with the certainty in your voice. You had known from the start that this wasn’t going to be easy, that being near him would come with its own set of risks and challenges. But those risks didn’t matter—not anymore.

You reached for his hand again, not to comfort him this time, but to make a point. Your fingers brushed against his palm, slowly, deliberately. This time, when you looked at him, you weren’t searching for something hidden. You weren’t waiting for him to show you a softer side.

Instead, you saw him—all of him. The man who was both broken and strong, ruthless and gentle, haunted and yet still standing.

“Whatever’s out there,” you said quietly, “we’ll face it together. I’m not going to let you carry this on your own anymore.”

There was a long pause as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. And then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and raw with emotion he rarely let slip. “I didn’t think you’d ever say that, bella.”

You smiled slightly, a small, knowing smile. “I didn’t think I would either.”

For the first time, Santino’s lips curled into a hint of something that resembled a smile—a ghost of the man beneath all the armor. But it was fleeting, disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared, as if even that small moment of softness scared him.

He stood abruptly, pulling away from you, his eyes darting toward the door as if the very act of letting his guard down might be dangerous. But there was no urgency in his movements, no panic. It was simply the rhythm of someone who wasn’t used to staying.

“We still have work to do,” he said, the harshness of his words returning, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as before. There was an underlying shift in him now, a change that was subtle but undeniable. “You should rest, amore. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.”

His eyes softened just a fraction as he glanced over at you, almost as if he didn’t want to leave you alone with the weight of what had happened. But then he turned away, his steps purposeful as he moved toward the door. Before he stepped out, he hesitated for a brief moment, as though wrestling with something inside him.

“Stay safe,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, like it was something he needed to say even if he wasn’t sure how to.

You watched him leave, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you in the dim light of the room. But this time, the stillness didn’t feel quite as oppressive. This time, it felt like something new—like a beginning, not an end.

And as you sat there in the quiet, you allowed yourself a brief moment of peace, the weight of the night settling into your bones. Whatever came next, you knew one thing: you weren’t walking through it alone. And that, in itself, was enough.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Seventeen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - sixteen - seventeen - …

I was in Prague over the Easter, so that's why new chapter is posted today. New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 2471; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: You find Santino's old journal;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 17: “The Secret Journal”

The whiskey’s warmth settled in your chest, softening the sharp edges of your thoughts as you leaned back into the chair. The crackle of the fire in the hearth was a soothing backdrop, filling the library with a sense of calm that felt almost foreign after the night you’d had. You let your gaze wander around the room, drawn to the subtle details that hinted at Santino’s life—a life you were still only beginning to piece together.

On the table beside you, nestled among the scattered books and papers, was a small leather-bound journal. Its edges were slightly worn, the corners bent as though it had been handled often. Without thinking, you reached for it, your fingers brushing the supple leather before opening it to the first page.

The writing inside was unmistakably Santino’s, the same bold, deliberate strokes you’d seen in the margins of the book earlier. The entries were short, almost fragmented, but they carried an emotional weight that caught you off guard.

“Gianna says I carry too much on my shoulders. She’s right, but I can’t let her see that. Weakness has no place here.”

You frowned, your thumb brushing the edge of the page as you turned to the next entry.

“Tonight, another deal sealed, another promise made. The chains grow heavier, but the path is clearer. I’ll pay the price if it means keeping what matters safe.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you paused, glancing toward the door as if expecting Santino to appear and catch you in the act. But the house remained quiet, and the pull of his thoughts, his private musings, was too strong to ignore.

You flipped further into the journal, your eyes skimming the entries until one caught your attention, the ink slightly smudged as though he’d written it in haste.

“And then there was her. Unexpected. A distraction, or something more? I don’t know. What I do know is that she’s under my skin now. She’s a risk I never planned for. But for the first time in years, I don’t care.”

Your breath hitched as the weight of his words sank in. He was talking about you—there was no mistaking it. The raw honesty of the entry sent a ripple of emotion through you, a mix of disbelief, warmth, and something deeper you couldn’t quite name.

Setting the journal down gently, you leaned back in the chair, your thoughts spinning. You hadn’t expected to see this side of Santino, this unguarded vulnerability that he hid so well behind his sharp gaze and confident demeanor. It was a glimpse into the man behind the mask, and it only made the questions in your mind multiply.

Why had he let you in? What was it about you that had made him stray from the careful, calculated path he’d clearly been walking for so long?

The weight of the journal’s words lingered as you closed your eyes, the whiskey still warming you from the inside. The firelight flickered against your closed lids, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of the moment, your mind drifting as exhaustion began to creep in.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there, the world slipping into a hazy blur as the warmth of the fire and the whiskey lulled you into a light doze. The journal remained on the table beside you, a tangible reminder of the man whose world you’d stepped into—a world you were only just beginning to understand.

When the soft creak of the door broke the stillness, you opened your eyes, your heart skipping a beat as you turned to see who it was. But the figure in the doorway wasn’t Santino. It was one of his guards, his expression unreadable as he stepped just inside the room.

“Signorina,” he said, his voice low and polite. “You should rest in your room. The library can wait.”

You hesitated, glancing toward the journal before looking back at him. There was no malice in his tone, but there was a firmness that left no room for argument.

With a sigh, you rose from the chair, pulling Santino’s jacket tighter around your shoulders. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft as you moved toward the door.

The guard stepped aside to let you pass, and as you made your way back through the dimly lit halls, the weight of everything you’d discovered stayed with you. Santino’s thoughts, his words, his promises—they were all pieces of a puzzle you were determined to solve.

For now, you would wait. But when Santino returned, there would be no more hiding, no more evading the truth. You would make sure of it.

The walk back to your room felt longer than before, the silence of the mansion stretching out around you like an invisible presence. The weight of Santino’s journal still lingered in your mind, his words replaying over and over, refusing to settle. “She’s under my skin now.” You couldn’t decide whether the admission brought you comfort or a new kind of unease. Perhaps it was both.

When you reached your room, the guard lingered for a moment before giving a curt nod and stepping away, his heavy boots muffled by the carpet. The soft click of his departure left you alone again, and as you stepped inside, you felt the air shift. It was warmer here, quieter, the faint scent of the fire in the library clinging to your clothes and Santino’s jacket.

The bed looked inviting, its plush blankets turned down neatly, but you weren’t ready to sleep yet. Instead, you wandered over to the window, resting your forehead against the cool glass. The gardens stretched out below, the faint shimmer of moonlight catching on the edges of leaves and casting silver shadows across the ground. The fountain burbled softly, its steady rhythm a distant reassurance.

Your thoughts drifted back to Santino, as they always seemed to. Where was he now? Was he safe? You hated the not knowing, the helplessness that came with being kept in the dark. But the longer you stared out at the stillness of the night, the more you realized there was something else beneath your frustration—trust. Trust that he would keep his word, that he would return, just as he’d promised.

You turned away from the window, your eyes landing on a small writing desk tucked into the corner of the room. A stack of blank paper sat neatly beside an old-fashioned ink pen, its simplicity a stark contrast to the luxury of the rest of the mansion. On impulse, you moved toward it, sitting down and picking up the pen.

The act of writing had always been a comfort to you, a way to untangle the mess of your thoughts and give them shape. But now, as you stared at the blank page, you weren’t sure where to begin. Your hand hovered over the paper, the weight of the pen unfamiliar in your grasp. After a long moment, you began to write.

“Santino,” you began, the letters bold and deliberate against the stark white of the page. “I don’t know where you are right now, or what you’re doing. All I know is that you’re out there, and I’m here, waiting.”

The words flowed more easily as you continued, your thoughts spilling onto the page in a way they never could aloud.

“You’ve been under my skin, too, since the moment I met you. And maybe that scares me as much as it comforts me. I don’t know what I’ve stepped into, but I do know this: I don’t want to step out of it. Not now, not after everything.”

You paused, your hand trembling slightly as you debated the next line.

“I see the weight you carry, even when you try to hide it. I see the way you protect, the way you shield the people around you—even when it costs you. I wish you’d let someone carry some of it for you, even just a little. I don’t know if you’d ever let me be that person, but I would try.”

The pen hovered again, and you let out a shaky breath. What were you even saying? Did you mean it? Deep down, you knew you did.

“I just wanted you to know that. Whatever happens, I’m here. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I’ll stay. For you. With you.”

You set the pen down, staring at the words as your heartbeat thundered in your ears. The vulnerability on the page was almost too much to bear, and yet it felt like a weight had been lifted, even if only slightly.

Folding the paper carefully, you tucked it into the top drawer of the desk, your fingers lingering on the smooth wood as you closed it. Maybe he’d never read it. Maybe you’d never even show it to him. But it was there, waiting, like a quiet truth you’d finally allowed yourself to admit.

You returned to the bed, slipping under the covers as exhaustion began to settle over you. The soft hum of the mansion wrapped around you, and for the first time that night, you felt a flicker of peace. As your eyes drifted shut, one thought lingered in your mind: Santino would return. And when he did, you would be ready.

The quiet of the mansion was like a blanket, heavy and all-encompassing. You had tried to let sleep take you, tried to let your thoughts settle and drift away into the soft darkness, but it was impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, the words in Santino’s journal came rushing back, as vivid as if they’d been burned into your mind.

“She’s under my skin now.”

You turned over restlessly, the soft fabric of the sheets doing little to soothe the unease crawling beneath your skin. The journal felt like a key—one you’d only partially turned, leaving the door it unlocked barely ajar. There were more pages, more thoughts, more glimpses of Santino’s world tucked away in the margins of his private musings. And the pull to understand him was too strong to ignore.

Throwing off the covers, you sat up, careful not to jostle your shoulder too much. The bandaged wound throbbed faintly, a dull ache that reminded you of the night’s chaos, but it didn’t stop you. Pulling Santino’s jacket tighter around yourself, you padded toward the door, opening it just wide enough to peek into the hallway.

The corridor was empty, the soft glow of the sconces casting long shadows along the walls. You hesitated for only a moment before stepping out, your bare feet silent against the cool floor. Moving quickly and quietly, you retraced your steps to the library, the memory of its warmth and stillness drawing you like a beacon.

When you reached the door, you paused, your hand hovering over the handle. For a moment, doubt crept in—what if Santino found out? Would he be angry? Would he see it as a betrayal? But the thought of those unfinished pages, the possibility of uncovering more of the man beneath the mask, pushed your hesitation aside.

The door opened with a soft creak, and you slipped inside, closing it gently behind you. The library was just as you’d left it, the fire in the hearth reduced to a low, flickering glow. The journal still sat on the table beside the armchair, exactly where you’d left it. The sight of it sent a rush of anticipation through you, and you moved toward it, sinking into the chair as you picked it up.

Your fingers traced the edges of the worn leather cover before flipping it open to the page you’d stopped at earlier. For a moment, you lingered there, rereading the words that had already etched themselves into your memory. Then, with a deep breath, you turned the page.

“Trust is a luxury I can’t afford. Everyone wants something—power, money, control. But her... she’s different. I don’t know why, and maybe I’m a fool for thinking it, but with her, it feels like she wants nothing more than me. Just me.”

Your breath caught, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. Santino’s life, his choices—they had always seemed calculated, deliberate. And yet, here was a crack in that carefully constructed facade, a moment of raw honesty that felt almost too intimate to read.

You turned another page, drawn deeper into his thoughts.

“Gianna says I’m reckless. She doesn’t understand. She’s been in this world long enough to know the cost of weakness, but what she doesn’t see is that it isn’t weakness. It’s strength. To care for someone, to want to protect them—it’s what keeps us human.”

The firelight danced across the page, its faint glow illuminating the bold strokes of his handwriting. You could almost hear his voice as you read, low and deliberate, the words carrying the weight of everything he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

“I made a promise tonight. One I don’t know if I can keep. But I’ll try. For her, I’ll try.”

You closed the journal slowly, your hands trembling slightly as you set it back on the table. The depth of his emotions, the quiet vulnerability he hid so well—it was overwhelming. And yet, it made you feel closer to him, as if you’d been allowed a glimpse of something precious and fragile, something he rarely shared.

Leaning back in the chair, you stared into the dying embers of the fire, your thoughts a tangled web of emotion. You wanted to ask him about these entries, to hear the words from his own lips, but you knew you couldn’t. Not yet. This was a part of him he’d chosen to keep hidden, and until he was ready to share it, you would respect that.

For now, though, you allowed yourself to take comfort in the knowledge that he wasn’t as untouchable as he seemed. That beneath the confidence and control was a man who cared deeply, who wrestled with the same fears and doubts that you did.

The fire crackled softly, and you let out a shaky breath, pulling Santino’s jacket tighter around you. The night was still, and though questions still lingered, a quiet sense of understanding began to take root.

When you finally rose to leave, you glanced back at the journal one last time, your fingers brushing the edge of its cover. Then you slipped out of the library, the soft click of the door the only sound as you returned to your room.

Sleep still wouldn’t come easily, but for the first time in hours, it didn’t feel so heavy. Santino’s words lingered in your mind, a quiet reminder of the bond that tethered you both, no matter how fragile it might seem.

[fics-not-tragedies]

How Do You Sleep?: Three

one - two - three - four

New parts coming Fridays.

Words: 3506; Warnings: lots of anger; Summary: Both you and John make moves that will be later regretted again;

Part 3: If Things Had Been Different

The hotel room is dim, lit only by the weak glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. It’s quiet, too quiet, as if the night itself has decided to hold its breath, watching you both with an unspoken understanding. You can’t remember how you ended up here, how the night turned into this—one drink, then two, and now the space between you and John has narrowed to something more dangerous.

His touch is a familiar warmth, pulling you closer, a magnetic force that you have no strength to resist. His hands, once so certain, still feel like home. The fingers that used to trace the curve of your back now hold you like something delicate, as if afraid that the slightest movement might shatter the fragile moment between you.

You’re both playing with fire, and you know it. But neither of you has the will to step away.

John’s mouth finds yours again, deep and desperate, like he’s been starving for this touch, this closeness. He kisses you with the kind of intensity that only comes from years of longing, of holding back a love that was never really gone. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. The kiss is raw, urgent, as though he’s afraid that if he stops, everything might slip away again—just like it did all those years ago.

For a moment, you let yourself believe in the dream. You let yourself believe that things could have been different—that if you had stayed, if life had been kinder, maybe you could’ve had this, had him, without all the baggage of the past.

You slip into his arms without thinking, without stopping to question whether this is what you really want, or if it’s just what you’ve both been missing. The heat between you rises quickly, filling the space with something dangerous, something that makes you forget everything but the way he feels, the way he makes you feel.

One touch turns into another, a slip of fingers over skin, a breathless laugh between kisses. There’s no talking now, no more words about the past or the things you both never said. There’s only the now, the pull of the present that is too strong to resist.

In his arms, you remember what it felt like to be loved by him—really loved, fully and without reservation. You remember how it felt to be the only thing in his world. The weight of his affection, his presence, used to feel like a gift, like a treasure. And tonight, in this fleeting moment, it feels that way again.

But as you pull away for a breath, your chest heaving slightly from the intensity of it all, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror by the bed, and something shifts inside you. You see your reflection—a woman caught in the middle of something she knows is fleeting, something that will slip through her fingers once the night is over.

For all the years you spent running, trying to build a life without him, this—this brief, intoxicating moment—is all you’ve ever really wanted.

You meet his eyes, and you see it in him too—the same longing, the same ache that never quite went away. But you both know, somewhere deep down, that this cannot be more than a memory.

John pulls you closer again, his lips brushing your ear as his hands work to undo the buttons of your shirt, his movements quick, as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t act fast enough. You let him, every part of you feeling like it’s been waiting for this—waiting for him. But as he guides you to the bed, the reality of what’s happening settles in like a cold breeze. This isn’t love. This is the kind of need that comes from loss, from absence, from years of pushing down something that was never meant to stay buried.

When his lips meet your neck, his breath warm against your skin, you let yourself close your eyes, surrendering to the pull of desire, to the magnetic force between you. But even as you do, a small part of you—the part that’s been trying to stay rational, trying to protect itself—whispers a warning: This won’t end well.

