#I'm still grateful for ateez's efforts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velvetvisionsaurora · 2 days ago

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Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior, mentions of suicidal thoughts.

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.

18+ only- Minors do not enter

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Masterlist

Chapter 3: The Dinner Declaration

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, jaw set with determination. If they expected you to play the part of the grateful, compliant bride-to-be, they were about to be sorely disappointed. Your fingers work methodically, pulling your hair into a messy bun and scrubbing away the last traces of makeup from earlier.

The silk pajama set you slip into is designer—black with delicate lace trim—but unmistakably sleepwear. Let them see exactly how little effort you're willing to put into their charade.

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Marco's name lights up the screen, and for the first time today, you smile genuinely.

"Little sister," his warm voice fills your ear as you answer. "How's life in the wolves' den?"

"About as welcoming as you'd expect," you reply, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "They're all here, Marco. All eight of them."

A pause. "And how are you handling that?"

"Like a Ricci," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. "Though I'll admit, seeing them all together again... it's harder than I thought it would be."

Marco's voice turns serious. "Y/n, listen to me. These men broke you once. They shattered you so completely that I almost lost you." His words carry the weight of that terrible night seven years ago, when he'd found you on the balcony, ready to step over the edge. "Whatever game they're playing now, whatever excuses they have—don't let them do it again."

"I won't," you whisper, but even as you say it, you remember Wooyoung's enthusiastic embrace, the way Mingi looked at you with such longing.

"Steel your heart, sorellina," Marco continues, using the Italian endearment that always makes you feel protected. "Make them pay for every tear you shed, every night you cried yourself to sleep wondering what you did wrong. You owe them nothing but contempt."

His words straighten your spine, reminding you why you're here—not by choice, but as a pawn in a larger game. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm your big brother." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Now go show them exactly what kind of woman you've become. The kind who doesn't break twice."

After ending the call, you sit in the silence of your temporary prison, Marco's words echoing in your mind. Steel your heart. Make them pay.

By the time you descend the stairs at exactly seven o'clock, your armor is in place—not silk and steel this time, but defiance and deliberate disrespect.

* * *

The dining room falls silent as you enter. Eight pairs of eyes track your movement, taking in your appearance with varying degrees of shock and something that might be appreciation. The massive table is set with formal china and crystal, multiple courses already laid out with military precision.

Hongjoong's jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over your pajamas, his knuckles whitening where they grip his wine glass. Good, you think with savage satisfaction. Let him see exactly how little this arrangement means to you.

"Y/n!" Wooyoung's voice cuts through the tension, bright and welcoming as if no time has passed at all. "You look comfortable! I love that you're making yourself at home already. Oh, and your hair looks so cute up like that—remember when we used to braid it? You'd sit between Seonghwa and me while we watched movies, and—"

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa's voice carries a warning, but Wooyoung barrels on, his energy filling the room like an unstoppable force.

"—and you'd always fall asleep halfway through, so we'd have to carry you upstairs. Your mom would laugh and say we spoiled you rotten, but honestly, we loved taking care of you. Remember that time you got sick with pneumonia and I learned to make your mom's minestrone from scratch because it was the only thing you'd eat? I must have made it twenty times that summer—"

Your heart clenches traitorously at the memory. You do remember—the fever, the way Wooyoung had sat beside your bed for hours, spooning soup into your mouth and reading to you when your throat was too raw to speak. The gentleness in his hands as he smoothed your hair back from your fevered brow.

But then the storm clouds gather, dark and vengeful, reminding you of other words he'd spoken. God, Y/n, you're exhausting. Do you know that? You're exhausting and needy and you never know when to stop.

The memories collide—past tenderness and past cruelty warring in your chest until you can't breathe properly. You look around the table, seeing all of them watching you with expressions ranging from hope to wariness to barely contained longing.

That's when it hits you. The sheer audacity of it all.

"Are you all fucking delusional?" The words explode from you like shrapnel, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you think you could each break my heart over and over with your words, and I would come here and play house with all of you?"

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Wooyoung's smile falters, his hand halfway to his wine glass freezing in mid-air.

Hongjoong sighs, setting down his utensils with deliberate care. "We were trying to—"

"Protect me? Right?" you sneer, cutting him off. The word tastes like poison in your mouth. "Poor little Y/n. Needs everyone to protect her with secrets and lies. I don't give a fuck why you did it."

You stand so quickly your chair topples backward, the crash echoing through the silence like a gunshot. Every eye in the room is fixed on you now, but you don't care. Seven years of buried rage is clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be heard.

"You were all my first friends," you say, your voice deadly quiet, look at Hongjoong. "You took away my first kiss." Your gaze shifts deliberately to Yunho, whose face goes pale as understanding dawns. Around the table, surprise ripples through the others—apparently, he'd never shared that particular secret.

