#ares john wick fic

[bluelolblue]

Soooo if this picture of Ricky was Santino, tell me what you think would be happening here. Why does he look so angsty? Who's with him in the car, is John there or Ares or anyone? Can be as long or short as you want. Have a beautiful day, amica!

(Also I love this format for an ask, feel free to send me a photo and ask me to make up a story about it ^_^)

Image Source

Aayy hii! :)

Oh I LOVE that picture so much, he looks so hot AHHH! And I was actually looking at that pic today, thinking if I should put it as my pfp! What a coincidence lmaoo!!

A really fun question! Thank you sooo much!! I appreciate it a lot! :D

You're writing little fics for my asks, and I love them so much! You're so kind to me, so I decided to write a mini fic for this! 💙💙

This was really fun to write, one picture can definitely be a good inspiration! <3

ﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟ

Weapon that everyone wants

John and Ares waited outside of the convergence room, where Santino was having a conversation with some clans from Germany. A business talk, Santino asked for a little bit more of territory than he was allowed to have because these representatives claim to be more powerful than him. Which in his eyes is not true. And it isn't.

They are just more cocky than they seem.

They asked for more weapons and some of his men in exchange. Even mentioning some of his best bodyguards, Ares and John. How dare they ask from them?

"I'm sorry. I won't give my best people." Santino said with a fake, restrained smile. "Then I'm afraid we don't have the deal." One of them said, having a bit more thick German accent. "You asked for weapons, too. I have grenade launchers-" Santino started but was cut off by another.

"Mr. D'Antonio. Your best weapon is John Wick. How did you even manage to get Mr. Wick? He worked for the Tarasovs, didn't he?"

Ah, so they wanted that weapon. Not actual weapons?

"He did. Let's just say he changed his mind after a while." Santino replied, trying not to show just how annoyed he was getting. Their looks. How they mocked him with those smiles and eye rolls of arrogance.

The one that asked him hummed in response, fidgeting with a pen he was holding. "A bigger territory for you, Mr. D'Antonio... for the Camorra, isn't necessary. Not now." They were ready to end the meeting, but Santino wasn't done, yet.

"It is necessary. We can have both clans work together again." Now, Santino seemed more nervous. Shit. He let them hear it in his voice. "Then give us your people. Give us John Wick."

He is absolutely not doing that. "No." Santino sighed, slightly shaking his head, "I won't do that." He glared at them. "Don't you have enough men?" He asked, fixing his tie out of habit. "We do." Another simply answered. "Then how about something else?" Santino suggested. However, they didn't want to listen.

"We're sorry. We don't have enough time for this." They literally stood up to leave, and Santino knew he couldn't do much. "Oh and Mr. D'Antonio, we hope everything stays well with your people. Especially with Wick."

Santino didn't like the sound of that. Didn't like anything about it. The fucking disrespect.

The fact they shaked hands and tapped his shoulder to disrespect him even more. Oh, it made Santino's blood boil.

John and Ares watched and nodded at them when they walked out of the room, Santino walked out last, and they both could see how he was not pleased at all.

'No?' Ares signed with an empathic expression. Santino looked at them both and just shaked his head "no".

"We're done here." Santino said, putting on his jacket that John gave him. John had a bad feeling, these people were up to no good, and he knows that. John was ready to grab his gun, but Santino called for him.

As they walked towards the car, Santino had already made few calls and was cursing in Italian, which was nothing new to Ares and John. "We're going back to New York this evening. They can't be trusted." Santino said as he got to the back seat.

Ares is the one driving one of his big cars, John next to her, looking at Santino on the rearview mirror. "What did they want?" John asked softly, the car started.

Santino sighed and rubbed his eyes before answering, "Something I can't give them." And John nodded.

During the whole car ride, Santino was quiet and looked pissed off, looking through the window, however making eye contact from time to time with John through the rearview mirror.

John had a worried look in his eyes, and Santino definitely knew that look. He looks at him like that every time something like this happens. One part of Santino wanted John to be next to him so he could calm him down. He's gonna be this moody the whole day, and he doesn't like that about himself.

John is the only one who manages to calm him down.

It didn't take them long to realize they are being followed with another car. "Cazzo. Are they seriously following us?" That made him even more angrier.

What was even their point? Just out of spite? Probably.

John already had a grip on his gun, "Do we stop and take care of them?" John asked, looking back. "Please do." Santino said. It would be nice to watch them die to a weapon they want.

Ares smiled at him through the rearview mirror in agreement. They need to blow some steam off.

Stopping the car next to an alley, John and Ares already got outside and started shooting. Santino watched them. Watched the way John put bullets in their heads like it was nothing. He could watch him in action every day.

And he does. Every chance he gets, he does.

Surprisingly, this was only one squad that was sent after them. Well, they were sent to their deaths.

"Good job." Santino told them as they returned. "Just one squad." John said, "And amateurs. This didn't take long." Yeah, it was done quickly. "I could tell." Santino looked a bit less pissed off, and John was glad.

"I'm not giving them my best weapon." Santino said quietly as John walked by. "That's what they wanted?" John whispered. "Yeah." Santino replied, fixing John's tie that got loosened.

"I wouldn't work for anyone else." John said, giving him a small smile. "That's what I want to hear." Santino was ready to pull his tie, to get him closer.

But got interrupted with Ares clearing her throat. 'Seriously?' She signed and rolled her eyes. Santino huffed a chuckle, letting go of John's tie. "Don't look if you don't like it." He also just wanted to see her reaction. "I like you, too. Don't worry." Santino laughed a little, patting her shoulder.

The rest of the car ride seemed to finally be a bit more relaxed. Yet, Santino seemed to be lost in his thoughts, again. He looked worried at some point. John wondered if it was still about this meeting today or something else. Or both.

Santino doesn't seem to catch a break.

[97keanu]

Please can you write something to do with young John and the ballerina kinda like a continuation for the smoking fic

Ah yes, the infamous shotgunning the cigarette fic… I have gotten a lot of requests for that one, and have tried a few times now to actually sit down and write for it, but haven’t had any luck in producing something that I thought was worthy of posting. I have been working on a bigger project for my writing, but seeing this ask today inspired me to finally come up with something to further this idea. I will link the original fic here as well if anyone would like to read that one first, but you don’t need to in order to read this one! Thank you for sending this ask in today, and believing in my writing enough to want to read more, it means the world to me <3

Premise: It’s been days since you last saw Jardani, and all you’re left with is the taste of his lips on yours, and the smoke of his cigarette in your lungs. That and the memories you two made together here in this place of shadows and secrets. You reflect tonight as you lean out your window of your room, a cigarette loose in your hand.

Tags/CW: young!john wick, ballerina!reader, smoking, yearning, love that blossoms where it should not grow, aching, melancholy, a unspoken connection, drabble 1.1k words.

It doesn’t taste the same, not without his softness breathing the smoke into your lungs, breathing life into your body that aches for more than this. The want inside you doesn’t burn anymore, not when he’s gone. It smolders.

You feel like a fire that was left out in the cold too long with no one to stoke it, and he’s only been gone a week. You knew that when you and Jardani shared that moment, you may never see him again. That he was on his way to getting out of this place, that he had become what The Director always wanted from him. A weapon. A tool. A dog that bites on command.

He would make her a lot of money, this much you knew.