The minutes pass like hours, tangled sheets and shared breaths, the quiet intensity of two people trying to relive a past they can’t reclaim. His touch is both tender and frantic, a contradiction that mirrors your own feelings. You wonder how many times you’ve imagined this moment, how many nights you’ve spent wishing that the two of you could just turn back the clock, erase the mistakes, find the path that never was.

But when it’s over, when you’re lying next to him, the silence between you both is thick and uncomfortable. He’s holding you again, his hand resting lightly on your back, but this time, the weight of it is different. There’s no magic in the air anymore. No illusion that this is anything other than what it is—an escape.

Your fingers brush the sheets, the cool fabric a sharp contrast to the warmth of his skin. And as the reality of the night sets in, you realize that nothing has changed. The dream of what could have been has evaporated, replaced by the weight of everything that’s still between you.

His hand moves to your hair, his fingers gently threading through the strands as he watches you, waiting for you to say something, anything. But you don’t know what to say.

You never should have let it get this far.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” you murmur, the words barely audible, but you know he hears them.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just holds you, as if he’s trying to decide what to do with the truth that lingers between you. Finally, he speaks, his voice low, but there’s a sadness to it now, something that wasn’t there before.

“Neither should I,” he says, the words almost too quiet to hear. But you feel the truth of them settle into the space between you.

You close your eyes, not wanting to acknowledge the sting in your chest, the pain of knowing that what you’ve just shared can never truly be yours.

The morning will come, and with it, the cold light of reality. And you both know it.

John still belongs to the ghosts that haunt him. He’s always been tethered to them, a man lost to the violence of his own past, to the weight of things he can never escape. And you? You were never meant to stay. Not with him.

You wonder, as you lie there in the dim light of the room, if this will be the last time. The last time you let him pull you into the dream, into the illusion that things could be different.

Because in the morning, the dream will be over. And you both will have to face the truth of who you are now—of what you’ve become.

But for now, you lie beside him, holding onto the last shred of the past, and you let yourself forget. At least for a while.

The room is colder now, as the night stretches toward its inevitable end. The silence between you and John is no longer comforting. It's heavy, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything that came before and everything that will follow.

You feel the absence of warmth now, the space between your bodies more pronounced than it was earlier when the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. The buzz of the city outside is muffled by the walls, but inside, the quiet is suffocating.

You pull the sheet tighter around your body, not sure if it’s to shield yourself from the cold or the reality that’s slowly creeping back in. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to see the same thing in his eyes that you’re feeling in your chest—the emptiness, the acknowledgment that what you shared tonight was never meant to last.

You can hear him breathing beside you, slow and steady, but there’s a tension in it, like he’s waiting for you to speak. For you to break the silence.

You can’t.

You don’t know what to say. The words you want to say feel like a betrayal of the moment, of the lie you both told yourselves, and you can’t bring yourself to voice them.

But John, for once, breaks the quiet. His voice is low, thick with emotion, like he’s carefully weighing each word before he lets it slip into the air.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, his tone soft, but there's an edge to it. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

You hesitate. It’s a simple question, but the answer is anything but. You want to say no. You want to tell him that tonight, in his arms, felt like the world had realigned, like everything that was broken between you had somehow been fixed, even if just for a moment. But the truth is, you can’t. Because you do regret it. Not for the reasons he might think, but because it’s only served to remind you of everything that’s wrong.

You don’t regret the touch, the kiss, the feeling of being wanted by him again. You regret that you allowed yourself to believe it could be something more.

You take a deep breath, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sheet, your eyes fixed on the dark, motionless ceiling.

“I don’t know,” you finally answer, your voice cracking with the weight of it. “I don’t know if I regret it… but I don’t know if it was worth it either.”

You hear a sharp exhale from John. It’s a sound that tells you he understands more than you’re saying, that the walls you’ve built to protect yourself have just crumbled into dust. He sits up slowly, the weight of his body shifting beside you. You can feel him looking at you, even though you can’t bring yourself to look back.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking for you to fix this.”

His words are gentle, but there’s a hardness underneath, a bitterness he’s not trying to hide. The truth of the situation is too clear now, too undeniable. This can never be more than a fleeting moment. Neither of you can escape the ghosts of the past.

“I don’t want to fix it,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just don’t want to keep pretending it didn’t matter.”

John’s hand moves then, brushing against your arm, warm and solid, like he’s reaching out for the connection that’s slipping away. “It mattered,” he agrees quietly. “More than anything.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a flicker of hope, as if he wants to reach for something more, something you both have long since abandoned. But just as quickly, it fades. It’s replaced by that same shadow you’ve seen a hundred times before—the shadow of a man who has learned the hard way that nothing good can come from staying too close.

“You were never meant to stay,” he says, his voice thick with regret. It’s not a question. It’s a truth, one that you both know. “I always knew that.”

And there it is. The finality of it. The thing neither of you wanted to admit, but now, it’s all too clear.

You nod slightly, your throat tight, swallowing back the lump that has formed there. “I know,” you whisper. “I always knew it too.”

There’s no denying it now. You were always meant to walk away, to keep running from each other, from the things you couldn’t fix. You thought you could outrun the love, outrun the pull between you, but here it is, lingering between you, like a dark cloud you can’t escape.

John doesn’t move for a moment, as if he’s weighing whether to speak or let the silence swallow you both whole. And then, finally, he shifts, pulling the covers back, getting up from the bed with the same quiet precision that’s always defined him.

You sit up too, though you don’t move to follow him. He’s already halfway to the door, his back to you, but before he leaves, he turns around just enough to look at you, the room bathed in the soft light of the streetlamp outside.

“Goodbye,” he says, the words soft but final.

You feel a wave of something—something like loss, something like regret—but also something else, something harder to name. Maybe relief. Maybe closure.

But you can’t say the words back. Instead, you just nod, unable to form the words that would match his finality.

And with that, he leaves.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone in the room, wrapped in the aftershocks of everything that just happened. The bed feels too big now, too empty without him beside you. The sheets are too cold, too empty, as if even the world around you has turned against you.

You stare at the door for a long time, the silence now deafening, until the tears you didn’t know you were holding back spill over, the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid, undone, and unresolved finally crashing over you.

For a long time, you sit there, letting the tears come, letting yourself mourn the past.

And maybe that’s what this is—mourning. Mourning the life you thought you might have had. Mourning the love that was never meant to last.

The quiet is unbearable now. The space that John once filled with his presence is heavy with emptiness. It clings to the air, settling in the corners of the room, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. You sit there for what feels like hours, long after the sound of the door closing fades into the silence. The bed beneath you feels foreign, the sheets cool against your skin, and your body aches in a way you can’t explain. It’s not the kind of ache you get from loss—it’s the kind you feel when you know you’ve been holding something back for too long and the weight of it finally catches up with you.

You stand up, your legs shaky as if they’ve forgotten how to carry you. The room feels even smaller now, suffocating in its stillness. Your reflection in the mirror catches your eye, and for a moment, you don’t recognize the person looking back at you. She’s someone caught in the aftermath of a storm—someone who once had a future, once had a life that felt whole. But that life, that version of you, feels like a distant memory, something faded and fragile that you don’t know how to reach.

Your fingers brush over your lips, the remnants of his kiss still there, lingering in the warmth of your skin. You let out a shaky breath, but it doesn’t bring any relief. The truth settles heavily in your chest. You made a choice tonight—one that felt like it was both right and wrong at the same time. A choice you’ll carry with you long after the sting of this night fades.

But it’s not fading. It’s not going away.

You pace around the room, aimless, your mind running in circles. Each thought about him, about what was left unsaid, only seems to tighten the knot in your stomach. You know you can’t go back. You know he won’t come back through that door. It’s over. The night is over.

And yet, for some reason, the thought of him walking away feels like it’s just the beginning of something else. Something you don’t know how to face.

You walk to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to let the city’s lights spill into the room, casting long shadows against the floor. The streets below are alive with people, with life. It’s just another night in New York, and yet everything feels altered, like the world has shifted just slightly out of place.

You hear the sound of your phone vibrating on the nightstand, and you hesitate for a moment. But when you finally reach for it, the screen lights up with an unsaved number—a number you recognize all too well.

It’s him.

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you just stare at the screen, unsure of whether to pick it up. Your finger hovers over the answer button, your heart racing in your chest. It’s absurd, isn’t it? After everything that’s happened tonight, after the way you’ve both said your goodbyes, what more is there to say? What more could he possibly need to say to you?

And yet, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

You swipe the screen, lifting the phone to your ear. There’s a long moment of silence on the other end, and you almost wonder if he’s going to hang up. But then his voice cuts through the quiet, familiar, and somehow still laced with that edge of vulnerability you’re learning to recognize.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, like he’s been holding something in. The words are simple, but they pierce right through you, because you both know that this isn’t about the door closing behind him. This is about everything else—the things you never said, the things that still linger between you.

You take a shaky breath, holding the phone tighter in your hand as if it might help steady you. But it doesn’t.

“John…” you begin, your voice faltering, unsure of what you want to say, unsure of what you even can say anymore. “We both knew it couldn’t stay like that. It was just a night. That’s all it was.”

His sigh comes through the phone, deep and weary. “I know. But I keep thinking... if things had been different—”

“If things had been different,” you repeat softly, cutting him off before the words can slip out again. “We both would’ve made different choices. But they weren’t. And we didn’t.”

You can hear him on the other end, his breath slow, like he’s processing every word you say, as if every sentence from you is a step further into a reality he doesn’t want to face. It’s a place you don’t want to be in either, but somehow, you’ve both ended up here, stuck in the echo of what could have been.

“I don’t know how to let go of it,” he says finally, the admission raw and quiet. “I can’t. I’m not sure I ever will.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you close your eyes, a deep ache in your chest that you can’t ignore. He’s not talking about the night. He’s talking about everything—the love, the hurt, the ghosts that never let him move forward. He’s talking about the way you both still linger in each other’s lives, even when you know you can’t be together.

“I don’t know if I can either,” you whisper back, your voice breaking. The truth of it stings in a way you hadn’t expected. Because part of you still wants him. Still wants this, even if it’s the wrong time, even if it was never meant to be.

The quiet stretches between you two again, and this time, it feels different. The weight of it settles on your shoulders, a sense of finality, even though the conversation isn’t over.

“I should let you go,” you finally say, the words heavy in the silence. “I can’t keep doing this, John.”

“I know,” he replies softly. “But I’m not ready to walk away from you again.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. It’s too much. Too much to hear after everything you’ve both been through, after everything that’s already been left behind.

“Then don’t,” you say, voice trembling. It’s barely more than a breath, but somehow, it’s enough to say everything that’s been left unsaid.

But even as you say it, you know it’s a promise you can’t keep. You can’t stay here. You both know this. You both know the past won’t let you move forward, and that staying would only cause more pain, more loss.

“Goodbye, John,” you whisper, even as every part of you wants to reach out, wants to pull him back into this broken, beautiful thing you shared.

There’s a pause, longer this time, and you can almost hear the decision in his silence.

“Goodbye,” he says softly. And then, without another word, the line goes dead.

You put the phone down on the nightstand, but you don’t move. You don’t know how to move from here, how to find your way back to the person you were before you let him in. But you do know this: you can’t keep looking back. Not anymore.

You have to let him go.

And somehow, you think you might just be ready to.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Sixteen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - sixteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 3442; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: Santino leaves you alone for some time and you decide to explore the mansion;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 16: “The Weight of His Absence”

The silence in the room was deafening after Santino’s departure, a stark contrast to the firestorm of emotions that lingered in the air. You tried to focus on the steady rhythm of your breathing, the soft weight of the blankets, and the faint hum of some unseen machinery in the safe house, but none of it could distract you from the unease twisting in your chest. Santino’s absence left a void, and the longer you sat there, the more it gnawed at you.

The quiet brought your thoughts into sharp focus. Every memory of the night played back like a reel on repeat—the intensity of his gaze, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he’d spoken as though protecting you was the only thing that mattered in his world. And yet, he’d walked out into the unknown without hesitation, carrying the weight of promises that felt too heavy to bear.

Unable to sit still any longer, you swung your legs over the side of the bed. A sharp twinge shot through your shoulder as you moved, reminding you of the bullet wound, and you winced, steadying yourself against the edge of the mattress. The pain was a dull throb now, bearable but insistent, like a lingering echo of the danger you’d narrowly escaped.

The room felt cavernous, the shadows stretching and shifting in the dim light, and you suddenly craved anything that might ground you. Santino’s jacket was draped over the back of a chair near the bed, and without thinking, you reached for it. The fabric was smooth and cool to the touch, and when you pulled it around your shoulders, his scent enveloped you—a mix of cedar, leather, and something darker, more elusive. It was comforting, even if only for a moment.

You paced the room slowly, trying to shake the restlessness that had taken hold of you. Your fingers trailed along the smooth edge of the desk, the cold surface of the windowsill, but nothing settled the unease that simmered beneath your skin. Your thoughts kept circling back to him—where he was, what he was doing, and whether he was safe.

A soft knock at the door startled you, and your heart leapt into your throat. Before you could call out, the door opened slightly, and one of Santino’s guards stepped inside. His presence was imposing, his face set in a grim mask, but his voice was surprisingly calm.

“Signorina,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “I’ve been instructed to ensure you’re comfortable. Is there anything you need?”

You hesitated, torn between gratitude and frustration. “I need to know what’s happening out there,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Where is Santino?”

The guard’s expression didn’t change, but his hesitation was telling. “He is handling a matter that requires his attention,” he said carefully. “I assure you, he will return as soon as it is resolved.”

“That’s not an answer,” you replied, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “What kind of matter? Is he in danger?”

The guard shifted slightly, his posture stiffening. “It’s best not to concern yourself with those details,” he said. “Signor D’Antonio gave specific instructions to keep you safe. That is my priority.”

You clenched your fists at your sides, the weight of your helplessness pressing down on you. “And who’s keeping him safe?” you muttered under your breath.

The guard didn’t respond, and after a moment, he gave a curt nod before stepping back toward the door. “If you need anything, call for me,” he said before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood there for a long moment, your thoughts racing. The guard’s evasiveness only deepened your worry, and the feeling of being left in the dark was unbearable. You hated this—being sidelined, kept out of the loop while Santino faced the unknown.

Gripping the edge of the desk for support, you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The weight of his jacket on your shoulders was a small comfort, but it wasn’t enough to ease the gnawing fear in your chest.

“I’m not just going to sit here,” you whispered to yourself, the words quiet but resolute. You didn’t know what you could do, but you knew one thing: you couldn’t stand by and wait. Not when the thought of losing him felt like a threat greater than any bullet.

As you turned back toward the bed, your resolve solidified. Whatever was happening out there, you would find a way to face it with him. For now, though, you would wait—for the knock on the door, for his return, for the promise of his presence to steady you again. And when he did come back, you wouldn’t let him carry the weight of this world alone.

The minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity. You sat back on the bed, Santino’s jacket draped over your shoulders like a protective shield. The faint scent of him clung to the fabric, grounding you in a way nothing else could. Every sound from beyond the walls—the shuffle of footsteps, the murmur of distant voices—made your heart jump, your thoughts leaping to worst-case scenarios.

You clenched your hands into fists, the frustration bubbling up again. Waiting felt unbearable, like a slow suffocation. You hated the helplessness, the not knowing. But deep down, you knew that rushing into whatever danger Santino was facing would only make things worse—for both of you.

The faint hum of machinery in the safe house shifted slightly, a subtle change you wouldn’t have noticed if not for the oppressive silence. It wasn’t footsteps or voices; it was something mechanical, distant but steady. You frowned, your body tensing as you tried to place the sound.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you moved aimlessly around the room. The mansion was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made every creak of the floorboards and distant sound of a closing door feel amplified. The space was beautiful, of course—ornate in its design, with high ceilings, marble floors, and soft lighting that cast everything in a warm glow. But it felt hollow without Santino there, as if the air itself was heavier, harder to breathe.