Yunho's mouth opens as if to speak, but no words come. His eyes are wide, almost panicked, as if he's afraid of what else you might reveal.

"Now you want to take away my marriage?" You laugh, but there's no humor in it—only broken glass and bitter irony. "What's next? Am I going to be expected to have a child with you too?"

Hongjoong's eyes flash with something dangerous, possessive. His grip on his wine glass tightens until you're surprised it doesn't shatter.

But you're not done. Not even close.

You smile then—sharp and vicious and completely without warmth. "Don't worry, dearest fiancé. You won't have to take my virginity. That honor went to someone else."

The silence that follows is deafening. You can feel the jealousy rolling off them in waves, thick enough to choke on. Hongjoong looks like he could murder every man in the city with his bare hands, his carefully controlled facade cracking to reveal something primitive and possessive underneath.

San's knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the table. Mingi has gone completely still, like a predator preparing to strike. Even gentle Yunho looks stricken, as if you've physically wounded him.

Good, you think viciously. Let them feel a fraction of what they put me through.

"Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen," you say with false sweetness, gathering what remains of your dignity around you like armor. "I'm sure you have much to discuss."

With that, you turn on your heel and head for the door, your bare feet silent on the marble floor. Behind you, you hear the scrape of chairs, raised voices, the sound of something shattering—whether it's glass or composure, you neither know nor care.

You've delivered your message loud and clear: the naive girl they once knew is dead and buried. In her place stands someone who won't be broken twice, someone who learned that the only way to survive wolves is to become something more dangerous than they are.

As you climb the stairs to your room, you don't look back. But you carry with you the image of eight faces, each reflecting a different shade of devastation, and for the first time since arriving, you feel like you've won a battle.

Even if the war is far from over.

***

The silence after your departure stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. Eight men sat frozen around the dinner table, the wreckage of your words settling over them like fallout.

Hongjoong's wine glass lay shattered on the floor where he'd thrown it, red liquid seeping into the pristine white marble. His chest rose and fell with barely controlled fury, his carefully maintained composure crumbling piece by piece.

"When did you two kiss?" His voice was deadly quiet, but his eyes burned as they fixed on Yunho.

San's hand slammed against the table with enough force to make the crystal jump. "That's what you're focusing on? Did you hear what she said?" His usually charming features were twisted with anguish.

"We broke her," Seonghwa said steadily, though his face had gone ashen, the careful mask he wore stripped away to reveal raw devastation beneath. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his wine, the only outward sign of the turmoil raging inside him.

Yunho shifted uncomfortably under Hongjoong's intense stare, running a hand through his hair. "It was nothing," he said, but his voice cracked slightly. "We were fifteen, at that beach bonfire. Everyone was drinking, and she was upset about something—I don't even remember what—and I just... I comforted her. It didn't mean anything."

But his eyes told a different story. His eyes remembered everything—the taste of salt on your lips from tears and ocean spray, the way you'd looked up at him with such trust, such innocent affection. The way his heart had stopped when you'd pressed your mouth to his, soft and tentative and perfect.

"Bullshit," Hongjoong snarled, starting to rise from his chair. "You never—"

"Enough." Jongho's voice cut through the air like a blade, stopping Hongjoong mid-motion. The youngest of them rarely spoke with such authority, but when he did, they all listened. "You weren't the only one in love with her, Hongjoong. Just because you're going to be her husband on paper doesn't change that. It doesn't give you the right to interrogate the rest of us about our feelings."

Hongjoong's jaw worked furiously, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I'm her—"

"Her what?" Jongho challenged, rising to his full, intimidating height. "Her fiancé? A title forced on both of you by circumstances and family politics? You heard her tonight—she doesn't want this any more than we do. So don't stand there acting like you have some special claim when we all lost her seven years ago."

The words hit like physical blows, each one landing with devastating accuracy. Hongjoong's face cycled through emotions—rage, pain, frustration, and underneath it all, a grief so profound it was almost unbearable to witness.

Across the table, Wooyoung had begun to cry—silent tears streaming down his face as he stared at his untouched plate. His shoulders shook with the effort of containing sobs that wanted to tear free from his chest.

"She hates us," he whispered, his usual bright energy completely extinguished. "Did you see her face when I was talking? She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was nothing." His voice broke completely. "I used to make her laugh every day. Every single day, and now she can't even stand to hear my voice."

Mingi hadn’t moved since you’d left, his eyes fixed on the doorway as if he could still see you standing there. His face was a mask of quiet devastation, all the light drained from his features. Of all of them, he seemed the most deeply affected, as if your words had physically wounded him.

“Someone else,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She gave herself to someone else.”