Still, you sit against the window sill of your little crummy room, the walls here having seen more girls than you can imagine in it’s time, seeing them come here innocent, then turned into cold blooded killers like a stone overworked until smooth. The smoke from your cigarette thinly rises to the sky, the cold still chilling you to the bone, no one here to share that experience with. You remember when you first came here, first begun your trek into this underground world, ferried here as some forgotten child on the street. You met Jardani soon after, his stay having started when he was much younger than you, you were somehow lucky to begin your training at fifteen in comparison. Now, at eighteen, you wonder what your life could have been like without all this, without him…

Back then, everyone seemed like an enemy. You couldn’t trust any of the other ballerinas, they would take your spot as soon as you gave them the chance. When you were assigned to a new ballet The Director was producing, you wondered who your ballet partner would be this time. When a tall, lanky boy walked in, ordered to practice with you, you had no idea what to think of him at first.

He walked with poise, but his eyes didn’t seem to meet anyone’s. That was until, they met yours. You couldn’t help your heart thumping at that contact, of the thought of actually being seen after hiding yourself away for so long, trying not to give too much attention to anyone in fear that they would give too much attention to you. And yet, here he was, looking at you, really looking, observing you with those puppy dog eyes of his. Later you would realize those eyes had grown into that of a wolf, primed and ready to strike in a moments notice, but for now, he was still young, still figuring it all out.

He had figured out one thing then, which was that he didn’t wish to dance with anyone else after you.

When you two moved together, it was as if you anticipated each others next movements. You felt light as a the brush of cold snow on warm cheeks, barely there at all in his arms. Neither of you knew what that really meant back then, you didn’t ever really even speak to each other.

No, Jardani was the silent type, he always was. And you didn’t try to crack that shell of his, not by poking and prodding him with questions the way the other ballerinas may have tried. Everyone knew Jardani was one of the most skilled here, they wanted to know him better, wanted to know their competition. But you were never competing with him, you let him guide you when and where he wanted on his own terms, and he gave you the same. An alliance without a word said about it. It was as easy as breathing.

Soon enough, a year or two had passed that way, The Director obviously knowing that you two were made to be together on stage, and allowing you to mostly work together there. What you thought she didn’t know about, was when you left the small warmth of your room at night, traveling down the icy fire escape to the boy with sharp eyes waiting for you down below. You wonder now if that was why she sent him away. Was his work getting sloppy from thoughts of you filling his head? No, you could never kid yourself into thinking that, you never wanted to think about how he felt about you, it was safer to not think of what you had at all as being anything more than what it was.

An escape.

And escape you did. Into dark alleys where you said little, but shared the taste of each other’s breath. Finding something warm to cling to that just felt natural, easy, real.

Jardani never needed to tell you how he felt, his hands and eyes showed you, his lips caressed you, his teeth have tasted your flesh and you thought perhaps he may never let go. Now you wonder if he wanted to release you from between his teeth, and there is no way to find the answer in his eyes.

You take a long drag from your cigarette for a moment, holding it in, nowhere to alleviate this heaviness in your chest, not even when it billows out from your chest into the dark sky above.

God, would you ever even see him again?

Your stomach churned at the thought that maybe it wasn’t enough. All that training, all those years of pain and misery for nothing, for Jardani to walk out into that big world out there and get himself killed on his first mission…

You know that some of the others come back often, to talk with The Director about new work, but you also know that there are empty rooms that haven’t been filled since their owners went off for their first taste of blood, never to return.

“Please,” you whisper into the night air, the wind stealing your voice. “Let me see him again, I don’t care how, I don’t care when, but let me see him again…”

You feel as if you’re emptying your heart and soul into a cold, uncaring abyss that makes no promises. And yet, it helps ease the tension in your knuckles as you grip the window sill.

You sleep tonight wondering if he can feel your heart ache a million miles away.

Taglist: @emacarrigton @sunnythebunny7 @worldsgreatestsinner @discoscoob @nwheregirl @slutforsoliderboy @sebastianstanisahotmf @iovesia @brooxie3 @generalkenobee @desolatewrath

Feel free to ask to be added/removed from taglist!

[thewhumpcaretaker]

Is me again with Wick D'Antonio ask HELLOO :D

I remembered how you asked me about Santino's and John's wedding, like how it would look like and all that, SOOO :)

What do you think about their wedding! How do you see it? Where would it be? Who would be invited, etc?

How would they act? Are they both nervous or one of them is handling it better? ^ ^

Wick D'Antonio!!! What's interesting to me is that their wedding would look really different if they were still a part of the Table, versus in retirement. It's more romantic if they're retired, but I think it has more drama if they're still in the Table, so I'll do that version.

This was almost a fic - it has a plot honestly. Might write it later, we'll see!

Image sources: 1 2 3 (monogram) 3 (background) 4 5

You're absolutely right that they'd have a beach wedding. Beaches are important for both of them.

John lets Santino do most of the planning for their suits and for the theme, because fashion and decoration are his area of expertise. "Anything you pick will be beautiful."

So they have a blue color scheme with touches of silver, on top of lots of billowing white fabrics and blue and white flowers. And of course, the food is extravagant because he can afford it.

Coffee-flavored wedding cake with hand sculpted John and Santino cake toppers!! They both like coffee, so it's perfect. John thinks the cake toppers are really funny.

Santino has an extravagant blue suit and John wears white (You might expect black, but today isn't about him as a killer, it's about his new life with Santino and his sweeter side). They weren't going to see each other's suits before the wedding, but then Santino got too excited about picking clothes and they ended up suit shopping together. They also both have silver flower crowns, because I said so!

The guest list is a nightmare. Santino has to make sure no one is snubbed, because being invited to a wedding has political significance within the Table (not to mention within his family), and you don't want to make enemies. So he has to be really careful. Especially with the seating chart…

Security is a big issue as well, because this is a perfect time for assassination. John and Ares are both overworked trying to make sure the grooms will be safe.

When he's working on the guest list and security, Santino gets overwhelmed and starts to break down because he feels like their wedding isn't even about them anymore - there's too much politics involved. Plus, he's scared someone will take the opportunity to make an attempt on his life before his new life with John can even begin. So John has to calm him down and remind him that no matter what happens, he'll protect him from any fallout and they'll be on their honeymoon soon, which is only for them.

On the other hand, John barely has any guests. There's Winston, Caine, Sofia, and Katia, and…that's about it. It makes Santino a bit sad to see it, and he tries to make sure John can hang out with his family if he wants to. At least with Gianna.

There's a lot of back-and-forth in John's mind over whether to invite The Director. Ultimately, he decides not to do it. He says it's because she wouldn't really want to come anyway, but he honestly just doesn't want to see her on a day that is supposed to be happy.

On the day of the wedding, both of them are soooo nervous!! Santino wants everything to go well and according to plan - he's constantly fussing over his suit and pacing around memorizing his vows. John is nervous too, but he expresses it by being deathly quiet and just having a worried look on his face.

But once they see each other, everything melts away and they're smiling so much and can't stop crying. Their vows are so sweet - to protect each other to the death, to be there in sickness and health, to honor and listen to each other, to always be each other's first priority, to show each other the innocence that can't be found in the rest of this broken world.

And then…THE WEDDING DOES GET ATTACKED!!! But here's the twist: although neither of them told the other because they don't want to worry them, both of them decide to carry concealed weapons during the ceremony, just in case they need to protect each other. They both pull out their weapons at the same time and kill the assassins.

The attack is a blessing in disguise: it turns out to be a display of their strength, solidifying Santino's reputation and teaching others not to mess with the power couple!! It's also a demonstration of their love for each other and everyone is touched.