You ran your fingers along the edge of a bookshelf near the corner of the room, your gaze skimming over the titles lined neatly on the shelves. Many of them were in Italian, their leather-bound spines gleaming softly in the dim light. You pulled one at random, its cover embossed with gold, and opened it to a random page. The words blurred before your eyes, your mind too distracted to focus on anything but the unanswered questions swirling in your head.

Setting the book aside, you let out a quiet sigh and walked toward the window. The view beyond the glass was breathtaking—an expansive garden framed by tall cypress trees, their dark silhouettes swaying gently in the night breeze. Somewhere beyond the estate’s high walls lay the rest of the world, chaotic and unpredictable. But here, within these walls, there was an illusion of peace. An illusion you couldn’t quite believe in.

Your reflection in the window caught your attention. The weariness in your face was hard to ignore—the faint shadows under your eyes, the tension in your jaw. You reached up, your fingers brushing the edge of Santino’s jacket draped over your shoulders, and you allowed yourself a small moment of comfort. His scent still clung to the fabric, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

The sound of a clock chiming softly in the hallway pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced toward the door, half-expecting someone to enter, but no one came. The silence returned, and with it, the restless energy you couldn’t seem to shake.

Deciding that sitting in the same room would only drive you further into your own thoughts, you opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The house was a labyrinth of quiet elegance, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries and framed paintings that seemed to tell stories of a world long past. Your footsteps were muffled against the plush carpet as you wandered, letting your curiosity guide you.

At the end of the hall, you found yourself in what appeared to be a study. The room was cozy, with dark wood paneling, a large desk cluttered with papers, and a fireplace that crackled softly in the corner. A leather chair sat before the hearth, and for a moment, you could almost imagine Santino there, his sharp features illuminated by the firelight as he poured over documents or sipped a glass of whiskey.

You stepped further inside, your fingers grazing the edge of the desk. The papers scattered across its surface were written in neat, precise handwriting, but you didn’t linger on them. It felt intrusive, like stepping into a part of his life you weren’t meant to see. Instead, you turned your attention to a small globe on the corner of the desk, its surface polished to a gleam. You spun it idly, watching as the continents blurred together.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made you freeze. They were deliberate, measured, and for a brief second, your heart raced—anticipation and unease colliding. The footsteps stopped just outside the study, and a soft knock followed.

“Signorina,” a voice called—it was the same guard from earlier. “Would you like anything to eat or drink? The kitchen is at your disposal.”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. “No, thank you,” you said after a moment, your voice softer than you intended.

There was a pause before the guard replied, “Very well. If you change your mind, please let me know.”

The footsteps retreated, leaving you alone once more. You leaned against the edge of the desk, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the space around you. Despite the unease, there was a small sense of relief in knowing someone was keeping an eye on you, even if it wasn’t the person you truly wanted to see.

As the firelight flickered across the room, you let your thoughts drift back to Santino. His words, his promises—they played over and over in your mind, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. For now, you should wait. For now, you would hold onto the belief that he would return, just as he always promised.

The quiet warmth of the study was a small comfort, its soft firelight casting long shadows across the room. You stayed leaning against the desk for a while, your fingers brushing idly against its smooth surface. It felt like the only place in the sprawling mansion where the weight of everything pressing down on you began to ease, if only slightly.

As your gaze wandered, it landed on a small framed photograph sitting on a side table near the fireplace. Intrigued, you moved closer, picking it up carefully. The frame was ornate but understated, its delicate filigree catching the light. The photo inside showed a much younger Santino, his hair slightly longer and unruly. He stood beside a woman with striking features, her dark eyes and confident smile mirroring his. There was something about her that seemed familiar—not in her face, but in her presence, the way she carried herself even in the stillness of the photograph.

Gianna.

You remembered the sharp edge of her voice from earlier, her words laced with equal parts warning and care. It was the first time you’d seen a glimpse of Santino that wasn’t shrouded in his enigmatic demeanor—a part of him tied to family, to a history you hadn’t yet been allowed to glimpse fully.

Setting the photo back down, you sank into the leather chair in front of the fire, pulling his jacket tighter around you. The faint scent of him still clung to the fabric, grounding you, and as the warmth of the fire seeped into your skin, you allowed yourself a rare moment of vulnerability.

What had you gotten yourself into?

You closed your eyes, your thoughts drifting back to the night you’d met him. You hadn’t known then what kind of man Santino was, what kind of world he belonged to. He had been a stranger—an alluring, enigmatic stranger who had drawn you in with his magnetic presence. But now, the stakes were higher. You weren’t just a passing encounter anymore, and that realization carried its own weight.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the stillness again, lighter this time, less deliberate. Your eyes flicked to the door, half-expecting the guard to return, but no one entered. Instead, the sound moved past the study, fading into the distance. The house felt alive in its silence, its subtle noises reminding you that, despite the stillness, things were happening all around you.

Reaching out, you ran your fingers along the edge of the armrest, the smooth leather cool beneath your touch. A memory surfaced—Santino leaning against this same chair, his voice low as he promised to keep you safe. The way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, as though you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You couldn’t stay in the uncertainty forever. You needed to understand, to piece together the fragments of his world that he’d left scattered in your path. If this was the life you were now a part of, you had to find a way to fit into it—or at least to survive it.

With a sigh, you rose from the chair, the firelight flickering against your skin as you moved. The photograph caught your eye again, and this time, you lingered on it a little longer. There was so much you didn’t know about Santino, so much he hadn’t told you. But you wanted to understand him—not just the man who had held you close, who had kissed you like the world was falling away, but the man who carried the weight of secrets that made even his sister wary.

The distant chime of a clock marked another hour slipping by, but you weren’t tired anymore. Instead, you felt restless, the same energy that had driven you to pace the room now urging you to explore. Santino had said you were safe here, and for the first time since arriving, you felt like testing the limits of that safety.

Pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders, you stepped out into the hallway, the polished floor cool beneath your bare feet. The mansion stretched out in all directions, its corridors winding like a labyrinth, and you decided to let your curiosity guide you.

The house seemed to hold its breath as you moved through it, the soft glow of wall sconces lighting your way. The faint hum of distant voices reached your ears as you passed a set of heavy doors, but you didn’t linger. Instead, you let your steps carry you further, deeper into the quiet mystery of Santino’s world.

For now, you would explore. For now, you would wait for him to return. And when he did, you would be ready to face whatever came next—together.

The hallways of the mansion seemed endless, each turn revealing another corridor lined with artwork, antique mirrors, and intricate details that spoke of wealth and history. You trailed your fingers lightly along the walls as you walked, the smooth texture grounding you as your thoughts swirled. Every step felt like peeling back another layer of Santino’s world, a place so far removed from anything you’d known before.

The voices you’d heard earlier had faded, leaving only the soft echo of your footsteps. As you passed another set of double doors, your eyes caught the glint of moonlight streaming in through a set of tall, arched windows at the end of the hall. Drawn by the silvery glow, you made your way toward them, your pace slowing as the view beyond came into focus.

The gardens stretched out before you, a tapestry of shadows and soft light. Moonlight danced off the surface of a small fountain at the center of a stone courtyard, the gentle sound of trickling water just audible through the thick glass. The scene was serene, almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the turmoil you’d felt since stepping into Santino’s orbit.

You leaned against the windowsill, resting your forehead against the cool glass. For a moment, you allowed yourself to simply exist, to breathe in the stillness and let your thoughts settle. But even here, in the quiet beauty of the night, Santino’s presence lingered, like a shadow that refused to leave your side.

Why did he feel so necessary?

The question was one you didn’t have an answer for. You hadn’t asked for this—this connection, this pull that seemed to bind you to him even in his absence. And yet, you couldn’t deny it. Whatever it was, it was real, and it was far more powerful than you were ready to admit.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the windowsill as you stared out at the gardens, your thoughts drifting back to the look in Santino’s eyes before he’d left. There had been a flicker of something there—vulnerability, maybe, or fear—but he’d masked it quickly, hiding it behind the same unshakable confidence he always carried. You wondered what it would take to break through that mask completely, to see the man behind it in all his complexity.

A faint creak behind you pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned to see a door slightly ajar at the end of the hall. The light spilling from inside was warm and inviting, and though you hesitated for a moment, curiosity won out. You stepped closer, pushing the door open slowly, your heart quickening as you peeked inside.

The room was a library, its walls lined with towering bookshelves that stretched nearly to the ceiling. A massive chandelier hung above, casting a golden glow over the space, and a plush armchair sat near a low table scattered with books and a decanter of amber liquid. The air smelled faintly of old paper and leather, and the sight of it all made your breath catch.

You stepped inside, your eyes roaming over the shelves filled with volumes that looked as old as the mansion itself. Titles in Italian, French, and Latin stood alongside leather-bound tomes that bore no markings at all. The room felt alive, as if it held not just stories but secrets, the kind that Santino seemed to carry so easily.

One book, in particular, caught your eye. It sat slightly askew on a lower shelf, its black spine gleaming faintly in the light. You crouched down, wincing slightly as your shoulder protested the movement, and pulled the book free. The cover was simple, unadorned, but when you opened it, you found handwritten notes scrawled in the margins, the ink dark and slightly smudged.

The handwriting was familiar—Santino’s.

You flipped through the pages, your curiosity growing as you tried to decipher the notes. Most of it was in Italian, though there were occasional phrases in English. One line stood out, written in bold strokes near the bottom of a page: “La forza di proteggere costa caro.”

The strength to protect comes at a high cost.

You stared at the words, the weight of them settling over you like a heavy blanket. Santino’s world, his choices, his promises—they all seemed to circle back to this truth. He bore the cost of his strength every day, and now, you were beginning to feel the edges of that burden too.

Setting the book back on the shelf, you rose slowly, your fingers brushing the spines of the other books as you wandered further into the room. The library felt like a sanctuary, a place where Santino’s mind and soul had been laid bare in the margins of a hundred different texts. You wondered how often he came here, how many nights he’d spent alone with these books as his only company.

As you settled into the armchair near the fireplace, your gaze fell on the decanter and glass on the table beside it. Pouring a small amount of the liquid into the glass, you took a tentative sip. The whiskey burned slightly as it slid down your throat, but the warmth it brought was a welcome comfort.

For now, this would be enough—this room, this quiet moment, this small connection to him. It would have to be enough until he returned. And when he did, you would have questions, but you would also have something else: the beginnings of an understanding. Of him. Of his world. Of the cost he bore for it all.

[fics-not-tragedies]

How Do You Sleep?: Two

one - two - three - four

New parts coming Fridays.

Words: 3520; Warnings: lots of anger; Summary: Both you and John have remorse regarding your breakup;

Part 2: The Things We Left Unsaid

The city is still awake as you walk through it together, but it feels like you’ve stepped into a world of your own. The streets, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, feel like a dream, like some half-remembered memory you’ve been trying to forget. Every step you take is a reminder that you’re here, with him, and yet it doesn’t feel like you’re fully present. Not yet.

You’re not sure why you’re walking with him—why you didn’t just let him disappear into the shadows like the ghost of a past you’ve been running from for years. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes. Maybe it’s the way he’d called out to you, the way he asked how you’d slept, as though the question wasn’t just about the night, but about the years that stretched between you.

It’s been years since you last saw him. But even now, walking beside him in the cool night air, it’s almost like you never left.

Neither of you should be here. But somehow, you end up walking together anyway.

He doesn’t ask you why you left. Not directly. Not in the way you thought he might, with anger or bitterness in his voice. Instead, it’s a quiet, unspoken question that lingers between the two of you—something he doesn’t dare to voice because saying it out loud might make it real.

And so, you both dance around it.

You tell him about the life you’ve built after him, about the places you’ve traveled, the people you’ve met. You tell him about the small victories, the quiet moments of peace, the way you learned how to exist without him, how to find meaning in a world that didn’t feel like home anymore.

But none of it matters.

Not really. Because as you speak, you can hear the hollow emptiness in your voice. You’ve been trying to fill the spaces he left, but no one could ever do that. Not in the ways that mattered.

The spaces he left behind—those sharp corners of your soul where only he fit—never truly filled. They just became filled with distractions. Other people. Other things. Anything to make the ache stop for just a moment.

But none of it worked. And somehow, that seems to be the truth neither of you can escape.

He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The quiet between you speaks louder than any words ever could. Instead, he listens, the same way he always did. Absorbing everything you say without judgment, without interruption. But you know that, like you, he’s carrying something deeper beneath the surface. Something that he hasn’t voiced because he’s afraid of what it might mean.

“I traveled a lot,” you continue, forcing the words out. “I wanted to see the world. You know… the places we used to talk about going. I wanted to make it real, even if it was just for me.”

Your voice falters, but you don’t stop. “I thought maybe I’d find something... or someone. Something to fill the gap. You know?”

You can hear the tiredness in your own words. You thought you’d find something. But you didn’t.

John’s gaze flickers toward you briefly. He doesn’t speak at first, but there’s a tenderness in his expression—a subtle understanding that only makes the weight of the moment heavier. You’re not sure if he’s waiting for you to continue or if he’s simply letting you fill the silence with your own words, as if both of you are afraid of saying what’s left unspoken.

Instead, he just gives you a small nod. Then, quietly, he says, “It’s funny how the things we think will fill us… never do.”

You don’t respond immediately. His words settle in your chest, making it harder to breathe for a moment. You don’t look at him, but you can feel him beside you, like the ghost of everything you’ve tried to forget.

He doesn’t push you to share more. He just lets the air between you hang heavy with the things neither of you have said.

You pass a couple of familiar spots as you continue walking—places you used to visit together, spots that once held a kind of magic, a kind of promise. You’re not sure if you should acknowledge them or let them remain untouched, like relics of a life that doesn’t belong to either of you anymore.

You don’t want to admit it, but seeing these places again, feeling the pull of old memories, is harder than you thought. For all the miles you’ve put between yourself and him, for all the years you’ve spent pretending you moved on, none of it matters here. In this moment, on these streets, everything is raw and new again. You wonder if he feels it too—the pull of the past, the weight of what you shared.

Eventually, he speaks again, his voice low, like he’s testing the waters. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

The words catch you off guard, and you stumble for a moment, your feet almost losing their rhythm. But you don’t stop. You keep walking, as if the momentum will carry you through the discomfort, through the painful ache that starts to settle in your chest.

“I thought about you a lot too,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper, though you’re not sure if you’re speaking to him or to yourself.

And just like that, the past surges to the surface, unbidden. Memories flood back in sharp flashes—the feeling of his arms around you, the soft hum of his voice when he would whisper your name, the way he’d hold you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You used to think you could walk away and never look back. You used to tell yourself that you needed to leave in order to heal, to move on. But now, standing beside him, hearing him admit that he never stopped thinking about you, you realize something.

You never really left.

Not in the ways that mattered.

You can feel his presence beside you like a weight, like a gravity you’ve never fully escaped. And for a moment, you let yourself wonder: What would have happened if you hadn’t walked away? What would have happened if you’d stayed with him, in the world you both built together?

But the moment passes, and the ache of the "what ifs" starts to sting more than the present.

He stops suddenly, just before you reach another intersection, his foot still on the sidewalk as he looks at you, his eyes locking with yours with an intensity that makes your heart stumble.

“Why did you leave?” The question comes at last—soft, but piercing—like a truth he’s been holding onto for too long.

You take a shallow breath. You feel it in your chest, a weight that doesn’t quite belong, and for the first time since you saw him again, you realize: you might never have an answer that feels good enough.

You stand there, beneath the quiet glow of the streetlights, a moment suspended in time, and you wonder—do you tell him the truth? Or do you leave the past where it is, in the spaces between your heartbeats?

Before you can answer, he takes a small step back, like he’s already anticipating the silence. And maybe, in that moment, you both know—some things are better left unsaid.

The past is too heavy to carry, and maybe the best thing you can do is keep walking.