The words sent another ripple of tension around the table. The implication that you had been intimate with someone else—someone not in this room—was like salt in an open wound for all of them.

“Who?” Hongjoong demanded, turning his fierce gaze to Seonghwa. “You’ve had people watching her. Who was it?”

Seonghwa’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Our surveillance was for her safety, not to monitor her personal life. If she was involved with someone, we weren’t aware of it.”

“Find out,” Hongjoong ordered.

“Why?” Yeosang spoke, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. “So you can what—track him down? Threaten him? Kill him?” He shook his head. “Her life is her own. It always has been.”

“She’s going to be my wife,” Hongjoong said through gritted teeth.

“On paper,” Yeosang countered. “This is a business arrangement, remember? Your words, not mine.”

The two men stared at each other across the table, years of friendship straining under the weight of the moment.

"She's gone," Mingi said quietly, his deep voice barely audible. "Even when she's here, she's gone. The girl we knew... we killed her that day."

San laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and broken. "And for what? To protect her? Look how well that worked out. She's alive, sure, but she's nothing like the person we fell in love with."

"She's stronger," Yeosang said quietly, speaking for the first time since you'd stormed out. His observant eyes had been taking in every detail of the confrontation, analyzing and processing. "Harder. She's built walls that would make ours look like paper."

"Strong enough to hate us," Yunho added miserably. "Strong enough to look us in the eye and tell us exactly what we took from her."

Seonghwa set down his wine with shaking hands. "The way she looked at me when I walked in yesterday... like I was a stranger. No, worse than a stranger. Like I was an enemy." He closed his eyes, pain etched in every line of his face. "She used to run to me when she was scared. Used to trust me with everything."

"We all lost that," Jongho said grimly. "The way she used to light up when she saw us, the way she'd curl up between us during movies, how she'd share every thought and feeling without hesitation." His massive frame seemed to shrink in on itself. "She was so open then. So trusting."

"And now she threatens to shoot anyone who touches her," San said flatly. "We did that. We created this version of her."

Hongjoong finally sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wild with frustration and something that looked dangerously close to desperation.

"We had no choice," he said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "The threats were real. They would have killed her."

"Would they?" Yeosang asked quietly. "Or did we just make the easy choice? Take the money, break her heart, and tell ourselves it was noble?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation. Around the table, seven men faced the weight of a decision made in desperation and fear, a choice that had saved your life but destroyed your soul.

Wooyoung's sobs finally broke free, raw and devastating in the silence. "I can't do this," he choked out. "I can't sit here and pretend this is fine. She's upstairs right now, alone and hurting, and I can't even comfort her because I'm one of the reasons she's in pain."

Mingi's chair scraped against the floor as he finally moved, standing abruptly. "I need air," he muttered, heading for the terrace doors. "I can't... I can't breathe in here."

"Running away again?" San called after him, his own pain making his voice cruel. "That's what we do best, isn't it? Run when things get difficult?"

Mingi stopped at the threshold, his broad shoulders rigid. "What would you have me do, San? Go upstairs and beg for forgiveness? Explain that we broke her heart to save her life? You think that'll make her hate us less?"

"At least it would be honest," San shot back. "At least it would be something other than sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves."

"Enough," Seonghwa said wearily. "Fighting each other won't fix this."

"Nothing will fix this," Yunho said hollowly. "Don't you see? We can't go back. We can't undo what we did. And she's made it clear she doesn't want our explanations or our apologies."

Hongjoong's hands clenched into fists on the table. "So what? We just accept this? We marry and spend our lives as strangers? She lives in our house, bears our name, and hates us every second of every day?"

"Maybe that's what we deserve," Jongho said quietly. "Maybe that's the price we pay for the choice we made."

The words settled over them like a death knell. Seven years of guilt and regret crystallized into a single, awful truth—they had saved your life, but in doing so, they had lost any chance of sharing it.

Yeosang stood quietly, pushing in his chair with deliberate care. “You all keep talking about her like she’s a problem to be managed,” he observed. “She’s not. She’s Y/n. Our Y/n. And right now, she’s alone and hurting.”

“Where are you going?” Seonghwa asked as Yeosang moved toward the door.

“To do what none of you seem capable of,” Yeosang replied. “Listen to her.”

“Yeosang,” Hongjoong warned. “The agreement—”

“I won’t tell her anything she doesn’t need to know,” Yeosang assured him. “But someone needs to make sure she understands that whatever happens next, she’s not alone in this house.”

Without waiting for permission, he left the dining room, his steps purposeful as he headed toward the staircase.Before anyone could stop him, he was gone, his footsteps echoing up the stairs toward your room—toward a conversation that was seven years overdue and might already be too late.

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