This gives them a nice boost of adrenaline as fuel for their wedding night ;) They're definitely making love with a passion because they're so grateful that both of them made it out alive…and because Santino thinks the splash of blood on John's white suit is actually kind of hot. They can barely get through the dancing after dinner before rushing off to be alone together <3

[evrensadwrn]

im thinking abt writing a fic where each of the john wick villains go and live through the most panic inducing moments before their deaths(spoilers for the movies below ofc)

iosef can run all he wants but it seems as though he can never reach the car— and even if he does, in the rare moments that he does, he can never open the door. it blows up, his vision obscured again. he squeezes his eyes, arms thrown in front of his face before then he’s looking at a television and one of his buddies playing an fps game. and it repeats over and over. his bodyguards hired by his dad on one corner of the room with their earpieces in their ears. a notification, and then suddenly a bullet through the kid playing the game and then one of the bodyguards.

santino will blink, and everything is a steady step. the blue lights, interchanging from this magma-like red orange. a gun in one hand. he always has a choice. not now. he has a choice to taunt this hunter, john wick. no matter how many times ares is there to save him, to escort him out; the soles of their shoes against glass of this labyrinth, santino will always find himself back where he came from. in the party, a glass of champagne raised before panic seeps in and his eyes begin to dart around the room, trying to find john wick. no matter how early he finds john in the crowd, he can’t escape his fate.

vincent is in the front gates of sacre-cœr, sat down. there’s always dread weighing down on his shoulders because he can count the seconds in his head, but it will always reset. the harbinger, winston, high table valets, and the steps are there to remind him that his fate is sealed from the moment the high table signed all twelve of their names onto that contract that binds him to this noble occupation. it doesn’t matter. gunshots ring, they become closer each second. noises of bodies hitting the concrete steps. even when he knows that now, he can be released from his fate by not taking the gun from caine— everytime john and him end up at the top steps; he blinks and suddenly it’s back to the paris darkness.

their fates are sealed

[marquisedegramont]

which characters do you write for bc i see on your main blog you’re pretty flexible with other characters

starting from most comfortable with writing to just writing them rarely :

marquis de gramont(what a surprise), gianna d’antonio, santino d’antonio, akira shimazu, ares, iosef tarasov, kirill(yeah), caine, and then john wick

i don’t write much x readers for john wick bc there’s already a lot of fics for him so i focus mostly on the first five

[vostara]

Hypnophobia - 05

fünf — and there’s no escape

pairing: ares x original female character (beatrix)

blurb: “Loyalty can be rather expensive.”

word count: 2.1k+

title inspiration: game of survival - ruelle

apologies for the incredibly long wait. in mid-july, i moved across the country and immediately got sick due to 3-4 weeks of nearly continuous heatwaves (uncommon for the area i’m living in). my apartment does not have a/c, so all i had was one fan and an unbearable amount of humidity. my apartment was in the high 90s nearly every day, with the low end being.... the low 90s.....

just to note: i am starting graduate studies this monday. i am working on getting an mfa in creative writing, so all of my school-related writing projects will take priority over fanfics.

This work is cross-posted on Ao3.

… | 04 | 05 | [discontinued notice] … series masterlist

In theory, Santino’s new task is easy.

“You want me to meet with your seller?” Beatrix asks, a request for confirmation that she had not misheard the man.

“You will be accompanying Ares,” Santino clarifies. “She is the one meeting the buyer.”

“You’re not going to meet him yourself?”

The Camorra boss frowns, leaning back into his armchair. “I’ve been asked to return to Naples and I can’t push it back any longer than I already have. I’m entrusting Ares with closing the deal and I want you there for support.”

“Why send me?” The woman says. “Why not send one of your men?”

Santino shrugs. “You know sign language,” he replies.

A simple assignment, really: be the translator.

As the driver eases the car into a stop, Beatrix glances out of the window. Her eyes scan their surroundings, noting the clusters of people showing off their overpriced designer jewelry and the borderline scandalous hemlines of their clothing. The New Yorkers loiter the space outside of a ritzy expensive nightclub, Das Schwein, a club that is embedded into the bottom three levels of the high-rise building.

To get the woman’s attention, Ares reaches out towards Beatrix, brushing her fingertips against the top of her hand. And when Beatrix turns to look at her, Ares pulls her hand away, signing, We are here.

The assassin nods, before opening the door and stepping out of the vehicle. She smooths the sides of her burgundy dress and takes a moment to straighten the plunging neckline. Though the winter chill encourages a splattering of goosebumps to form along her bare arms, it, for the moment, lacks the biting cold that had permeated the Chicago air.

Ares, dressed in a matching suit, takes the lead and approaches the building. Do not speak unprompted, she commands. Do not leave my side.

Falling into step behind the woman, Beatrix nods. “I understand,” she says.

When the bouncer sees the pair approach, he steps aside before waving them through the entrance. Without even acknowledging the man, Ares steps between the doors. She scrutinizes the first floor of the club, scanning over the patrons boozed up with fine liquor, the grinding bodies on the dance floor, and the sloppy touches exchanged between indiscrete temporary lovers in the booths. Her eyes land on a private elevator tucked away in the corner of the room, protected by a couple of guards.

Ares and Beatrix approach them and the guard on the left greets them with a nod of his head. “Mr. Brecher is on the top floor,” he says, pressing a button to open the doors.

Beatrix tenses at his words.

Brecher?

No, it couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t be here, not in New York. Not right now.

Ares enters the elevator and Beatrix steps in beside her. She clicks on the button for the top floor and takes a small step back when the doors slide shut. They ride in silence, undisturbed by the subtle hum of the ascending machine.

But for Beatrix uneasiness fills the silence, floods her senses with a flight response that’s impossible to act upon in this enclosed space. Threads are tugged in the pit of her stomach, snapping as they attempt to suppress the building worry, anxiety, dread.

It could be a coincidence; a different man with a shared surname.

A button dings, signaling their arrival.

When the doors open, Beatrix realizes that this easy job, this simple task of being the translator, is a far more complicated situation. Her eyes land on the silhouette of a person she had hoped to avoid for as long as she could. And her gaze drifts to the left side of his face, confirming his identity with a familiar scar etched into the skin. One that begins just beneath his eye, before curving to slice into the side of his lips.

Matthias Brecher.

Her last thread breaks, drowning Beatrix with a renewed realization that she has spent too much time dancing next to the growing flames. That frequently tempting fate would encourage it to retaliate with the most severe consequences.

The man notices the Camorra woman first. “Ares,” he greets.

She exits the elevator, stepping into the private room.

Matthias shifts his gaze to Beatrix. His eyes flicker with surprise, before an amused grin weaves itself into his features. “Well,” he says, “I wasn’t prepared for quite the surprise.”

“Matthias,” Beatrix acknowledges.

Ares’ footsteps come to a halt and she turns her head to glance back at the other woman. She watches her, studying the assassin’s face for any subtle twitches that would give away her thoughts, betray her motives.

“I didn’t think we would meet again so soon,” the man says.

Beatrix smiles, but the false joy never reaches her eyes. “Perhaps we meet again too soon,” she forces the joke between her lips.

And the words deepen the frown that’s already forming in the corners of Ares’ mouth.

Matthias slides his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and takes a step closer to Beatrix. He chuckles, “I thought I was having a meeting with Camorra’s people, not Lilith.”

The woman straights her back, lifting her chin just a tad higher off of the ground. “You are having a meeting with Camorra,” she states. “I am here to translate on Ares’ behalf.”

The man hums, pondering over the woman’s response. “But Lilith would never loan you away for something this trivial.” He nudges his head towards Ares, “especially when it involves one party in particular.”

“I wanted a change of pace.”