The streets of New York stretch out before you, endless and indifferent, as if the city itself is unaware of the fragile, unspoken world between the two of you. The quiet hum of distant traffic mixes with the occasional soft murmur of a late-night passerby, but you don’t hear any of it. All you hear is your own breath, and the echo of John’s question lingering in the air, a question that’s been hanging between you for so long, but one you’re still not sure how to answer.

He doesn’t push you to reply. Instead, he keeps walking at your side, his footsteps steady, but with a quiet tension now, like he’s waiting for something—a word, a shift, a response. He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel his presence beside you, like it’s pulling at something inside you.

The silence feels heavier now, thicker. The walls you’ve both built around the past have cracked a little, and neither of you knows where the rubble will fall. You can feel the weight of everything you haven’t said, and it’s starting to feel unbearable.

The city hums on, indifferent to your quiet turmoil, but you can’t shake the feeling that the world you’ve been moving through all these years—this life you’ve built without him—was just a distraction, an attempt to avoid what’s standing right here in front of you.

You were so sure when you left, so convinced that you were doing the right thing, that you were strong enough to walk away. But standing next to him now, you realize you never stopped carrying him with you. Maybe that’s why none of the places you traveled ever felt like home. Maybe that’s why everything since then has been a series of empty pursuits—because in your heart, you knew this was home.

You take a breath, the cold air stinging your lungs, and glance at him for the first time since he stopped in the street. His face is partially illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, the hard lines of his jaw softened by the shadows, the familiar, haunted expression that has never truly left.

He looks older now, his face more weathered, but there’s still something about him that hasn’t changed. The quiet intensity. The way he carries himself—like he’s always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And despite the years that have passed, despite everything that’s happened, you realize, with a strange clarity, that nothing about him feels foreign. He still fits in your life in a way no one else ever could.

And it’s terrifying.

You stop walking, suddenly unable to take another step, and he halts beside you, his gaze flicking to yours, still unreadable. The world feels smaller now, like it’s folding in on you.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” you finally say, the words coming out in a rush, as if they’ve been sitting in your chest for far too long. You can’t stop them now.

His eyes flicker toward you, a small crease appearing between his brows, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt. He’s letting you talk, waiting for you to find the words.

“I thought I was doing what was best for both of us,” you continue, your voice shaking a little. “But maybe I was just too afraid. Afraid of losing myself in you. Afraid that I’d be swallowed whole by everything that came with loving you.”

You turn away, not sure you want him to see the vulnerability in your eyes, but you can’t help it. It’s all spilling out now, the truth you buried so deep, the truth you tried to convince yourself wasn’t there.

“I thought I could leave and start over, but every place I went felt like a dead end. And no one—no one—could ever take your place. Not in my heart. Not in my life.”

John is silent, his gaze still on you, but this time, you don’t feel the need to look at him. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll lose your nerve, and you’ll say more than you’re ready to. More than you can handle.

Finally, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat from his body, the proximity of someone you thought you’d lost forever. The ache between you is almost unbearable now.

“I never wanted to lose you,” he says, his voice rough, low. It’s a simple truth, but it carries the weight of all the time that’s passed.

You close your eyes, letting the sound of his words settle into the air around you, mingling with the hum of the city, the rhythm of everything you once shared. You want to say something in response, but the words are tangled, twisted. You’ve said so much already, but still, there’s something left unsaid.

A part of you wonders if you can ever fully put into words what you’ve carried with you all this time—the absence, the ache, the way he’s never truly left your thoughts, even in the moments when you convinced yourself you’d moved on.

“Why did you leave?”

The question comes again, softer this time, not demanding, but more like a quiet plea.

You look at him now, the rawness in his eyes making it harder to breathe. He’s waiting for an answer, but this time, it’s different. He’s not asking for a reason or an explanation. He’s asking because, deep down, he knows the truth as much as you do. It wasn’t about the reasons. It was about fear—fear of losing yourselves, fear of getting lost in each other.

But there’s something else. Something deeper.

You step forward now, closer to him, the space between you closing as you both confront the weight of everything that has been left unsaid. For so long, you thought you had the answers. But standing here now, in the quiet of the city, you realize that the answers were never as important as the question.

“I thought it would be easier if I left,” you whisper. Your voice trembles, but you force yourself to keep going. “I thought that if I left, I’d be able to find something that was mine again, something that wasn’t wrapped up in us. But... I couldn’t.”

John doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, his gaze intense, his breath slow. He’s waiting for you to finish, to give the last piece of yourself to him, even though you’re not sure what that piece is.

“I never really left,” you add, almost too quietly.

And for the first time in years, you realize it’s true. You never left him.

You just ran from the love you thought was too big to carry.

In the silence that follows, you hear the quiet hum of the city around you, but it feels distant, almost irrelevant. Because in this moment, you both understand. You’re not sure where it will lead, but for the first time in years, you both know one thing for certain.

Neither of you ever truly left.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to find your way back to each other.

The night feels suspended, like the city itself has paused to give you both the space to breathe, to sort through all the pieces of the past that have never quite fit. You stand there, beneath the dim glow of the streetlamp, the sound of distant cars a low hum in the background. The air between you is thick with everything unspoken, but also with something else—something that feels like the possibility of something new, something you’d forgotten was possible.

John shifts slightly, his boots scraping the concrete in that familiar, deliberate way. The tension in his posture hasn’t fully relaxed, but there’s a softening to it now, like he’s seeing you again, not as the person who walked away, but as the one he’s always known. The one who once fit so perfectly beside him, as though you were both pieces of the same puzzle, long lost but finally found.

You swallow, your throat suddenly tight, like there’s something more you need to say, but you’re not sure how to voice it. You want to ask him what happens now—what happens after all these years, after all the things you’ve left behind. But somehow, you’re afraid to speak the words aloud, as though doing so might make everything that’s been floating between you real in a way you’re not ready for.

He takes a step closer, just enough to close the last of the distance between you. The space between you both isn’t just physical anymore; it’s years of silence, years of unresolved pain. And yet, standing here, in the quiet of the night, it doesn’t feel insurmountable. It feels like something waiting to be understood, waiting to be acknowledged.

“You’re still the same,” he says quietly, his voice like a low, steady current beneath the weight of everything. “You haven’t changed.”

You blink, surprised by the words. His gaze is fixed on you, intense but steady, like he’s trying to decipher something he’s always known but never fully understood.

“I don’t know about that,” you reply softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I think I’ve changed more than you realize.”

His lips twitch in a half-smile, a fleeting gesture, but it’s enough to make your heart skip. “I’m not talking about the kind of changes that time brings,” he says, his voice steady, almost reverent. “I mean... you.”

A lump forms in your throat, and you have to swallow hard to keep from choking on the words that are trying to surface. You know what he means. He’s talking about the person you were when you were with him. The person who didn’t need to hide. The person who trusted in love without fear, without second-guessing. The person you’ve lost somewhere along the way.

“I don’t know if I can ever be that person again,” you admit quietly, your eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet his gaze. The truth is, you’re not sure you can ever go back to the person you were when you loved him—when you were so sure that love was all you needed. You’ve been running from that version of yourself for so long, and now, here he is, standing right in front of you, pulling all those old feelings to the surface again.

John doesn’t move, doesn’t try to comfort you. He just watches you, listening, waiting.

“I wanted to be that person,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his, the words coming more freely now. “But... I was afraid.” You laugh softly, a brittle sound, like you’ve been holding this back for so long you forgot how to say it. “I was afraid of needing you too much. Afraid of losing myself in you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but you see his brow furrow slightly, like the weight of your confession is settling into his chest. It’s clear that he understands, even if he doesn’t agree.

“I never wanted you to lose yourself,” he says, the words slow and deliberate. “I just wanted you to be with me. To let me be part of your life.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words wash over you. It hurts, in a way you didn’t expect. It’s not the kind of hurt that feels like regret—it’s a different kind of ache. A kind of longing, of wanting something that’s no longer simple, no longer easy.

But at the same time, there’s something else there. Something you haven’t felt in so long. Something like the flicker of a spark, buried under years of doubt, but still burning.

“I don’t know how to be with you again,” you whisper. The confession feels like a surrender, like admitting defeat. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like giving up. It feels like finally allowing yourself to face the reality of what was lost.

John steps closer, until he’s right in front of you, so close that you can feel the heat of his body, the familiar scent of him. And for a moment, the world feels suspended again, like nothing has changed, like this is the moment you should’ve always had.

“I don’t know either,” he says, his voice low and steady. “But I want to try.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, their simplicity disarming. You look up at him, into the darkness of his eyes, and for a moment, everything else falls away. The years, the pain, the distance—all of it fades into the background.

It’s just you and him now, standing in the middle of the city, two people who have spent years running from each other, only to find themselves here, in this moment, uncertain of what happens next but unwilling to walk away this time.

You could walk away. You know you could. But the thought of doing so makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t ignore.

“I don’t know what happens next either,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t want to leave it like this. Not again.”

John reaches out, his hand brushing against your arm, the contact light but grounding. You don’t pull away. You don’t want to.

“You don’t have to,” he says softly, the words simple but full of meaning. “We don’t have to figure it all out now. We just have to be here. Together.”

You meet his gaze again, and for the first time in years, you don’t feel like you’re running. Not from him. Not from yourself.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Fiveteen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 2540; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: Santino and you grew even closer;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 15: “Kiss of Trust”

Without thinking, you closed the distance. Your lips met his in a kiss that was slow at first, testing, almost tentative. But it deepened quickly, a surge of heat running through you as his hand moved to cup your cheek, holding you in place. The kiss was soft but insistent, as if he was trying to say everything he couldn’t with words. His lips moved against yours, searching, desperate, and you responded in kind, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Santino groaned softly, the sound low and deep in his chest as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against your bottom lip, coaxing you to open to him. And you did—your lips parting, your body instinctively leaning into him. His taste was intoxicating, a mix of warmth and something darker, something that promised more. His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss even further. The intensity between you both grew, as if the world outside had ceased to exist and only the two of you remained in that moment, tangled in desire.

The kiss became more urgent, both of you responding to the need that had been building for so long. Santino’s other hand moved to your waist, pulling you toward him, your body pressing against his. The heat between you was undeniable, the chemistry sizzling with every touch. You could feel the muscles in his chest, the strength in his arms, and it made your pulse race, your heart pounding in sync with his.

His hand moved down to your shoulder, where the bandages were still fresh, and for a split second, you feared he might pull away, reminded of the injury. But he didn’t. His touch remained gentle, even as his kiss became more demanding. He shifted slightly, his body positioning closer to yours, his warmth seeping into your skin.

When you finally broke the kiss, gasping for air, both of you were breathless. Your eyes met, and in that moment, the world outside didn’t matter. It was just the two of you, suspended in time, the connection between you undeniable. Santino’s forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven as he tried to steady himself.

“You drive me crazy, bella,” he whispered, his voice husky and thick with desire. “Every part of you.”

You couldn’t help but smile, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Maybe I like that,” you said softly, your heart still racing from the kiss.

His eyes darkened, and he let out a low chuckle, his hand gently cupping your cheek again. “I think you do,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours once more, but this time, slower, almost as if savoring the moment.

For a long while, you both simply stayed there, holding each other, letting the kiss linger as you caught your breath. There were still questions, still uncertainty, but in that moment, you allowed yourself to forget about everything else. The promise he made to you, the unspoken understanding between you both—it was enough.

Santino's lips lingered against yours, his breath mingling with yours, slow and steady as if trying to savor the moment. His hands remained at your face and waist, his touch firm yet tender, grounding you in the intensity of what had just passed between you. The lingering taste of him still filled your senses, leaving a warmth in its wake, and you couldn’t help but lean into him even further, the heat between you unmistakable.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching your face for something—perhaps for confirmation that this was real, that you wanted this as much as he did. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, and the tension between you became thick once again, but it was different this time. It wasn’t just physical attraction. It was something deeper, more complicated, a connection that neither of you had anticipated, but both of you felt undeniably.

“You’re sure about this, amore?” Santino’s voice was low, rough with emotion, and you saw a flicker of vulnerability there that made your heart stutter.

You nodded without hesitation, your voice soft but steady. “I’m sure.”

The words seemed to ease something in him, and he leaned in again, this time with more intent, more urgency. His lips claimed yours once more, but there was an edge to it this time, a sense of hunger that hadn’t been there before. His hands moved to your back, pressing you closer, until you could feel the solid heat of his chest against yours, the firm muscles beneath his shirt. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss, your body melting against his as the world outside the room faded completely into nothingness.

Santino’s kiss was demanding now, urgent, as if trying to erase all the tension and chaos that had built between you both. His tongue traced the curve of your lip before coaxing yours into a slow, seductive dance, and you responded in kind, your heart racing with every beat. His hand slid from your waist to the curve of your hip, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. The feel of his body against yours, the heat radiating from him, left you breathless, and you could feel your own desire building—growing, pushing to the forefront.

The room seemed to close in around you, the only thing that mattered being the feel of Santino’s hands on you, his lips moving against yours with a raw need you hadn’t expected. But you didn’t want him to stop. Not now. Not when everything inside you was screaming to surrender to him.

When the kiss broke again, both of you were gasping for air, eyes locked in a moment of shared intensity. Santino’s forehead rested against yours as you both tried to steady your breathing, his lips brushing against your skin in featherlight touches, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“You make it impossible to think straight, bella” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

You smiled, a small, knowing grin. “Maybe that’s the point.”

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing yours once more, but this time, gentler. There was no rush now, just the slow, deep kiss that spoke of something more than just desire. It was a connection. And despite everything that hung in the air between you both, despite the unanswered questions and the unknowns of the future, in that moment, all that mattered was what you shared.

The kiss deepened again, but this time, you both took it slower, savoring the feeling of each other, of the quiet intensity that pulsed between you. The outside world still lingered in the back of your mind—danger, uncertainty, all of it—but in Santino’s arms, it was easy to forget.

For now, you were just two people, caught in a moment where nothing else mattered.

Santino's lips were still warm against yours as the kiss deepened again, the pressure of his mouth demanding, yet tender, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to savor you or devour you. Every brush of his lips, every touch of his hands sent electric jolts through you, sparking a fire deep within that made everything else feel insignificant. The chaos of the night, the danger you’d just escaped, all of it seemed to vanish into the background as you lost yourself in the feel of him.

His hands roamed from your waist to your back, pressing you even closer until the two of you were pressed against each other with an intensity that made your breath catch. You could feel the strength in his arms, the heat of his body, and it was overwhelming in the best way. Your heart pounded in your chest, but it wasn’t from fear this time—it was from the powerful pull between you, a magnetic force that seemed to grow with every passing second.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke in a low, gravelly tone. “I need to know you’re really here with me, bella. That you’re not just running from everything else, amore.”

You met his gaze, his eyes dark and intense, and there was something in them that made you hesitate for a moment. Something raw and vulnerable. You knew what he meant. This wasn’t just about the physical pull between you, it was about something deeper—something neither of you could fully understand yet, but that you couldn’t ignore.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes softened at that, just for a moment, and he kissed you again, softer this time, more deliberate, as if he were trying to savor the connection between you, to make it last longer. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that left you breathless, but there was still a quiet desperation there, an urgency that you felt deep in your bones.

Santino’s hands slid up your sides, his touch like fire on your skin, and you shivered as he gently cupped your face, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, needing more of him. Everything about him was consuming, and yet you wanted to dive deeper into that fire.

His kiss became more demanding again, a hunger that couldn’t be denied. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his hands gripped you, pulling you against him as if he were afraid to let go. There was something unspoken in the way he kissed you—something that went beyond lust, beyond desire. It was as if he were marking you, claiming you, in a way that was both possessive and protective at once.

You could feel it, too—the need to hold onto him, to feel like you were anchored in something solid after everything that had happened. It was as if this kiss, this moment, was the only thing that made sense in a world that had spun out of control.

The kiss broke again, both of you gasping for air, and Santino pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held you, the way he looked at you, spoke volumes.

You swallowed hard, your heart still racing as you tried to gather your thoughts. “Santino,” you breathed, your voice a whisper in the silence between you. “What happens now?”