“Or,” the man leans down, “perhaps the rumors are true. Perhaps Lilith’s favored rosebud has fluttered away with the wind. I’ve found that loyalty is a tough commodity to find,” he whispers, “nowadays.”

“Loyalty can be rather expensive,” Beatrix says.

Matthias takes a step away from the woman, turning to face Ares. “Would you mind if we postpone our meeting, for a just a few minutes?”

Ares narrows her eyes.

“Miss Amsler and I are old acquittances,” he continues. “Conversations with her are always a treat. And I do enjoy splurging on a bit of pleasure before getting into business.” Matthias chuckles, “You never know which job is going to be your last.”

Ares shifts her gaze to meet Beatrix. When the other woman gives her a slight nod of assurance, her eyes dart back to Matthias. She gives him a nonchalant shrug and then retreats to the small bar on the left. She sits down on one of the stools, before gluing her eyes back onto the pair.

“Come, Süsse,” Matthias places the palm of his hand against the small of the woman’s back, directing Beatrix towards the open balcony on the other side of the room. “We have much to discuss.”

When they are just far enough away that Ares is unable to listen to their conversation, Beatrix pulls herself away from Matthias. “You said there are rumors that I’ve been disloyal,” she says. “Did you know that I was working with Santino?”

“It wasn’t my first guess,” he admits. “But I knew you wouldn’t stay with Lilith forever.”

Beatrix frowns.

“I am surprised,” Matthias continues. “The last person I expected you to align yourself with would be such a prominent figure for the Camorra.”

“People have stooped to less for a few extra dollars in their pocket.”

“I’m almost offended,” the man says. “You would choose his company, before committing yourself to someone like Tarasov, or to someone like me?”

“At the time,” Beatrix leans towards the man, “I found this to be a more favorable business opportunity.”

“Must be quite the pay,” Matthias says. “Perhaps I should consider dropping my lifestyle as the boss, huh? Work as one of D’Antonio’s lackeys. After all, you must be swimming in riches. The pay must be good, good enough to convince you to work for the man who told his people to brutally torture and murder your best friend.”

The woman tenses, nails digging themselves into the palms of her hands.

“Tell me how you sleep at night,” he continues, “knowing that you’ve chosen to snuggle up to the devil himself. Do you still think of Evie? Do you hear her screams? Her pleading cries for help?”

Beatrix takes a small step away, increasing the distance between them.

But Matthias inches closer. “Or do you hear the wails of your baby?”

“Fuck you,” Beatrix shoves the man away from her. “Don’t you dare—”

“—No wonder you look so tired.”

The woman scoffs. “Is there a reason why we’re discussing this?”

“Süsse, we’re just having a conversation,” he says. “But if you want a change of topic, let’s talk about Ares.” Matthias smiles, briefly shifting his gaze to the Camorra woman. “She’s your type, no? Deadly, powerful, commands the room, when she wants to. And stuffed full with information that you could sell for quite the pretty penny.”

The man chuckles. “I know you, more than you’d care to admit. You’d never work for Santino, but you would target him, hurt him, cripple him. So, are you going to seduce his right-hand woman? Manipulate her? Convince her to confess all of those valuable secrets?”

“Targeting her would be pointless,” Beatrix says.

“Why? Because she understands the concept of sworn, unfaltering loyalty?”

“Because it would take too long,” she says. “I have no interest in wasting my time with a pointless task.”

Matthias smirks and pulls a phone out of his pocket. His fingers press against the screen, tapping on the buttons, before angling the item towards the woman. “Is that why poor Luca got chopped up into itty bitty pieces?” He taunts. “Because he wouldn’t spill any of Camorra’s dirty secrets? Was he a waste of time?”

Beatrix glances down at the phone, swallowing the nerves brewing in the bottom of her throat. Filling the screen is the image of a body, blood spilling out of appendages that had been sliced into manageable pieces. The body had been placed inside of bathtub, one that Beatrix recognized.

“Izzy may be your friend, but she is still under my employment,” Matthias explains.

“Does she give you documentation on every job she takes?”

“Just for the handful of people I care to keep tabs on,” the man shrugs. “Is your contract for intel or disposal?”

“I think it’s best that I keep that information to myself,” Beatrix says.

“I disagree.” Matthias puts the phone away, before reaching inside of the pocket concealed beneath the jacket of his suit. He pulls out a small circular object, which he holds up, displaying it for Beatrix.

It’s a Marker.

Her Marker.

Beatrix can feel the intensity of Ares’ stare, can feel her processing and examining the situation as it unfolds. And though she wants to look at her, wants to tell Ares that she wants, no, that she needs this conversation to end, she chooses to ignore the Camorra woman. She maintains eye contact with Matthias, determined to not shudder, to not buckle, beneath his gaze.

“You owe me,” he says. “We’ve made an oath, you and I, a blood contract. I’ve completed my end of the bargain, but I still need to cash in on your side.”

Beatrix remains silent.

“Tell me the truth,” Matthias continues. “Which of your many skills have you been hired to perform?”

“What would you do with that information?” She says, “If you sell it to the right buyer, I’ll end up killed, regardless of my answer.”

The man frowns. He raises a hand towards Beatrix and weaves her loose curls between his fingers. “You think so little of me,” he says. His fingers tighten around the hair, and he pulls Beatrix towards him, before shoving her towards the railing at the edge of the balcony.

The assassin gasps when the metal slams against the bottom of her ribcage. Instinct kicks in and her fingers latch onto the rails.

“If I wanted to kill you,” Matthias growls, “there are much more convenient ways for me to do so.” He releases his grip on her hair and takes a step closer. With his chest pressed against her back, he traps her between himself and the metal that is preventing her from tumbling to her death. “I have every intention of using the task you owe me. Ratting you out would be a waste of time and resources. You owe me, Beatrix,” he hisses, “not the other around.”

“Boss,” a man calls.

“What?” Matthias answers, ever so slightly relaxing his stance.

“Do I shoot?”

The man pulls away from the woman, turning towards his henchmen.

When Beatrix turns to see what the man was referring to, her eyes widen at the sight of Ares. All thirteen of Matthias’ men have their weapons trained on the woman, whom has a gun pointed directly at the their leader’s head.

“How fascinating,” Matthias says.

a/n: thank you so much for reading. if you liked what you read, please considering reblogging this chapter. every reblog truly does help a small author like me! but any likes, comments, or other indications that you enjoy this story is also appreciated!

this chapter was meant to be much longer, but i didn’t to split it into two pieces in order to prevent even further delays in getting an update out. the next chapter’s rough draft is over halfway done. if all goes well it will be published before the end of next month.

if you’re interested, you can also follow me for more updates on twitter @ VostaraFics

[the-darklings]

—𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒖𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒏𝒕;

—PART XX. | ODERINT DUM METUANT

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 19.6k+

summary: “There’s a saying, that if you can make God bleed people will cease to believe in him.”

warnings: underlying angst, swearing, minor panic attack

notes: I could give a very longwinded and useless explanation why this took so long but as many of you know I've been straight up not having a great time this year. This chapter was also a nightmare to get through and by far my least favourite chapter as a result. That being said, I hope you enjoy returning to coa, and certainly enjoy the quiet of this chapter because oh boy is the storm coming.

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 18 | 19 | . . |

“Well?”

“The toxicity in your blood has increased again.”

Biting back a sigh, you dip your head in mute understanding. Yet Doc’s features strain with trepidation you do your best to disregard. It is what it is. There’s no time to linger on another failure. Or your swiftly deteriorating condition. You’re at a point where you can’t go a day without taking at least three doses of the Green Erla solution to mitigate the spread of poison.