His lips curved into a faint, almost melancholic smile, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Now, we take things one step at a time, bella,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know I’m not letting you go.”

The weight of his words hung between you, a promise you weren’t sure you could fully trust yet, but one you couldn’t deny. For the first time since the chaos of the night had begun, you felt something like calm settling over you, and it was because of him—because of the way he made you feel safe, even in the most uncertain of circumstances.

And for now, that was enough.

Santino's forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven as it mingled with your own. For a moment, the two of you stayed like that, suspended in a fragile stillness that felt as though it could shatter at any second. You didn’t want to break it. His presence, his closeness, felt like a shield against the chaos outside this room, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

But Santino, as always, was the first to move. His hand slipped from your face, gliding down to rest lightly on your shoulder, careful to avoid the bandaged wound. His dark eyes searched yours, and though his lips tilted into a faint smile, you could see the wariness still lurking behind it.

“You should rest,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “It isn’t over, bella, not for them. And I need to make sure this safehouse stays true to its name.”

There was an edge to his words, a reminder of the threats looming just beyond these walls. You nodded, though your body tensed at the thought of him stepping away, of his warmth being replaced by the cold emptiness of the room.

“What about you?” you asked, your voice soft. “You haven’t slept either.”

He huffed out a faint, humorless laugh, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “I’ve been running on borrowed time for years. One more sleepless night won’t kill me.” His gaze turned serious as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “But if I let anything happen to you? That might.”

The weight of his words sent a shiver down your spine, and you knew there was no arguing with him—not now. You reached up, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand where it rested on your shoulder, and you squeezed lightly. It was a small gesture, but you hoped he understood what you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say: Be careful. Don’t push too hard. Come back to me.

Santino straightened, his movements reluctant, as if part of him wanted to stay despite the responsibility that was calling him away. “Try to get some sleep,” he said again, softer this time, as he stepped back. His fingers lingered for one last second before slipping away entirely, leaving a faint, tingling warmth in their absence.

He turned, his broad shoulders tense as he moved toward the door, but before he could reach it, you found yourself speaking, the words escaping before you could stop them. “Santino.”

He paused, his hand hovering over the door handle as he glanced back at you. There was something almost vulnerable in the way he looked at you, as though he wasn’t quite sure what you were going to say next.

“Be careful,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Please.”

His lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Always,” he said simply, and then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

You stared at the door for a long moment, the room suddenly feeling far too large and far too quiet. The weight of the night settled over you again, the events replaying in your mind like a disjointed film. The shootout, the car chase, the sharp sting of the bullet that had torn through your skin—and then Santino, always Santino, pulling you from the chaos and grounding you in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

You leaned back against the pillows, the ache in your shoulder throbbing in time with the rapid beat of your heart. Closing your eyes, you tried to will yourself into the calm he had urged upon you, but sleep wouldn’t come. Not yet.

Somewhere out there, danger was still circling, and Santino was walking directly into its jaws to keep you safe.

And though you didn’t want to admit it, the thought of him not coming back made your chest tighten in a way that scared you more than any gunshot ever could.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Fourteen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 2041; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: It's the next morning and you're hoping to get some answers from Santino;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 14: “The Morning After”

Time passed, and when you woke again, the first thing you noticed was the soft light of the morning filtering through the windows. The golden hue of dawn poured into the room, casting long shadows on the walls, and the quiet stillness of the early hours made everything feel surreal. Your body ached—dull, persistent reminders of the events of the night before—but the pain in your shoulder was more manageable now, like a throbbing pulse that faded in and out, nothing too overwhelming. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to your mind, the fog lifting slowly as you became more aware of the world around you.

The room was quiet, peaceful almost, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning. But there was something more—an undercurrent of familiarity that made you feel safe, grounded. You could feel that Santino was still close, just as he had promised. His presence was unmistakable, a constant in the calm that enveloped you.

Turning your head, you found him sitting in the same chair by the bed, his figure still and attentive. His posture was more relaxed now, his body leaning slightly back against the chair, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—were fixed on you. They were intense, alert, as though he had never looked away, never allowed himself the luxury of sleep. The weight of his gaze made your chest tighten, a small flutter of something in your stomach, though you couldn’t quite place what it was.

His features were sharp as ever, the angular lines of his face softened only by the faintest trace of exhaustion. His jaw was tight, the muscles flexing occasionally, but there was something different in his expression. Something subtle. A tenderness that had not been there before. The hardness in his face had given way to a quiet vulnerability, as though his guard had slipped, if only for a moment.

He hadn’t slept, you realized. He had been awake the entire time, watching over you, ensuring your safety, never once letting his attention wander. The thought made your chest tighten, a strange warmth spreading through you despite the lingering ache in your body. He had kept his promise.

The way he watched you now was so different from the tense urgency of the night before. There was no trace of the panic or sharp determination from when the danger had been so immediate. Instead, he looked at you with something softer, something more caring, as though you were the only thing that mattered in the room. His eyes softened, his gaze tracing the line of your face, lingering on your lips as though trying to memorize every detail. His expression was calm, almost reverent, but it was the quiet intensity that radiated from him that held your attention.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken much since the night before. His tone was gentler now, an edge of concern weaving through it.

The sound of his voice was like an anchor, pulling you out of the remnants of sleep and back into the reality of the moment. You blinked again, taking in the sight of him, still as commanding as ever, yet somehow... different. More present. More human.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, the words feeling thin against the weight of his gaze. But as you said them, you realized they were true. The pain in your shoulder was there, but manageable. You were alive. You were safe. And something in you, something deep and unexpected, allowed you to breathe a little easier.

His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, though it was brief, a fleeting moment before his usual controlled expression returned. He leaned forward slightly, his hand, warm and steady, resting lightly on the bed beside you. The way he looked at you—like you were the most important thing in his world—made your heart flutter, and you struggled to steady the pace of your breath.

“I promised you I would keep you safe,” he murmured, his voice low and intense, the words full of quiet determination. “And I’ll make sure nothing else happens to you, bella. I’ll always be here.”

His words echoed in the room, carrying weight far beyond the surface of their meaning. You didn’t know what it was that bound you to him so deeply—perhaps it was the promise of protection, perhaps the way he had held you together the night before, or the way he seemed to care more than was wise. Whatever it was, the sensation of it all—his closeness, the depth of his gaze, the vulnerability he allowed himself to show—wrapped around you like a secret, fragile thread, one that kept you tethered to him in ways you weren’t ready to understand.

But, for now, all you could do was nod, feeling the beginnings of trust settle quietly in the pit of your stomach, and let the weight of his words sink into your bones.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his hand reaching out to gently touch your shoulder, checking the bandages with practiced care.

“Better,” you murmured, though the question in your eyes remained. “Santino, what exactly happened last night? Who were those people?”

Santino’s expression darkened, the shadows returning to his gaze as he sat on the edge of the bed, closer this time. His hand still rested on your shoulder, but it felt heavier now, as if he was holding back something more than just physical tension.

“It’s a long story,” he said, his tone guarded. “And it’s one you’re not going to like.”

You leaned up slightly, ignoring the sharp tug of pain in your shoulder as you stared at him. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth. About everything.”

Santino’s eyes searched yours, and for a long moment, the air between you seemed to stretch, thick with the weight of unspoken words. Finally, he sighed, his fingers brushing the side of your face in a rare, fleeting touch.

“I’ll tell you, bella,” he promised softly, his voice more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it. “But not today. Not yet.”

The frustration built in you, but you forced yourself to nod, the tightness in your chest telling you that you’d have to be patient for now.

“You owe me that much,” you said quietly, the words sharp despite the softness in your voice.

Santino’s gaze softened as he leaned closer, his lips brushing lightly against your forehead in a gesture that held tenderness and something else—something heavier.

“I owe you more than that,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will make it right.”

As he pulled away, you felt the weight of his promise, even as the uncertainty of the future loomed over you both. But for now, in this quiet, safe moment, you let yourself believe him.

Santino’s expression darkened once more, the shadows in his eyes deepening as he looked at you, his posture rigid despite the tenderness of his touch. The air between you grew heavy, charged with the unsaid, and you could feel it pressing down on both of you, making the space between you feel impossibly small.

“You deserve to know everything,” he said quietly, his voice low, tinged with a mix of regret and something you couldn’t quite place. “But some things... Some things are too dangerous to say out loud. Not yet.”

You swallowed the frustration rising in your chest, the need to know battling against the growing sense of distance between you. The ache in your shoulder seemed distant now, secondary to the tension that hung thick in the room. You didn’t want to be kept in the dark, didn’t want to feel like you were being shielded from the truth—but you understood, somehow, that Santino was more than just a man with secrets. He was someone wrapped up in a world that was far darker and more dangerous than you could imagine.

The silence stretched on, neither of you speaking, but the weight of his presence beside you felt almost suffocating. Finally, you broke the quiet, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you.

“You owe me more than just silence,” you said, your words quiet but firm. “I deserve the truth. Even if it’s hard to hear.”

Santino’s jaw tightened at your words, and for a moment, you thought he might withdraw, might close off again. But instead, he sighed, his gaze softening as he turned his attention back to you. He seemed torn, like he was battling with something deep within himself. His hand remained on your shoulder, but now, it felt less like a gesture of comfort and more like an anchor—something that held him in place, keeping him from retreating back into his own private world.

“I never wanted you to be a part of this,” he admitted quietly, his eyes flicking down to the floor for a brief moment. When he looked back up at you, there was something in his gaze—something raw, vulnerable, and for the first time, you saw the weight of the man behind the mask. “But I’ve already dragged you into it.”

He leaned forward, his face close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. The space between you had closed in ways that felt almost intimate, though the tension still crackled in the air.

“I never wanted to pull you into my mess, bella,” he continued, his voice soft, low, almost a whisper. “But now that you are... I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means keeping the truth from you—for now.”

You could see the conflict in his eyes, the battle raging inside of him. There was a certain protectiveness in his gaze, but also something darker, something that suggested the world he lived in was far more dangerous than you could ever comprehend.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you said quietly, though your heart didn’t quite agree with the words. There was part of you that was drawn to him, that wanted to believe him even in the face of everything. But the uncertainty was there, lingering. “I need to know what’s going on.”

Santino’s lips pressed together in a thin line, but his eyes never wavered from yours. “I know you don’t trust me. I’m not asking you to,” he replied, his voice raw. “I’m asking you to trust that I will do everything in my power to protect you. And when the time comes, you’ll know everything.”

The weight of his words lingered in the air, but before you could respond, he reached up, his fingers gently brushing against your forehead, brushing back a stray lock of hair. The touch was tender, almost reverent, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into it, closing your eyes as the warmth of his touch soothed the ache in your chest.

“I promise you, bella,” he whispered, his voice thick with unspoken emotion, “I will make things right. I will protect you, no matter the cost.”

You didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, you chose to believe him. Even with the uncertainty, even with the danger that loomed over you both, you let yourself believe that Santino would keep his word.

Santino’s words hung heavy in the air between you, a promise that both soothed and unsettled. The warmth of his hand on your forehead, the tenderness in his touch, seemed to bridge the distance between you both. His gaze softened as he leaned closer, the space between you shrinking with every passing second. Your breath hitched, the tension in the room thickening, but this time, it wasn’t just the unspoken secrets that filled the space. It was something else—something magnetic, drawing you both together against the weight of everything.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His lips were just inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours, warm and slow. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the urgency building in the way his eyes flicked from your lips to your eyes. There was something unspoken between you, a pull that neither of you could deny anymore.

[fics-not-tragedies]

How Do You Sleep?: One

one - two - three - four

It's a request that was lost somehow, but I wrote it now. New parts coming Fridays.

Words: 3177; Warnings: lots of anger; Summary: By some divine intervention you stumble upon John Wick - a figure from your past, you're still not over yet;

Part 1: Ghosts of Yesterday

The clink of glass against wood is the only sound that breaks the silence of the nearly empty bar. It’s late, the city outside muffled by the walls of this dimly lit refuge. The low hum of jazz plays softly in the background, barely cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke that lingers in the air, but it doesn’t matter. None of it does.

You’re not here for the music, not here for the drink. You came because you needed a place to breathe. A place to forget.

The bartender eyes you with mild curiosity, but it’s the kind of glance you’ve come to expect. People are used to the lone wanderers who find their way into this quiet spot—a place where no one asks questions. You sit at the far end of the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon you’ll never really drink.

Your mind, however, is miles away.

You never expected to see him again.

Not after all these years. Not after you walked away.

But there he is.

The unmistakable silhouette of John Wick, seated at the far end of the bar. His face is a little more weathered now, his jaw rougher, his dark hair speckled with a touch of gray. He’s older. Tired. But the way he carries himself is still the same—too quiet, too steady, as if he’s trying to keep the weight of the world from crushing him.

His hand, wrapped around a glass of whiskey, shakes slightly, though he hides it well. He’s trying to disappear into the shadows of the bar, but he doesn’t notice you yet.

For a fleeting moment, you consider slipping out the door. Pretending you never saw him. But then you remember: you can never outrun the past.

As if the universe itself has conspired against you, his eyes catch yours in the reflection of the bar mirror.

Your heart stutters.

His gaze locks with yours, unblinking, like he’s searching for something—some clue in your expression, some piece of the person he thought he knew. Time seems to stretch, and for the first time in years, you feel the air around you thicken, heavy with the weight of everything you never said.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s forgotten about you. Forgotten about what you meant to each other. Maybe the years have dulled the pain for him, just as they have for you.

But no. His eyes speak a different language—one of ghosts.

A slow breath escapes him, as if he’s just now realizing that he hasn’t truly moved on. That maybe, like you, he’s been living in the spaces between the past and the present.

You used to think you could forget him. You tried.

You told yourself you had your reasons for leaving, just like he had his reasons for letting you go. Maybe it was safer that way. Maybe the love you shared was a fire that burned too bright, too hot. You were never meant to stay.

But standing here, staring at him from across the bar, the truth hits you harder than you expected.

You didn’t forget him.

And maybe you never will.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t call your name. Just stares, his eyes unreadable.

For a second, you wonder if you should say something—anything—but the words feel too sharp, too loaded. You’re not sure what to say. How do you explain the years you spent trying to rebuild a life without him? How do you tell him that walking away was never easy?

The bartender, sensing the shift in the air, discreetly looks away. But John’s gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s trying to read the pages of a book that’s been torn to pieces.

You wish you could hide behind the glass, behind the mask of indifference you’ve perfected over the years. But the truth is, you can’t. And you hate him for making you feel this way—like you’re sixteen again, caught in a whirlwind of emotions you can’t control.

You loved him once.

Maybe you still do.

But you left. And he let you.

So why does it still hurt this much?

“You’re not going to run this time, are you?”

His voice, low and gravelly, slices through the tension in the air. It’s quiet, but it’s real. It’s John. And for a second, you’re back in the space where the world was just the two of you.

But it’s not that simple anymore.

You swallow hard. The words don’t come, but the memories do. They flood in like a tide, dragging you under with the weight of everything that was—everything you both lost.

“I… wasn’t planning on running.” Your voice sounds foreign to you, like it belongs to someone else.

He doesn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly, as if he's remembering something. Something warm.

And then, just like that, the distance between you feels both infinite and intimate at the same time. The past has never been further behind, yet it feels like it’s standing right beside you.

John takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving you.

The space between you is thick with words unsaid, with choices you both made. He doesn’t seem angry. He doesn’t seem sad. Just... quiet. So damn quiet. And it makes you ache.

You thought seeing him again would feel like some kind of closure. Some resolution. But all it’s done is reopen the door to everything you tried to forget. The pieces of your heart you locked away, thinking you could move on.

It feels like an echo. Like a song that never ends.

And you wonder if, after all these years, you’re still haunted by the ghost of something you lost—something you can never get back.

He looks at you one last time, his gaze steady, and then he nods, almost imperceptibly. It’s not an invitation, and it’s not an apology. It’s just… acknowledgement.

And that’s when you realize—you never really walked away. Not completely. Not from him. Not from the love that’s still buried deep inside you.