“What’s next?”

The older man hesitates. It’s not quite pity staring back at you but it’s something close to it—some leaden, heartfelt emotion that chafes against your senses. He shakes his vain attempt to hide the worry away in a blink, practiced and hardened by years of working this job. But the mental image stays with you regardless. The stern but patient doctor returns as he shuffles closer to you across his clinic.

“I prepared your usual dose. Infused it with some Dutara extract this time to see if Green Erla affects can be proliferated,” he explains, passing you a vial of pale green liquid. “The other two variants will require at least another week to be ready, if not two.”

It’s unlikely you have that kind of time.

“I’m not going to have a psychedelic episode, am I?”

With the amount of scrutiny you’re currently under, with how much you still need to get done, it’s the last thing on your list of things to do.

“A little faith would be appreciated,” the older man mutters dryly.

Too dignified to roll his eyes but you can hear it in his tone regardless. A flutter of a smile twists your mouth and it feels good albeit hollow.

“Thanks, doc,” you say sincerely, rolling the cool glass in your palm. “I appreciate this more than you know. Everything you’ve done.”

Doc peers at you through his glasses, sighing a moment later. He grabs an old, worn looking journal from his work desk, placing it next to you.

“It’s the last one,” he tells you pointedly. “Last of my research before I set up a clinic here. If there are any answers to be found, any avenues to pursue, this is the last chance to find them.”

Undoing the leather string, you shift the weighty thing into your lap, flicking through the yellowed pages with your thumb. Doc’s research back before the High Table employed him. Back when he was just another medic with a keen interest in herbalism and need to understand how nature can help a body. A sister field of study to your own. You hoped the answer for an antidote may lay here. Hidden away in years of work and sketches Doc has spent gathering.

“I appreciate it,” you tell him again, tucking it close to your chest. “And—”

“More than fine,” Doc cuts in, already knowing what you’re planning to ask. His eyes glint with discontent but he continues despite it, “No need to stress yourself with this as well. Just focus on finding an antidote. I took care of everything. He’s been rather unpleasant but that’s to be expected.”

You definitely hear the eye roll this time. But you can’t be seen wandering places you shouldn’t. People are bound to ask questions and there are only so many lies you can feed them before someone notices slips. Prods at the clear cracks and discrepancies in your stories. Hector already has. You don’t need more people in your business. Doc has been invaluable in this regard; a shadow man. The most unsuspecting helping hand, and in more ways than one. But you can’t go to war without an ace up your sleeve. So while unpleasant, this is a necessary move. A crucial gamble.

“I promise there’s a reason for this.”

Doc raises an unimpressed brow, not looking particularly convinced and reminding you a little too much of Winston. They’re the only two men left who can still make you feel like a little girl. Lost and in need of guidance. But it’s guidance they’ve been unfailingly willing to provide each time you’ve needed it. You’ve never been more grateful for having them both in your life.

“Whatever the said reason is,” he begins gravely, pulling your attention back towards him. “I urge you to work swiftly, V. Time is slipping. Far too quickly. At this rate even if you find a solution, the damage might be too severe. Battles, coups—those things can wait. Your wellbeing is the most paramount thing here. I know how much faith you’re putting into my old research but…”

“But what?” you rasp, your eyes narrowing.

Doc heaves a sigh, a deep sound that crawls up from his lungs, jolting his shoulders. He removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes, and it strikes you then how old he looks. Weary. Guilt swells like acid in your heart. You shouldn’t be involving him in any of this. Shouldn’t be placing all these expectations on him. He’s a good man. Better than most. If you die on him, he will allow the said death to wear on him. You’ve passed the status of being another measly patient to him long ago. Your tea sessions, your work together, every amiable conversation you’ve shared; two curious minds working in tangent. He’s been kind to you. Perhaps no Elder in his sheer brilliance but an excellent teacher in his own right. It’s odd how it’s only now, with your clock ticking down, that you’ve become so terribly aware of everyone you might be leaving behind.

For so long you saw yourself as alone, lost, without a home. Unwanted and unloved.

But none of those assumptions are correct.

There’s so much to lose now. So much unsaid and things undone.

“But,” he continues, a weight to his articulation that tightens your fingers around the journal. The blunt of your nails digs into the supple leather and you have to force back the urge to flee. You know, instinctively, that whatever is about to come out of his mouth next will not be easy to hear. “You’re a genius in your field, V. Even if you see yourself as lacking in other areas, this much I knew from the moment you stepped foot in my clinic. Sheer, raw potential. Completely untapped and untested. But you see, therein also lies the problem,” he fades off for a second, scrutinising you closely, sadly. “You’re a victim of your own genius. You’ve managed to create something there’s no back door to. I’m afraid…”

He pauses again, still searching your face. Silent sorrow creases his expression and you wait for the conclusion to his thoughts because you’re not sure if you can speak right now.

“I’m afraid that if you can’t find a way to help yourself,” he says morosely. “No one can.”

Firelight curls around his body, coating him in a golden hue and toasty heat. His eyes ache, a near-constant throbbing at the side of his head no longer a novelty, but Santino doesn’t move. He hasn’t moved in hours.

Fingers laced and elbows digging into his thighs, he stares into the fireplace, hoping for some sort of answer. Guidance. Clarity that refuses to surface. This is not the type of decision he can casually inquire advice on.

Everything you’ve told him…

It loops through his mind, over and over. He finds himself combing through every trembling word, the harrowing flatness of your voice and the vacant stare. All the pain and the trauma. Years spent being no better than a rat trapped in a crystal maze, expected to overcome some invisible barrier of expectation.

It makes him feel sick. Furious.

You sounded empty. So goddamn empty. Tiny. As if the sheer, numbing horror of everything you were laying bare before him and others was nothing. As if it all happened to someone else.

Tokyo. He can still remember you on the day you came to bargain on John’s behalf. Haunted, worn, so void of the fire he once knew. Your heartbreak had sat thick in the air between you and he had selfishly hoped…

He can’t help but regret the desire he felt back then. It had been nothing but lust. Factitious in comparison to all he feels now. It was lust and rage he couldn’t explain no matter how hard he tried. An erosive emotion he didn’t understand until later, until Chicago, when he had to witness Boutin with his fingers around your throat—

Fuck.

Chicago wasn’t his fault. Not really. He spent years chewing over the event, hating it and cherishing it in equal measure. If only because whatever steel door stood between you had cracked open after Chicago.

Then Prague. He can still recall thinking he was dying, or close to death. How many regrets he had as a result of his untimely demise. Santino remembers the fear he felt in those final hours the most vividly, only triumphed by the flare of undiluted hope when you came for him.

He can’t imagine learning that years of his life have been manufactured by someone else. Can’t comprehend the strain, the devastation of such a reveal. It explains a lot about your distance in the past weeks. Because of course he noticed. He can’t stop looking, searching, hoping…

Hope is a noose, he thinks bitterly, and he’s hung himself on it long ago.

“You’re turning brooding into a sport.”

Biting back a snarl to be left alone, Santino promptly ignores Hector’s drawling voice. Purposeful gait follows those words, and it takes only moments for the man to drop heavily onto the sofa next to the chair he’s seated in. Near identical position to when you had sat them all down only yesterday and revealed the truth.

The Elder. A myth of a man. Santino had spent years doubting his existence, believing the High Table had invented the character as a deeper method of control. Together they were the Elder. The highest global power. To know the man not only exists but also stole you away for those long months—

He waited after Chicago. He sat at the dinner table and waited for you to come to him. To talk with you. Share dinner. He had wanted you selfishly from the start. But minutes turned into hours and then days, and you were nowhere to be found. He couldn’t locate you. No one could. Not even Step. He asked his father as a last resort. But Giovanni had only told him you were away on a mission for the High Table. A secret to top most secrets.