But the question remains, one you can’t escape: Why does it still hurt this much?

The air between you and John is heavy, like a storm about to break. For a moment, it feels like everything in the world has narrowed down to this one small, dimly lit bar in New York City. The faint hum of the jazz music seems distant, irrelevant. Time feels as though it’s been suspended, as if the years between you never really existed.

His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, but there’s something else there too—something more vulnerable than you’d like to admit. You can see it now, in the way his jaw tightens and his shoulders stiffen, as if he’s afraid that if he moves too much, the whole thing will collapse under the weight of what’s unspoken.

You try to push the knot in your throat down, but it doesn’t work. The words sit there, heavy and unvoiced, like they always have when it comes to him.

You wonder if he’s even thought about you in the years since you left. Probably not, you tell yourself. He’s moved on. But the truth is that you’ve spent so much time trying to forget, trying to erase him from your life like a bad dream, that you’ve never actually let him go. Maybe you were always hoping, just a little, that someday, somehow, your paths would cross again. That he’d be here in this bar, at this moment. Or maybe you just wanted to see if you still mattered to him.

You pick up your glass of bourbon, fingers trembling ever so slightly. You’re not sure why you’re still holding onto it. Maybe you hope it’ll steady you. You take a long sip, the warmth spreading down your throat, and finally, you break the silence.

“It’s been a long time,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. It sounds hollow in the space between you, like an echo.

John doesn’t respond immediately. He keeps his gaze on you, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, after a pause that feels like eternity, he exhales softly and sets his glass down, his fingers tapping the rim lightly.

“It has.”

The simple statement lands heavier than you expected. You knew this conversation wasn’t going to be easy, but you didn’t anticipate it would feel like this—like every word would make your chest feel a little more hollow, a little more raw.

You search his face, trying to find something—anything—that would give you a clue about where his mind is. But it’s like looking at a wall. There’s no anger in his eyes. No bitterness. Just that familiar, quiet intensity that’s always been part of him, like a storm beneath the surface.

You finally let your gaze drop, staring into your glass, tracing the rim with your finger. "I never meant for it to end like that, you know?" Your words are shaky, but they come out before you can stop them. "I didn’t want to leave. But... I couldn’t stay. Not in that life. Not with you. Not anymore."

You can feel his gaze on you, but you can’t look up. The vulnerability in your words feels too much.

It’s almost like you can hear him thinking—his mind moving through the years between you. You can almost hear the quiet war waging inside him. Does he believe you? Does he think you meant it?

You swallow, trying to compose yourself. “I thought I could start fresh,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I thought running away would fix things. But it never did. I was just... running from everything. From myself. From you.”

The silence stretches again, thick and uncomfortable. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe some things—some people—are better left in the past. Maybe this reunion wasn’t meant to happen. But then, when you glance up again, you find his eyes watching you, not with judgment, but with a softness that you haven’t seen in years.

John’s expression shifts slightly, just a crack in the armor, and his voice is low when he speaks, as if every word carries the weight of an unspoken truth.

“You didn’t have to run.” His words hang in the air, fragile, like they were never meant to be said. “I never wanted you to leave.”

Your heart stutters at the quiet intensity of his voice. It’s strange to hear him say that, to hear him admit, even in this small way, that you were more than just a casualty of the life you both lived. He’s never been one for sentimental words, and you wonder how much of this is real, how much of it is him being as lost as you.

You want to speak, to explain, but the words are caught in your throat again, tangled in memories you thought you buried.

Instead, you stand up, feeling the weight of the moment press against your chest, suffocating you. You’re not sure why you’re standing, why your legs feel like they’re about to betray you, but you can’t stay still—not with the air between you thick with things you’ll never have the courage to say.

You take a step toward the door, but then you stop, your hand resting on the cool surface of the wood. You don’t turn around. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll never leave. That something in you will shatter, and you’ll want to stay in this moment forever.

And yet, something inside you whispers that it’s time to go, that this is where it ends. It has to.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, almost too quietly for him to hear. It’s not just for leaving, but for the way you both let it slip through your fingers. For all the time that’s been wasted, for all the unspoken apologies, for all the broken dreams.

You don’t expect him to answer.

And he doesn’t.

You leave anyway.

But as the door swings open and the cool night air hits your face, you feel it—this strange ache in your chest, like there’s still something unfinished, something unresolved that you’ll never be able to shake.

And as you step out into the dark streets, you wonder if he feels it too.

If he’s carrying the same weight.

The cold New York air hits you like a slap as you step outside, the night wrapping around you like a cloak. It feels too quiet, too empty, as if the world has gone on without you, leaving you behind with nothing but your thoughts and the faintest memory of what you just walked away from.

You can still hear the sound of your footsteps echoing on the sidewalk, but there’s something else too—the weight of the door closing behind you, the lingering tension between you and John. The thought of leaving him like that, of walking away after everything, claws at your chest, but you don’t stop. You don’t turn back.

Keep moving.

Your pace quickens, but the city’s glow blurs around you, the streetlights dancing in your periphery. You need to get away. You need to put some distance between yourself and that place, because if you don’t, you know that part of you—the part you thought you buried—might pull you back in.

Your breath is shallow, the cold air making the edges of your vision blur. You tell yourself you're fine, that this is what you wanted, that you were strong enough to walk away before. But something gnaws at you.

You’re not fine. You never were.

As you turn a corner, heading down a side street toward the subway, you feel the weight of his words creeping up behind you. You never wanted him to leave, he said. And you didn’t want to leave him.

But here you are, still running.

A sharp sound breaks through your thoughts, a car horn honking, but it’s too late. You don’t even register the change in your surroundings until you feel the pull of something—someone—familiar. A presence in the shadows that shouldn’t be there.

You stop dead in your tracks.

A silhouette steps forward from the alley, too tall, too familiar to be anything else. Your pulse spikes, and before you can react, you hear that deep, gravelly voice.

“You left.”

The words hang heavy in the air between you, and you realize he’s not asking a question. He’s stating a fact, the kind of fact that feels like a punch to the stomach. The kind of fact that’s been living inside him for years, too heavy to ignore.

You don’t turn around immediately. Instead, you let your fingers graze the cool surface of the brick wall beside you, grounding yourself before you make a decision. You don’t look at him—not yet.

You left.

The truth hurts, doesn’t it? He says it like an accusation, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a reflection of the past that both of you never got to finish.

You didn’t leave because you stopped loving him. You left because you couldn’t keep pretending you could live in a world where love was enough to erase the damage. You needed space. You needed air. But in the quietest parts of your mind, you knew you’d always return to him. Even if you never admitted it. Even if it meant breaking your own heart.

Finally, you turn, meeting his eyes across the narrow street. The dim light from the streetlamp catches the sharp planes of his face, the shadow beneath his brow making him look like a man caught between two worlds—one that’s been chasing him for too long and one that’s been waiting for him to come back to it.

He’s standing there, still, as if this moment—this very second—is all that matters. As if the years between you never existed. And maybe they didn’t.

The words you were so ready to leave behind suddenly feel so very heavy.

“I had to leave, John.” You’re surprised by the steadiness in your voice, but the truth is you’ve said it so many times to yourself that it’s starting to sound like a lie. “I couldn’t stay in that life. I couldn’t stay in that world with you.”

You see the brief flicker of pain in his eyes—just a flash, but it’s there, and it hits you harder than you expected. He’s not angry. He’s not shouting. He’s just... sad. Sad because he’s standing in front of the person he thought he would grow old with, and all of a sudden, time has erased that possibility.

He steps closer, his boots hitting the pavement with a soft thud. The movement is almost tentative, like he’s testing whether you’ll back away. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you’re sure he’ll reach for you, pull you into him like he used to, and you’ll fall apart again.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he speaks, and his voice sounds quieter, more fragile than you ever expected it to be.

“I don’t know how to forget you,” he says, each word weighted with years of regret and longing. “How do you do it? How do you walk away like that and sleep at night?”

You feel the burn of his words, like they’re scraping at the rawest part of your heart. He’s not accusing you. He’s just asking a question he knows has no answer.

How do you sleep?

You don’t, you realize. Not really. Not since the day you left him.

Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll see the truth in your eyes. That leaving him was never easy. That you thought you were saving both of you. But you were wrong.

“I didn’t want to forget you,” you finally whisper, your voice barely audible. The confession feels like it’s been trapped in your throat for years. “But I thought it was the only way I could save myself.”

John’s gaze softens, but there’s something in the way he holds himself, like a wall that he’s too afraid to tear down again. He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t reach for you.

He just stands there. And for the first time in years, you realize how much you’ve missed him.

You’re standing on the edge, both of you—caught between the person you used to be and the one you’re still becoming. And for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. But you know it has.

And as you stand there in the quiet night, you’re not sure if you can keep walking away from this. From him.

But for now, you say nothing more.

Instead, you turn away and keep walking, the sound of your footsteps once again echoing through the streets of New York. Only this time, the distance between you and John feels impossibly vast, and yet... so small.

And you wonder, as you disappear into the darkness, if he’s watching you go, asking himself the same question:

How do you sleep?

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Thriteen

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

Yes folks, I know, life happened, and we're again behind the schedule. New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 1315; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: It's the next morning after the pursuit ended and you're hoping for at least some tranqulity;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 13: “What The Night Brings”

As you lay down, the plush bed doing little to ease your racing thoughts, you couldn’t help but wonder if the truth Santino promised to reveal would make anything better—or if it would only deepen the chaos swirling around you.

In the quiet of the villa, your mind drifted between fear and resolve. Whatever was coming, you would face it head-on. But as your eyes closed and sleep began to claim you, one thought lingered: Santino D’Antonio was a man you could neither trust completely nor turn away from. And that terrified you more than anything else.

The sound of the door creaking open pulled you from the edge of sleep. Your heart jolted for a moment before you saw the figure silhouetted in the dim light spilling from the hallway. It was Santino. He hesitated in the doorway, as if unsure whether to step inside.

“Santino?” you murmured, your voice hoarse from exhaustion.

“Did I wake you?” he asked softly, his voice carrying an edge of guilt. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Not really,” you replied, sitting up slightly against the pillows. “I wasn’t fully asleep.”

His eyes lingered on you for a long moment, as though he were debating something. Then, with measured steps, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, the faint scent of his cologne reaching you—a mix of cedar and something darker, smokier.

“You should be resting,” he said, his tone low but warm.

You gave a tired smile. “So should you.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Touché.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged, as if both of you were waiting for the other to speak. Finally, he leaned back slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

“I needed to see you,” he admitted, his voice almost a whisper. “I told myself I wouldn’t disturb you, but…”

“But?” you prompted, your pulse quickening.

“But I couldn’t stay away,” he finished, his expression unreadable, a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. “After everything tonight, I needed to know you were truly safe.”

“I’m here,” you said softly, reaching out instinctively. Your hand brushed his, and he turned his palm upward, his fingers curling around yours. The warmth of his touch sent a strange comfort coursing through you.

“I’ve lived my life surrounded by danger, bella,” he said, his voice tinged with something uncharacteristically raw. “It’s not often that I care about who might get caught in the crossfire. But with you…” He trailed off, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand.

“With me?” you asked, your breath catching.

“With you, it’s different,” he admitted, his dark eyes searching yours. “I can’t ignore it. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and before you could respond, he leaned in, his movements deliberate yet cautious. The moment his lips brushed against yours, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if he was giving you a chance to pull away.

But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned into him, your fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss deepened, growing more fervent, his hand sliding to the small of your back to draw you closer. Heat blossomed between you, and for a moment, nothing else existed but the press of his mouth against yours and the way he held you as though you were the only thing grounding him.

When you finally pulled back, your breaths mingled in the small space between you. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his hand still cradling your face.

“Santino,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid.

“I know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently along your jawline. “There’s so much I should tell you. So much I still need to explain, amore.”

“Then tell me,” you said, your fingers still gripping his shirt as though afraid he’d disappear.

He hesitated for a beat, his gaze searching yours. “Not tonight,” he said finally, his tone soft but firm. “Tonight, you need to rest. And I need… I need to make sure I don’t lose my mind worrying about you.”

You wanted to protest, but the vulnerability in his eyes silenced you. Instead, you nodded, letting him ease you back against the pillows. He stood, his hand lingering on yours for a moment longer.

“Sleep, bella,” he said, his voice a quiet command. “I’ll be right here.”

And as your eyes fluttered shut, you felt his presence settle in the chair beside the bed, a silent guardian in the night.

The warmth of his presence lingered even as sleep began to pull you under. His steady breathing, the faint rustle of his movements as he adjusted in the chair beside the bed, offered a strange comfort. Each subtle shift of his weight, each quiet sound, felt like an unspoken reassurance that he was there, watching over you. His presence, a constant yet gentle reminder, grounded you in a way nothing else could. In the midst of everything—the chaos, the fear, and the confusion—he became a steady anchor, keeping you tethered to something safe.

You weren't sure when it happened, but his nearness became the one thing that felt like a refuge. It was as though the world outside had faded away, leaving only the two of you in the dimly lit room. It wasn’t just his physical proximity that made you feel this way, but the underlying sense that he was protective, steadfast, and unwavering, even if you didn’t fully understand why.

Despite the sharp, throbbing pain in your shoulder—the dull ache that throbbed with each breath—and the lingering fear that still clung to the edges of your mind, sleep began to weave its way through you. The soft rise and fall of his chest as he sat nearby seemed to lull you deeper, the rhythmic pulse of his presence like a lullaby that promised peace. The world beyond the confines of the room seemed to slip away, leaving only the safety of the moment.

But just as you were about to slip fully into the welcoming embrace of sleep, his voice sliced through the quiet, low and almost inaudible. It was as if he was speaking more to himself than to you, his words soft, yet filled with a weight that made your heart stutter.

“I’ll protect you, bella,” he whispered, the rawness in his tone so thick, it sent a shiver through your entire body. "No matter what it takes."

The words wrapped around you like a soft, dark blanket, weaving into your mind and heart. His promise was both unsettling and comforting all at once. There was an undeniable sincerity in his voice, a depth to his words that left you breathless. It was a vow not just to shield you from physical harm, but to keep you safe in ways you couldn't quite understand yet. It felt like a binding thread between you both, a promise in the dark.

The intensity of those words settled deep within you, but sleep was quick to claim you, pulling you deeper into its embrace. His voice became a distant hum, his presence beside you a faint echo in the back of your mind. As you surrendered to the warmth of unconsciousness, you felt a strange sense of security, despite everything. His promise lingered, like a tether you could hold on to, even if you weren’t sure where it would lead.

And as sleep finally wrapped its comforting arms around you, you let yourself drift, allowing the storm of emotions to settle for the time being, content in the knowledge that Santino would be there when you awoke.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Twelve

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 1451; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: The danger stopped at for the moment, but someone decided to pay you and Santino a rather surprising visit;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 12: “Surprise Visit”

You sat there, your heart racing, your lips still tingling from his kiss. The villa, so luxurious and serene, suddenly felt suffocatingly empty without him. Questions swirled in your mind, but the lingering heat of his touch was enough to quiet them for now. Whatever was happening, you knew one thing: there was no going back—not from this, not from him.

The door creaked open, pulling your attention from the turbulent thoughts spinning in your mind. You expected Santino to return, but instead, a tall, striking woman stepped into the room, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Her presence was magnetic, commanding attention without effort, and it was clear from the sharp set of her features and the glint in her eyes that she was someone who carried authority.

Her dark hair was swept back elegantly, and she was dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that accentuated her poised, almost regal demeanor. She looked at you with a mixture of curiosity and something you couldn’t quite place—wariness, maybe, or scrutiny.

“Well,” she said, her voice smooth and unhurried, yet carrying a subtle edge, “you must be the reason my brother has been so… distracted.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and rose to your feet. The tension in her words wasn’t outright hostile, but it wasn’t warm, either. “I’m sorry, and you are…?”

“Gianna D’Antonio,” she said with a faint, humorless smile. “Santino’s sister. And you must be the woman he’s risking everything for.”