He knew. It’s sickening for Santino to realise that his father knew. Did he know about Chicago as well? Prague? Did he stand by and watch his own son being taken and nearly killed? And for what? To appease some figure of power?

No. His father won’t have cared. If he did know, Giovanni allowed things to transpire because he no doubt hoped it would harden him. Make him a stronger man, a more suitable heir.

While Santino has never met the Elder himself, he knows his father has. Or at least claimed—albeit only once—that he’s met the elusive leader in the flesh.

So much makes sense now. A string of events to have once held so little meaning, now shining in an entirely different light. So much makes him want to throw his glass into the fire. To rip this room to shreds and never stop.

Hector doesn’t speak, fiddling with his lighter while he stares up at the ceiling. Santino isn’t quite sure why he came at all, or what he wants. Even during his recovery period, even with Santino now officially the head of Camorra, their relationship has remained impersonal. Cool. He told others you’re in charge and the one they answer to, and Hector himself seemingly had no qualms with the chain of command. The menacing man has certainly spent more hours stalking your steps than Santino’s during these long weeks, and that’s been just fine by him.

All Santino does know is that he hasn’t slept for the majority of the night. Your voice and face keep smearing through his mind’s eye, haunting him, undoing him. He’s not in the mood for Hector’s attitude right now or whatever trivial matter he wants to bring to his attention.

“Why are you here, Hector?”

He sounds overly calm even to his own ears. For most people, it’s a sure sign they should be running.

But Hector only bobs his leg up and down, turning to glance at him lazily. A play at nonchalance but one he sees through easily. The metallic clicking pauses then resumes.

“We’re going to be late.”

Santino feels his lips curl, straightening in his seat. His body aches, his head throbbing. The change in his vision is still jarring, uncomfortable. It’s taken weeks to get accustomed to a different depth in vision. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s bumped into things he never would have in the past. It still makes him grit his teeth.

Weak, weak, you’re so weak, a sly voice hums from deep inside his chest. He can’t tell who the voice belongs to anymore. Gianna, his father, or perhaps his mother. All of them, hating him from beyond the grave.

And now…

Now the last person he has, the very best of him, might get taken too.

At least his father was right about power unfailingly demanding a price. Santino feels a rattling, awful feeling shake his bones as he sits there. A deep, devastating fear that he’s gotten all he wants yet has nothing. How close he is to losing the only truly precious thing he’s ever held close.

“Late for what?” he mutters briskly, reaching for his glass of drink.

The Devil of Camorra regards him through narrowed eyes, followed by a scoff of disbelief. “For our weekly ice cream trip,” he snarks, sitting up with a purpose that automatically throws every nerve in Santino’s body on the defensive. “For the meeting with the other fuckers to take down the High Table. What else?”

He turns towards the man, levelling him with a pointed stare. “I hope you realise what you’re saying right now,” he speaks slowly, this time in his mother tongue.

Hector grins at the softening of his voice, at the cold glint of command there, a harsh cut of his features lacking warmth. “Don’t tell me we’re really going to sit here and pretend like you’re not going to her.”

He wonders when he became so transparent. But then again, he’s never been ashamed, has he? Never hid what he felt for you. What he will always feel.

“And you’re talking treason to your boss.”

Same golden light paints Hector’s hulking figure, his hard features pinched with displeasure Santino has no name for. He’s pointing out facts. Hector who’s always been such a loyal guard dog to his father should not be this eager to break rules.

“Did you really expect her not to go after them with the shit she’s been through?” Hector poses bitingly, his brows knitting. When Santino fails to respond, the Devil slants his body backwards, lifting his leg only to drop it over his ankle. The silver metal of his lighter slips between Hector's tattooed fingers in an indolent pattern. “Parents murdered. Made a dog for the Russian. Trained as an assassin. Tortured, beaten, abused. Verbally, mentally. Traumatised for life. With crippling fears that render her immobile. Years stolen from her. A shit ton of time during which she could have been normal. You and I both know it. She could have been a doctor. Or, fuck, a florist. Had her own little place. Been happy. Now she’s expected to serve for life to some egomaniac who thinks she’s real fucking special. The system is rotten. The Table is corrupt beyond just us being shitty fucking people. Most of all the Elder. She’s not wrong to want it torn apart. In her shoes, I would do worse.”

“Hitting too close to home, Hector?” Santino finds himself asking.

The man’s expression tightens with rage, lips thinning and knuckles flexing. It’s gone the next instance but he still saw the slip. Still savours the drawn blood. He asked on purpose. Because it’s easier to avoid the words just spoken aloud this way.

“She would do it for you.”

A breath rushes out of him at Hector’s low words. They dig deep, clawing at whatever dark thing he has for a heart, squeezing it so tight he can almost feel the invisible bleed.

“Would she?” he counters softly.

Another scoff, louder and more bitter this time. “Man, fuck off,” Hector spits, adjusting in his seat with a creak of his leather jacket. “You didn’t see her after you were shot. Didn’t see how desperate she was. How frantic. She practically held your blown-out brain together. If it weren’t for her you wouldn't even be here.”

As if he doesn’t know that. As if he didn’t wake up, dazed and drowning in fuzzy agony, only to learn you saved him. Your reward for such a feat being made Excommunicado. How many times have you saved him? How many times has he done the same?

When, oh when, will your luck run out?

“You asked me once. When I knew I loved her,” he says after a beat, his words quieter, softer around the edges with the flow of Italian. His head tilts, gazing up at the Devil with a sardonic twist of his mouth. “I knew when I watched Andre Boutin strangling the life out of her like he did with my mother. I knew when I realised she’s moments from death and I will never see her again. I needed that moment to understand what my father always told us about our family and love. How we don’t do things by halves. We don’t love easily but if we do it’s forever. It will always be her. No matter what. But...”

Silence. Uncomfortable and deep supersedes those words. It plunges the room into quietude heavier than before.

“But what?”

Santino blinks, his eyes meeting Hector’s over the space separating them. The Elite’s features rest in a composed mask but beneath it, Santino can discern the vicious unrest.

“But she loves John,” he exhales, the weight of those words still crushing. Devastating. “It will always be John.”

Hector rolls his eyes, his response immediate, tart, “So that’s it? She loves Wick so you’re not helping her because of it?”

“No—that’s not it,” he disagrees sharply, biting back his frustration while working his jaw. His eyes sweep over the room, his home. The penthouse apartment has felt more like a home for a while now. If only because so many memories made here hold you at the centre of them. “You do understand what we’re talking about here, no? A war against the High Table. Even if we join, even if we help, this fight will cost lives. And even if by some miracle we succeed, she will always have enemies. Always. It’s a threat to her life without an expiry date.”

Hector doesn’t snarl his reply right away which surprises Santino more. Neither of them is known for their patience. Instead, the man mulls over his words, no doubt seeing the truth of them. He and Hector may not see eye to eye but Santino can at least appreciate the man’s tactical skill—to a degree, at least.

Shaking his head, the leader of Elites makes a small sound at the back of his throat. He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and Santino watches mutely as he fishes one out. No smoking inside the apartment, those are the rules, and Hector knows them. It’s not about breaking them to spite him, he realises, but more so about keeping busy, pondering their grim reality.

The cigarette slants between Hector’s lips, hanging between them limply. He doesn’t light it and Santino waits.

“So the better alternative for her is to what? Sit on her ass and wait until the time trickles down and go back to the desert? Never to be seen by any of us again?”

Despite the forced calmness in Hector’s voice, the flow of Italian adds to the harsh roughness of his words. It betrays the leashed annoyance. Santino can’t help but wonder if Hector ever questioned his father like this. With this much boldness. Or if he bowed his head and stayed obedient no matter what was demanded of him. He used to, Santino recollects, and can’t help but consider what exactly changed since.

“I want to help her,” he admits tightly. “I want to stand by her side. But this goes beyond just me or her, or any of us.”

Hector gets his meaning right away, a hiss of a breath escaping him. He tugs the cigarette from between his lips, scowling. “You don’t give a shit about what Camorra thinks, Santino. You never have.”

“But you know what this war would mean.”

“Yeah, I sure as hell do,” the man admits, each word purposely punctuated with finality. “It would mean we’re enemy number one when other families find out. It would mean heat from more than just the High Table. You would have rebellions within the Camorra ranks themselves. We’re old school. We like power, and not everyone will be happy to give those things up.”

And so it leaves only one question to be asked.

“So why are you so fine with it?”

Hector’s mouth presses shut, peering back at him with a hard, searching stare. Santino is uncertain what caught the Devil more off guard—his casualness, this newfound patience he seems to exercise where once he might have defaulted to spite; or the question itself.

“Who says I am?” the Devil eventually bites out but it rings hollow.

A slight, knowing smile curves Santino’s mouth. Not mocking but thoughtful. It’s an odd concept, the realisation that he might have misjudged a man he’s known for years. Underestimated him in a sense.

Stretching his fingers out, Santino finally wraps his hand around the glass of his drink, taking a large mouthful. He can hardly taste it. He’s not sure what he’s attempting to drown right now but he wants it to work, wants to quell the tempest raging through him.

“I thought her dead once,” he says quietly, still in his mother tongue, his lips brushing over the cold glass. His mouth feels like sandpaper but words continue flowing, willing to force their freedom. “When John was walking towards me with a loaded pistol in hand, it wasn’t my death I was thinking about. It was her. How good old Johnathan must have killed her to get to me. I didn’t mind the bullet after that. It’s a feeling I never want to experience again.”

The thought of your death is unbearable. Suffocating. He can’t help and wonder if this is what his father felt when he—

Perhaps it’s no surprise Giovanni lost whatever shred of humanity he still possessed after discovering his dead wife. Santino can’t recollect ever seeing his father smiling again after they buried her. At the edge of his mind, he still remembers his father’s second at the time—Claudio, now long since dead—dragging his sobbing, eight-year-old self away from the scene. His mother’s body, stiff and cold, her beautiful face slack and lifeless. His father on his knees howling in grief as he clutched her to him, cradling her face and calling her name to no avail. It’s the first and only time Santino saw grief or pain on his father’s face. Tears. It was like one man found them, and when Giovanni D’Antonio eventually emerged from the base they were held in—his mother’s body tight in his arms—he came out a new man. A nightmare being who never once extended a loving word or gesture towards his children again.

So many expected him to remarry, find a new Lady of Camorra, but nothing. The post sat unoccupied for years because his father never did choose anyone else. If he had physical desires he needed to be taken care of, his children never bore witness to even a whisper of it.

His father was many things, but at least he spared them from that particular pain.

Some foreign emotion flits across Hector’s face with those final words; an intent, dark look Santino can’t quite decipher before it’s locked away with another slow shake of the Elite’s head.

“So,” Hector begins deliberately, still staring downwards before he places the cigarette back between his lips, speaking over it, “Is she worth the risk, huh? Is she worth the entire world becoming our enemy?”

Santino stares into the dancing flames, and feels himself smile.

“We should go.”

“Just… a few more minutes,” you plead, glancing at Winston with a more subdued, “Please.”

The older man exhales, a cloud of vapour exploding around you. With nighttime, the temperature has slipped towards freezing again, and even with his tailored wool coat and gloves, there’s little doubt Winston is starting to feel the nip same as you.

You’re so preoccupied with mentally running through a thousand different scenarios—through preparations—you’re practically bubbling in your skin. The guards remain stock-still and tight-lipped while hovering in a semi-circle around you. You’ve been here for fifteen minutes. Ten of those minutes have marked Santino as late. The warehouse where you’ve done business together on so many occasions, where you saved his life only months prior, feels too vast and desolate. It stands too quiet. Every minute nudges you closer towards the inevitable acceptance of a fact already reflected on the manager’s face.

Santino is not coming.

“V, you cannot blame him for this,” he insists but they’re softer words than usual. He can no doubt see how tightly your fists are clenched, how taut the muscles sit under your skin. You keep staring into the empty archway, straining your senses in some vain hope a car engine will pierce the evening air. “This is asking him to destroy his life and remake it. Not only would he make enemies for life, but Camorra would forever be marred as traitors.”

You’re aware. But you had also hoped.

Santino is the one person you believed without a shadow of a doubt would understand this move. Not just breaking the rules but destroying the rule book forever. Understand this revenge—no, justice—even if it’s the most twisted kind.

You’re not angry he hasn’t come. A plan sat at the back of your mind for weeks now that accounted for him not being there but…

But you wanted Santino here, with you. Had hoped in vain he would feel the same. After the life he led; bound and forced into a role the High Table necessitated for him to fulfil, after all his sacrifices amounted to nothing more than a dead sister, and especially after Emilia. He couldn’t get justice for his mother for years. Had to see her murdered right in front of him and couldn’t do a thing to exact his justice. Because the High Table stood above all else. Those who serve it are important but, ultimately, disposable.

You’ve both spent years running from what you did in Chicago. Now, in the end, you know it didn’t matter. The Elder knew. The way he’s known you since seemingly forever. Under your skin, living and breathing and growing like a parasite.

Not for long though, you can’t help but reason, the host and the parasite will be dead soon enough.

You silently wonder if he’s started to feel it yet. The dizziness, the beginnings of a sickness crawling through his organs. Has his heart started beating irregularly yet? Do his lungs itch? It will be slower for him than you.

Even if all else fails, he will at least suffer as you did before it’s over.

You ignore the dull ache that thought prompts, suffocating it before it can bloom. He doesn’t deserve a kind thought or sentiment. He certainly spared you none when he forced you through living hell repeatedly.

Shaking off your trail of thought, you refocus. Giving Winston a lingering look, you nod your head.

“I’m not angry. I just hoped…”

His expression is understanding, his shrewd stare searching. “I know, dear.”

You want to fiddle with your fingers, restless, but resist the urge. Going into this meeting you need to be focused and composed. There’s no room for errors or weaknesses. The Bowery King and the Director will no doubt be eager to sniff out both.

It makes you happy to know John will be there. At least you have him beside you to make this behemoth of a task a little less daunting.

Winston gestures towards his men, and they start filing back towards the cars, silent and obedient. The manager stays beside you, however, waiting until you give the empty entrance one last, lingering look.

Nothing.

Exhaling, you pivot on your heels, marching back towards the waiting car. The door is open and you’re already running late so—

A screech of tires pierces the bustle and the hustle of departure prep and you halt in your steps. Your fingers nimbly wrap around a gun and a blade each, your heart hammering inside your ribcage.

Cars. Multiple cars, approaching at a rapid speed.

Your head snaps towards the entrance just as headlights explode across the warehouse, two Range Rovers rolling into the space behind one another.

One black and the other…

White.

You know that car and you know the number plate attached to it. You could recite it in your sleep. You’ve driven inside it too many times to count.