Her words struck like a hammer, the weight of them settling heavily in the room. “I wouldn’t say that,” you said cautiously, unsure of how much she knew—or how much you were supposed to reveal. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Gianna’s smile widened, but it didn’t soften. “I don’t misunderstand my brother, cara. If you’re here, bleeding in his villa, with guards circling like hawks, it’s because he’s placed you under his protection. And Santino doesn’t do that lightly.”

Her words sent a chill through you, though you couldn’t entirely disagree. Santino’s actions tonight, his concern, the way he looked at you—it all pointed to a depth of care you hadn’t fully processed.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I didn’t ask to be dragged into… whatever this is.”

Gianna tilted her head, studying you for a long moment before she spoke again. “Perhaps not,” she said thoughtfully, her sharp gaze narrowing slightly. “But you’re here now. And that makes you a liability—or an asset.”

The door opened again, and Santino strode back into the room. His sharp features softened slightly when he saw you, but his eyes immediately flicked to his sister, their gazes locking in a silent exchange.

“Gianna,” he said, his tone carrying an undercurrent of irritation. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think, fratello?” she replied smoothly, arching a brow. “I came to make sure you weren’t digging your own grave—and dragging the family down with you.”

Santino’s jaw tightened, and he took a deliberate step toward her. “You don’t get to dictate my actions.”

“I’m not dictating,” she said evenly. “I’m advising. You’ve already stirred enough trouble tonight. Do you really think they won’t come after her again? Or worse, come after all of us?”

Your heart clenched at her words, and you saw the flicker of conflict in Santino’s expression. He turned to you, his gaze softening. “Gianna likes to exaggerate,” he said, his tone low but steady. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Gianna let out a dry laugh. “You think a villa and a handful of guards will stop them? You’re smarter than that, Santino. If you want to keep her alive, you need to think strategically.”

“Enough,” he snapped, his voice sharp. The air between them crackled with tension, but Gianna didn’t flinch. Instead, she gave a small shrug, her gaze lingering on you.

“She seems strong,” Gianna said after a moment, her tone softer but still calculated. “I hope, for both your sakes, that she’s strong enough.” With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door, pausing only briefly to glance back. “For what it’s worth, I hope you know what you’re doing, fratello.”

As the door closed behind her, the tension in the room lingered. Santino ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before turning back to you.

“Don’t let her get in your head,” he said softly, his eyes searching yours. “Gianna means well, but she doesn’t understand.”

“Doesn’t she?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “Because she seemed to understand the danger better than I do.”

Santino moved closer, his hands resting gently on your arms. “The danger isn’t yours to carry,” he said firmly. “It’s mine. And I won’t let it touch you, bella. Not while I still have a choice.”

The raw intensity in his gaze made it hard to look away. Despite everything—your doubts, the chaos—you couldn’t help but believe him.

The room fell silent after Santino’s declaration, the weight of his words pressing down on you. His hands lingered on your arms, his touch steady, grounding, but the storm in his eyes told you he was grappling with far more than he let on.

“She’s right, though,” you said quietly, your voice almost trembling with the admission. “This isn’t just about you anymore. I’m involved now, whether I wanted to be or not.”

Santino’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening slightly before he forced himself to relax. “You didn’t choose this, amore,” he said, his tone laced with a rare vulnerability. “And I won’t let you pay for my choices.”

“But you can’t guarantee that, can you?” you pressed, your words not accusatory but searching, needing some kind of clarity. “You said it yourself—these people, whoever they are, they’ll come after me again. What happens then?”

Santino’s silence was answer enough. His shoulders sagged slightly, the confidence he wore like armor cracking just a little under the weight of the truth.

“I’ll be ready,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute. “I’ve dealt with threats like this before. And now that they’ve shown their hand, I’ll ensure they don’t get another chance.”

There was something chilling about the quiet menace in his words, the way his gaze darkened as if he was already plotting his next move. It made you shiver—not out of fear for him, but for whoever was foolish enough to cross him.

“Santino,” you said softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. The gesture seemed to pull him back from whatever dark place his mind had wandered to. His eyes met yours, and the fire burning there softened slightly. “I need to understand what’s happening. You can’t keep shielding me from the truth.”

He exhaled, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested against his face. “I will tell you everything,” he promised, his voice tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “But not tonight. Tonight, you need to rest. Your body is still healing, and I won’t let you push yourself further.”

You wanted to argue, to insist that you were stronger than he gave you credit for, but the weariness in your bones betrayed you. The adrenaline from the evening’s events had long since faded, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion that even his presence couldn’t entirely dispel.

“Fine,” you relented, your voice barely above a whisper. “But don’t think I’m letting this go.”

His lips curved into a faint smile, a flicker of the Santino you’d seen in quieter, more intimate moments. “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your face with surprising tenderness.

Before you could say anything else, there was a knock at the door. One of Santino’s guards stepped inside, his expression impassive but alert.

“Signore,” the guard said, his tone professional. “Everything is secure. Gianna has left instructions for additional reinforcements.”

“Good,” Santino replied without looking away from you. “Make sure they’re positioned by morning.”

The guard nodded and retreated, leaving the two of you alone again. Santino’s gaze lingered on the door for a moment before he turned back to you.

“You should sleep,” he said, his hand sliding from your arm to your waist as he gently guided you toward the adjacent bedroom. “I’ll be nearby.”

“And what about you?” you asked, pausing at the threshold. “When do you rest?”

He chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. “Rest isn’t a luxury I can afford right now, amore.”

The weight of his words hung between you, but you didn’t push. Instead, you stepped into the room, glancing back at him once before closing the door behind you.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Eleven

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 1355; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: The danger still follows you around;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 11: “Calm at The Villa”

“Boss,” one of the guards called from the doorway. “We’ve got eyes on movement in the surrounding woods. Could just be locals, but we’re doubling the perimeter patrols to be safe.”

Santino straightened immediately, his demeanor shifting back into the sharp, calculating man you’d seen at the club. “Good,” he said, his tone clipped. “I want updates every fifteen minutes.”

The guard nodded and disappeared down the hall, leaving you and Santino alone again. He turned back to you, his expression torn between reassurance and urgency.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice softening as he reached for your hand. “I need to make sure everything is secure.”

You gripped his hand tightly, the thought of him leaving—even for a moment—sending a fresh wave of unease through you. “Be careful,” you said, your voice barely audible.

He bent down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gesture so tender it made your heart ache. “Always,” he murmured, before slipping out of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you sat back on the couch, your mind racing. The world you’d known just hours ago felt like a distant memory, replaced by a labyrinth of danger, secrets, and emotions you couldn’t quite untangle. All you could do now was wait—and hope that Santino’s promises weren’t just words.

The minutes dragged on after Santino left, the silence of the safe house pressing against you like a weight. Though the guards moved in and out of sight, their presence was little comfort. Your mind churned with everything that had happened, with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The only thing grounding you was the memory of Santino’s touch, the quiet promise in his eyes.

When the door finally opened, your heart leapt. Santino stepped in, his silhouette cutting a commanding figure against the warm light from the hallway. His gaze found yours immediately, a flicker of relief softening the tension in his jaw.

“All clear,” he said, his voice calm but threaded with exhaustion. “The patrols are set. The perimeter is secure.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, but the sight of him standing there, unscathed yet visibly worn, pulled something deep from within you. He crossed the room in a few strides, his presence overwhelming in the best way. He stopped in front of you, studying your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“Are you all right, amore?” he asked softly, crouching down to meet your eyes. His hand reached for yours, his fingers brushing against your skin with a gentleness that felt at odds with the hardness of his world.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, the words barely audible as your gaze locked onto his. “I just… I don’t know how to process all of this.”

Santino’s expression softened, his dark eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite name. “You don’t have to,” he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on your hand. “Not tonight. Just let me take care of you, bella.”

The vulnerability in his words, in the way he looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world, unraveled something inside you. Without thinking, you leaned forward, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His hand rose to your cheek, his palm warm against your skin as he tilted your face up toward him.

And then his lips were on yours, claiming you with a fervor that left no room for doubt. The kiss was demanding yet tender, a blend of urgency and unspoken emotion that stole the air from your lungs. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you close as his lips moved against yours, coaxing and exploring with a passion that left you trembling.

You grasped at his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solid weight of him against you. His free hand found your waist, his touch firm as he guided you back onto the couch, his body hovering over yours without ever pressing too far. The world outside the villa faded away, leaving only the heat of his kisses, the intoxicating scent of him, and the fire igniting between you.

“Santino,” you breathed against his lips, your voice a mix of longing and hesitation. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and smoldering.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice low and ragged, though the intensity in his expression made it clear he didn’t want to. “If this is too much, bella, tell me now.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding, your body humming with the thrill of his closeness. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them.

His response was immediate, his lips finding yours again, deeper this time, more consuming. His fingers traced the line of your jaw, down the curve of your neck, sending shivers cascading over your skin. Every touch, every kiss, seemed to blur the lines between want and need, between reality and the overwhelming pull of him.

In that moment, nothing else mattered—not the danger, not the unanswered questions, not the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring. All that existed was Santino, the weight of his presence, and the way he made you feel like the center of his world.

Santino's lips left yours only briefly, his breath mingling with yours as he murmured, “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.” His voice was husky, roughened by restraint, yet there was a tenderness in his gaze that made your heart ache. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, lingering at your temple before sliding to cradle your jaw.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, afraid that if you let him go, the moment would vanish. His warmth was a balm against the whirlwind of fear and adrenaline that had consumed the night. But beneath that warmth, you could feel the simmering edge of his control, like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.

His lips found your neck, feather-light at first, then more insistent, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Your breath hitched, your body arching into his touch, and his name slipped from your lips in a whisper that seemed to stir something primal in him. He groaned softly, his grip on your waist tightening as if anchoring himself to you.

“Santino,” you murmured, your voice trembling with emotion. You weren’t sure what you were trying to say, but the sound of his name seemed to ground both of you. His movements stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he took a steadying breath.

“This… this isn’t just a distraction,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “I need you to know that, bella. You mean more than that.”

The sincerity in his words sent a shiver through you. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones. “I believe you,” you said softly, the truth of it surprising you. Despite everything—the chaos, the danger, the mystery surrounding him—you believed him.

He kissed you again, slower this time, as if savoring every second. His hands moved to your back, his touch gentle but possessive, as though he feared letting go would undo the fragile connection between you.

But the moment was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, followed by one of the guards’ clipped voices. “Signore, we need you.”

Santino pulled back reluctantly, his jaw tightening. His hand lingered at your waist as he turned toward the door, his expression darkening. “Give me a moment,” he called, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He turned back to you, his hand brushing against your cheek one last time. “Stay here,” he said firmly. “I���ll handle this, and then we’ll talk. About everything.”

Before you could respond, he rose to his feet, his commanding presence filling the room as he strode to the door. He exchanged a few terse words with the guard, his voice low but sharp, then disappeared into the hallway.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Ten

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 2383; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: You and Santino escaped the mansion and now you have even more questions than answers;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 10: “The Unfinished Threat”

The rhythmic thrum of the helicopter’s blades filled the silence as you sat pressed against Santino’s side, his arm draped protectively around you. His warmth was steady, a contrast to the chill that had settled in your bones. Outside, the dark expanse of the countryside stretched endlessly, the villa and the chaos of the attack now miles behind.

But you couldn’t escape the weight of the questions piling up inside you.

Santino sat rigid, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if trying to will the night to yield its answers. His grip on you never wavered, yet his silence was heavy. Finally, you shifted to face him, your voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

“Tell me the truth, Santino,” you said, your words quiet but insistent. “Who were they? What do they want?”

He exhaled sharply, his free hand dragging down his face. “You’ve already seen too much, bella,” he said, his tone heavy with regret. “You deserve answers. But they won’t be easy to hear.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy,” you shot back, the fear and anger that had been simmering beneath your surface boiling over. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve watched people die tonight—for you. I need to know why.”

His gaze snapped to yours, the intensity in his dark eyes making your breath hitch. For a moment, it seemed like he might push you away, retreat back into the carefully constructed armor he wore so well. But then, he nodded, as if coming to terms with a decision he couldn’t take back.

“They’re mercenaries,” he began, his voice steady but low. “Hired by men who want me dead. Men who see me as a threat to their power.”

“A threat?” you pressed, leaning closer. “Power over what?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “The families. The syndicates that control more than you can imagine—business, politics, money. I’m part of that world, bella, whether I want to be or not. Born into it. And now, leading it.”

You stared at him, the weight of his confession sinking in. It was as if a puzzle piece you didn’t know was missing had clicked into place, reframing everything you thought you knew about him. The tailored suits, the guarded demeanor, the dangerous edge to his charm—it all made sense now.

“You’re…” You struggled to find the words. “You’re a crime boss?”

His lips curved into a humorless smile. “That’s what some would call me, sì. To others, I’m a protector. A necessary evil in a world where the rules are written in blood.”

The revelation left you breathless, your mind spinning as you tried to reconcile the man before you with the violence you’d just witnessed. “And tonight?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why did they attack us?”

“Because I’ve made enemies by doing things differently,” he admitted, his tone darkening. “I’ve challenged the old ways. Refused to bow to men who believe fear is the only currency. They see me as a threat to their control, and they’ll do whatever it takes to eliminate me.”

Your heart pounded as you processed his words. The danger you’d been thrust into wasn’t some random act of violence. It was calculated, a move in a game far more complex than you’d realized.

“And me?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Was I just… collateral damage?”

His expression softened, the sharp edges of his features giving way to something achingly vulnerable. “No,” he said, his voice fierce. “Never. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I won’t let you pay the price for their vendettas.”

You didn’t know whether to be comforted or terrified by his words. “But now they’ve seen me with you,” you said, the realization sinking in. “Won’t they come after me, too?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he reached out, his hand gently brushing your cheek. “That’s why I’m taking you somewhere safe. Where they can’t touch you.”

“And then what?” you asked, your voice breaking. “I just go back to my life and pretend none of this happened?”

His hand lingered, his thumb tracing a soft line along your cheekbone. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with something you couldn’t quite name. “But I promise you this—I won’t let anything happen to you. amore,”

His words hung between you, a vow and a burden all at once. Before you could respond, the pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom.

“We’re five minutes out,” he said. “Approaching the mansion.”

Santino pulled back slightly, his attention shifting to the window as the helicopter began its descent. The landscape below transformed into a sprawling estate, its grounds illuminated by security lights. It was as grand as the villa, but something about its remote location made it feel even more untouchable.

“Stay with me,” Santino murmured, his hand finding yours again as the helicopter touched down. “You’re safe with me, bella. I swear it.”

You wanted to believe him. But as the rotors slowed and the door opened to reveal the shadowed figures of more guards waiting, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

The guards moved swiftly, their sharp silhouettes cutting through the dim light as they approached the helicopter. One opened the door with practiced efficiency, his sharp eyes scanning the area as Santino helped you out. The moment your feet hit the ground, the brisk night air whipped around you, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth.

Santino’s grip on your hand was steady, an anchor against the swirling storm of uncertainty inside you. His guards flanked you both as you moved toward the safe house, their movements precise and synchronized. This wasn’t just a team—it was a fortress in human form, every member attuned to the dangers lurking in the shadows.

The mansion loomed ahead, an imposing structure that seemed built for secrecy and security. Tall stone walls surrounded the property, broken only by a single steel gate that groaned open as the guards led you inside. Floodlights illuminated the path, casting sharp angles of light and shadow that made the place feel both eerily beautiful and suffocating.

Once inside, the atmosphere shifted. The interior was sleek and modern, all clean lines and muted tones, a stark contrast to the sprawling villa you’d just left. Santino guided you to a low leather couch in the living room, gesturing for you to sit as the guards began their checks—securing windows, communicating in clipped tones through earpieces, and setting up surveillance equipment.

“Drink this, amore,” Santino said softly, handing you a glass of water as he crouched before you. His voice was calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “You’ve had a shock.”

You accepted the glass, your hands trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. The water was cool and grounding, a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. Santino didn’t move, his dark eyes locked onto you like he was searching for something—some clue that you were okay.

The cold press of Santino’s gaze never wavered as you drank, his attention focused on you with an intensity that felt both protective and unnerving. Every second that passed in the stillness between you seemed to stretch endlessly. The lingering pain from your wound throbbed in the background, a constant reminder of what had happened, but the warmth of the water and the security of his presence helped to dull the worst of it.

“Are you okay?” Santino asked, his voice low but steady. It was a simple question, yet it carried an undercurrent of something deeper—something unspoken, a weight that hung between you.

You nodded, the cool glass in your hand offering comfort as you slowly set it down on the table. “I’m fine,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady considering how fast everything had unraveled.

Santino’s gaze softened ever so slightly, but his eyes were still shadowed with concern. Before he could speak again, the sound of a door opening in the hallway caught your attention. You turned your head, and moments later, a man entered the room.

He was tall, with a weathered face that spoke of years of experience, a doctor’s kit slung over his shoulder. His presence was professional, but there was a quiet urgency to his movements that told you this wasn’t a routine visit.

“Mr. D’Antonio,” the doctor greeted, his voice calm but practiced. “I’m here to tend to the injury.”

Santino stood up as the doctor approached, his eyes never leaving you as he spoke. “Take care of her,” he said simply, his voice hard with command.

The doctor nodded, setting down his kit on the nearby table before he came over to you. “Let’s have a look at your shoulder,” he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His hands were steady as he unwrapped the bandages, revealing the wound beneath—a bullet graze just above your collarbone, still raw and angry, but not deep enough to cause permanent damage.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice professional, his fingers gently probing around the area to assess the damage.

“A little,” you replied, your breath catching slightly as his fingers grazed the tender skin.

Santino’s presence hovered nearby, though he didn’t step forward. He stood against the wall, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. The air between you two was thick with tension, as if he were struggling with the weight of the situation, the responsibility of it all. You could feel the weight of his stare as the doctor began preparing to stitch up the wound.

“Stay still miss,” the doctor instructed, glancing up at you for a moment before turning to Santino. “This might sting a little.”

Santino didn’t say anything, but his eyes locked with yours, a silent reassurance passing between you. The sting of the needle as the doctor began stitching up the wound was sharp, but it was bearable. You clenched your jaw to keep from reacting too much, focusing on the steadiness of Santino’s gaze.

As the doctor finished, sealing the wound with a few final sutures, Santino stepped forward, the air around him still crackling with the same commanding presence. He pulled out a single coin from his pocket—one cold, metallic piece of money—and handed it to the doctor without a word.

The doctor took it without hesitation, glancing at it only for a moment before nodding in silent agreement. “Thank you, Mr. D’Antonio,” he said simply, before gathering his things and quietly exiting the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a long moment, it was just the two of you again. Santino didn’t move from where he stood, watching you closely. You could tell by his posture that he was still on edge, his tension far from abating.

“You’re all set,” you said, breaking the silence. “I’ll be fine.”

Santino didn’t reply immediately, his eyes searching yours for something more—something that went beyond the surface words. Finally, his lips tightened, his voice rough when he spoke.

“You shouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with.” His words were low but sharp, like a warning. “I’m sorry you had to experience this, amore.”

You shook your head slightly, not wanting his guilt to settle on you. “I’m not blaming you, Santino. But I need to know—who was after you? Why?”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, it seemed like he might tell you everything. But instead, he sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair, frustration flickering in his eyes.

“I’ll explain soon,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “But right now, I just need you to rest. Please, bella.”

You nodded, your mind still racing, but the exhaustion in your body pulled at you. Santino’s eyes softened, and he moved to sit beside you again, his presence a steady comfort, even if the night’s events had left everything hanging in uncertainty.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a softer note. “I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

“Santino,” you began, “You said I’m safe here, but for how long? What’s stopping them from finding us again?”

“They won’t,” he said firmly. His presence seemed to fill the room, his confidence a shield against the doubt gnawing at your mind. “This place is off every map, guarded by men I trust with my life. No one will find you here.”

“You keep saying that,” you replied, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “But you can’t guarantee it, can you? Tonight proves that they’ll stop at nothing to get to you—and now they know about me.”

His jaw tightened, the veneer of control slipping for a moment as he turned away. He paced the length of the room, his hand raking through his hair as he wrestled with something unsaid. Finally, he stopped, facing you again.

“You’re right,” he admitted, his voice low but firm. “I can’t guarantee anything. But I can promise that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe—even if it means staying here until this is over.”

Your eyes widened. “Staying here? With me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re in this because of me. I won’t leave you to face it alone.”

His words sent a strange warmth coursing through you, battling against the fear that still lingered in your chest. There was something in the way he said it, in the unyielding conviction in his voice, that made you believe him. But it also raised another question—one you weren’t sure you were ready to ask.

“And then what?” you whispered. “When this is over, what happens to me? To us?”

Santino’s expression softened, the intensity in his gaze giving way to something more vulnerable. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing against yours as he crouched before you again. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I do know this—you’ve changed something in me, bella. I can’t go back to the way things were. Not after tonight.”

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket—warm and heavy and terrifying all at once. Before you could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the room, breaking the moment.

[fics-not-tragedies]

Bad Habits: Chapter Nine

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen - fiveteen - …

I cannot stick to a schedule I crafted myself apparently 🤡 New parts coming Saturdays and Wednesdays.

Words: 1743; Warnings: lots of Italian pet names, some gun violence as well, mentions of blood, swearing; Summary: You and Santino are in the middle of a raid on his mansion;

Readers tag list:

@marytvirgin; @penwieldingdreamer

Chapter 9: “Under the Surface”

The muffled chaos outside began to escalate, each explosion and burst of gunfire a drumbeat of impending danger. The guard standing at the door exchanged terse words into his comms, his grip tightening on his weapon as though bracing for the inevitable. The air in the secure room felt stifling, and you struggled to keep your breathing steady, your thoughts a storm of worry for Santino.

You couldn’t just sit there.

“I can’t stay in here,” you said abruptly, standing despite the throb in your shoulder. The guard glanced at you sharply, shaking his head.

“Signorina, you must stay where it’s safe,” he said in heavily accented English, his voice firm but not unkind. “The boss gave clear instructions.”

You took a step closer, your frustration bubbling over. “And what if something happens to him? What if he—” The words caught in your throat, the possibility too terrifying to voice.

The guard hesitated, his expression softening, but he didn’t budge. “Signor Santino knows what he is doing. He will come back for you.”

Those words, meant to reassure, only made you feel more helpless. You clenched your fists, your mind racing. Santino might trust his skills, his plans, but you’d seen the chaos tonight. Plans didn’t always hold.

Before you could argue further, a new sound cut through the tension—a loud, metallic clank reverberating through the villa, followed by the unmistakable whir of machinery. The guard stiffened, his head snapping toward the door.

“What is that?” you whispered, dread coiling in your stomach.

The guard didn’t answer immediately. His face was pale, his jaw tight. Finally, he muttered a curse under his breath and raised his weapon. “They’ve brought reinforcements. We need to move.”

“Move? Where?” you asked, panic creeping into your voice.

But he didn’t get a chance to respond. The door suddenly buckled inward, the lock straining against a powerful external force. Your heart leapt into your throat as the guard pushed you back toward the far wall.

“Stay behind me!” he barked, his rifle aimed at the door.

The lock gave way with a deafening crack, and the door flew open. Smoke billowed into the room, and through the haze, shadowy figures emerged. The guard opened fire, his shots precise, and the intruders hesitated, their movements disrupted by the spray of bullets. One went down, another scrambled for cover.

You pressed yourself against the wall, your body trembling, your mind screaming at you to do something, anything. But what could you do? You were unarmed, injured, and caught in the middle of a battle you didn’t understand.

The guard’s shots rang out again, but a sharp crack from the intruders’ side brought him down. He fell with a grunt, his weapon clattering to the floor. A wave of nausea hit you as you stared at his unmoving form, but the sound of footsteps snapped you back to reality.

“Find her!” a voice barked, low and commanding.

You didn’t think. You moved, darting toward the small weapons cache Santino had stocked in the room. Your hands fumbled as you grabbed a handgun, the weight foreign and terrifying in your grip. You didn’t know much about guns, but someone had once told you to point, aim, and shoot only if you had no other choice.

And this felt like no other choice.

One of the intruders rounded the corner, his silhouette stark against the dim lighting. He spotted you immediately, raising his weapon. Your pulse roared in your ears as you lifted the gun, your hands shaking, and fired.

The recoil jolted through you, but the shot hit true. The man staggered back, clutching his shoulder, and fell out of sight. You gasped, your chest heaving, the gun trembling in your grasp.

Another figure appeared in the doorway, and you braced yourself—but this time, it was Santino.

His face was streaked with dirt and blood, his expression a mixture of fury and relief as his eyes landed on you. Without hesitation, he raised his weapon and fired at the remaining intruders, the precision of his movements leaving no room for retaliation.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Santino strode toward you, his gaze sharp as he took in the weapon still clutched in your trembling hands. He reached out gently, his fingers brushing yours as he took the gun away.

“Bella,” he said, his voice low, his hand lifting to cup your cheek. His touch was steady, anchoring. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, your words caught somewhere between your throat and the tears threatening to spill. “No,” you managed. “But the guard…”

Santino’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the fallen man. A flicker of something passed over his face—grief, maybe, or guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“He did his job,” Santino said softly, his hand slipping to the back of your neck as he pulled you into a fierce embrace. “And so did you.”

The warmth of his body, the strength of his arms, felt like the only thing keeping you upright. For the first time that night, you let yourself exhale, the sound shaky and raw.

“We need to go,” he murmured against your hair, his voice gentler now. “There’s a helicopter waiting. This isn’t over yet, bella, but I swear I’ll get you through this. No one will touch you again.”

Santino’s words were a vow, one laced with quiet ferocity that sent a shiver down your spine. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands firm yet tender as they framed your face. His dark eyes searched yours, as though confirming you were truly there, truly safe. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that you could handle this, but your trembling limbs betrayed you.

“We don’t have much time,” he said, glancing toward the open door where his remaining guard was securing the area. “Stay close to me. Don’t let go.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. Santino didn’t wait for a verbal answer; he grabbed your hand, his grip warm and commanding as he guided you out of the room. The scent of gunpowder and smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. The villa, once serene and opulent, now bore the scars of the attack—shattered glass, overturned furniture, and bullet-riddled walls.

As you moved through the hallways, Santino’s focus never wavered. He moved with purpose, his steps swift but measured, his weapon raised and ready. His guard led the way, checking corners and signaling when it was clear to proceed. Every nerve in your body felt taut, every shadow a potential threat.

When you reached the main entrance, the sound of helicopter blades slicing through the air filled your ears. Relief flooded you as you caught sight of the sleek, black chopper waiting in the clearing beyond the villa’s gates, its rotors kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.

“We’re almost there, bella,” Santino said, his voice steady, but you didn’t miss the urgency underlying his words. “Stay behind me.”

The moment you stepped outside, the night air hit you, crisp and cool against your skin. But your reprieve was short-lived. A burst of gunfire erupted from the tree line, the sharp cracks echoing in the open space. You stumbled, your heart leaping into your throat as Santino pulled you sharply behind a low stone wall.

“They’re not letting up,” his guard hissed, crouching beside him and returning fire toward the unseen assailants.

Santino’s face was set like stone, his jaw tight as he calculated their next move. His gaze flicked to you, softening for a brief moment. “Stay low. Do not move until I say.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as you pressed yourself against the wall, your fingers digging into the rough stone. Santino rose slightly, his weapon barking in controlled bursts as he fired back. The precision of his shots was almost terrifying; each one seemed calculated, deliberate, and devastatingly effective.

“They’re closing in!” the guard shouted, his voice strained.

Santino glanced toward the helicopter, its open door just a few meters away but feeling impossibly distant. He turned to you, his hand reaching for yours. “We make a run for it. Now.”

Before you could process his words, Santino hauled you to your feet. His arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders as he guided you toward the helicopter, his body angled to shield you from the incoming fire. You heard the zing of bullets striking metal and stone, the world around you a blur of sound and movement.

The guard fell back, covering your retreat with a volley of suppressive fire. “Go!” he yelled, his voice barely audible over the chaos. “I’ll hold them off!”

“No!” you cried, twisting to look back, but Santino tightened his grip, forcing you forward.

“Don’t look,” he commanded, his voice harsh but laced with something achingly protective. “Just keep moving, bella.”

You stumbled into the helicopter, Santino close behind. The pilot gave a terse nod as Santino slammed the door shut and secured it. The rotors roared, and the helicopter lifted off, the ground below receding rapidly.

From your vantage point, you saw flashes of light in the distance—gunfire, the faint figures of the remaining attackers. Your heart clenched as you thought of the guard who’d stayed behind. You didn’t even know his name.

As the helicopter leveled out, the weight of everything hit you. The attack, the chaos, the lives lost. You turned to Santino, your chest tight with emotion. “Your guard—he—”

Santino’s expression was grim, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “He knew the risks,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with unspoken grief. “They all do.”

“That doesn’t make it easier,” you said, your voice trembling.

He turned to you then, his gaze softening as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “No, it doesn’t,” he admitted. “But right now, you’re alive. And that’s what matters to me, amore.”

The sincerity in his voice stole your breath. Before you could respond, he leaned closer, his hand resting gently on your uninjured shoulder. “We’ll get through this, bella,” he murmured, his forehead lightly touching yours. “I swear to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his presence anchor you. For a moment, the chaos faded, leaving just the two of you suspended in the quiet hum of the helicopter. But deep down, you knew this was far from over.

[fics-not-tragedies]

📢 Help Me Choose My Next Fanfic! 📢

Hello, my lovely readers!

Since Bad Habits is already written in full (I'm as surprisesd as you are lol), I’m planning the next fanfiction, and I’d love your input.

Below are a few ideas I have in mind—vote for the one you’d most like to read next! ✨

Cast your vote and let your voice be heard! 💖

📖 Option A: Help, I’m Alive [John Constantine x OFC]

John Constantine was supposed to be dead. Instead, he woke up on Dr. Jennifer Wilson's autopsy table—alive, but not right. Something has stolen him from Hell, leaving him trapped between life and death, hunted by spirits, demons, and forces unknown. With Jennifer unwillingly dragged into his world, they must uncover who—or what—has rewritten his fate before the afterlife itself unravels. Because if Constantine can’t break free, next time, he stays dead.

📖 Option B: Every End Has A Start [Johnny Utah x OFC]

FBI Agent Johnny Utah is pulled back into action when a string of arsons links to a figure from his past. Partnered with the sharp but secretive Agent Elena Calloway, he quickly realizes she knows more than she’s letting on. As they chase a dangerous criminal, trust frays, secrets unravel, and Johnny is forced to question whether his partner is seeking justice—or revenge.

📖 Option C: A hole in your heart [John Wick x OFC]

John Wick’s past is a shadow he’s never wanted to face. But when a mysterious figure from his early days resurfaces, he is forced to confront long-buried secrets that could change everything. As old alliances are tested and new threats emerge, John must navigate a dangerous path where loyalty, vengeance, and survival are no longer simple choices.

📖 Option D: La Vendetta [Santino D'Antonio x OFC]

Santino’s wife had remained a carefully guarded secret—until, during his hurried funeral in the D'Antonio family cemetery in Italy, his associates saw her holding his casket in mourning. With both Santino and his sister Gianna gone, she steps forward as the sole heiress capable of leading the Camorra into the next era. Her first act of power: a ruthless declaration of war against John Wick, the man who brought about her husband’s death.

💭 How to vote: 📌 Drop the letter of your favorite in the tags or replies! 📌 Send an ask if you wanna stay anonymous! 📌 Don't be afraid to reblog with your thoughts—tell me WHY you picked it!

💬 If you have any other ideas or AUs you’d love to see, drop them below. Your feedback means the world to me! 🖤✨