Your body, your expression, your entire being softens, melts. Moments ago you felt so heavy, so tired and resigned but now…

Your head slants towards Winston who examines the stopping vehicles with a ponderous look. It’s near audible, the ferocity with which the manager’s mind seems to be picking apart this turn of events. It’s impossible to gather anything from his equable expression but you know Winston.

“Make it quick,” he instructs but a tiny gleam remains in his gaze when he takes in your slack features and glassy stare. “We’re running late as it is.”

Your feet carry you forward blindly. They might be slightly uneven, staggering steps but they move you forward all the same. Car engines cut out, and you hold your breath when doors start opening.

Step hops out first, stretching his hands over his head as if the car journey lasted hours and not minutes it surely did. His dark suit jacket stretches over his shoulders, his round shades reflecting light when he pointedly turns in your direction. His brows wiggle, followed by a gleaming grin. Cheeks dented with dimples, he rushes ahead despite Julian’s audible “slow down, idiota” and stretches his arms out.

You don’t impede him, sighing into the laughing hug he gives you. Despite his wiry frame he still manages to lift you off the ground for a moment—much to your surprise. You can’t help but smile faintly into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar, cloying scent of sugar on his breath.

Step’s warmth fades slowly, his grin crooked when releases you after another firm squeeze.

“Darlin’.”

“That’s an awful attempt at a southern accent,” you deadpan and Step laughs; a booming sound that bounces back from the cold concrete. Deep from his chest and genuine—or at least, it seems genuine, truthfully you can never quite tell with him. “Trying a new look for the week?”

The Italian gives you an impromptu one-shoulder shrug, entirely too casual despite his tellingly put-together appearance. “Maybe.”

Step cares the least about Camorra’s rules. He’s never taken their regulations or the dress codes too seriously. He joined Camorra only because Giovanni forced his hand. Because while Step has always been closed off and secretive about his past, you know nothing good resided there. Past association with cybercrime syndicates who enjoyed causing havoc from the shadows.

The crisp, fitted black suit he dons now gives you hope, makes your heart flutter.

Others file out behind Step, car doors opening and closing in a thrum of noise. It echoes, splitting the air and you force out another breath.

Hector taps the clinched cigarette between his fingers to get rid of ash, smoke billowing from the lit tip as he leans against the tar-black Rover. His eyes cut your way for a moment, both of you sharing a quick glance.

Ares and Roberto are here too, all of them clad in customary black suits, no doubt Italian made.

They’re here as Camorra’s highest and most dangerous members, not your friends. Julian and Dario scan Winston’s guards behind you with calm, dangerous expressions. No smiles or cheery waves from them today. Just dutiful, respectful nods in your direction. Another reminder of the ring still stationed on your hand. What you represent to them regardless of anything.

Your heart stutters when the final door opens and Santino steps out.

He’s methodical about it; careful not to jolt his injuries, mindful of his body in a way he never would have been once. He still manages to dress it up as elegance, if not arrogance. Poised limbs and stiff shoulders. Santino readjusts his charcoal overcoat lazily, straightening before Roberto shuts the door for him.

“All yours, cara,” Step teases beside you.

You shoot him a vehement look, ignoring his shit-eating grin and sly implication, striding around him without another word.

The Head of Camorra, as he has for years now, tracks every twitch of your body as if you’re the only thing he can see. It’s subdued regard this time though. Guarded. Tension lines Santino's expression, the curve of his mouth harder than usual as you approach. You read a thousand thoughts and emotions on his face. None of them you can quite make out. A part of you is scared to.

Your heart—the traitorous, failing organ—hammers so loud inside your chest adrenaline pumps through your veins. It’s always felt good to be under the Italian’s scrutiny; a certain appreciation in his intent stares that unfailingly makes you feel… strong. Seen. Appreciated.

Santino readjusts his overcoat again—an absentminded, edgy gesture—and does another sweep over the length of your figure.

“What a terrifying getup, amore,” he greets softly.

Your heart squeezes inside your chest; a weak, incredulous laugh bubbling past your lips.

Only right, you suppose. Just like last time when he greeted you with those words, you’re dressed in your pitch-black bodysuit. And just like before the tunnel fight with the Lovers, you’re not going into this meeting with expectations of an amicable meeting. Nor conclusion.

You’re dressed to show exactly what your stance is.

Battle ready. Dressed for war. Prepared for bloodshed.

Your fingers are practically numb from the cold and it hurts when you flatten them against your thighs. Rub once against the cool, smooth material to control your nerves. Your chest feels tight enough to split apart.

“You came.”

While a hundred separate topics and words spring to mind, those are the only ones you manage to get out. Breathless and timorous. You hardly recognise your own voice.

Whatever forced deviousness was previously there drains away from Santino’s features. His chin tilts in an idle gesture; a silent command. People around you disperse, moving away to grant you two some semblance of privacy. Hooded green eyes return to you, and you’re not sure what he searches for in you but for several moments, he says nothing.

Then, he decreases the distance between you with several purposeful strides forward. Heat erupts, bleeding through your veins and warming your chilled skin. He’s not close enough to touch but it feels close enough to disrupt your breathing. You almost urge him closer but you’re intimately aware of all the eyes burning into you.

“I swore to never abandon you,” he reminds you, his voice even, thoughtful. His stare drags over your face; from your brow, to the tip of your nose and the bow of your lips, causing you to swallow. “I figured it’s finally time to make good on my promise, no?”

Something deep down twists, tightens. Inflating and expanding. Your mouth feels too dry, pressure behind your eyes too heavy.

The simplicity of those words undoes you completely.

Your throat clogs up despite your attempts to stay aloof, your fingers trembling at your sides. The ringing in your ears is so loud a part of you wants to shake your head to get rid of it.

Santino’s features soften in response, scrutinising your expression with mute wonder. He ventures another step closer, reaching out as if to touch your face. Hesitation halts him before his fingers can graze your cheek, his hand dropping back to his side. His gaze stays on you though. Turbulent, wild.

His next words come out as quiet, strangled, “You’re happy.”

Your eyes itch, a wet breath escaping past your trembling mouth and shaping into a wobbly smile instead.

“Yeah.”

Because it means the world. To know he’s here, and willing to fight for you. With you. Fight for his family.

His long exhale fills the quiet between you. Santino’s internal battle is almost palpable. Though the nature of his conflict remains lost on you.

His heated fingertips trace your inner wrist, edging his body closer. “Amore—”

“Signor D’Antonio,” Winston’s curt voice cuts in from behind. “You’re looking rather sprightly for a shot man.”

An inaudible hiss of displeasure escapes Santino, his touch retreating at once. Head swinging to one side, he sighs, his features pinched with irritation. A tiny, mocking smile blooms, his favourite façade of arrogant mafioso slotting perfectly back into place.

Winston’s presence brushes against your back, his body halting at your side a second later, and you clear your throat, blinking your eyes.

Santino’s head tips towards the manager, his stilted smile still intact. “Winston. Wonderful timing as always.”

There’s a hint of bitterness to his intonation. No doubt in reference to those final moments before John pulled the trigger. Not… whatever moment just transpired between you. Your head lowers but Winston only hums in response, undeterred by the subtle accusation.

“And indeed the one area you’re still lacking in,” the older man drawls, and you feel him briefly glance your way as well. “If you’re quite done with your displays of sentimentality, I wish to remind you we’re running late and should get going. Unless, of course, you would prefer to leave an impression of us being weak in our resolve already.”

“Right, of course,” Santino mutters. “Won’t miss it for the world.”

Pure sarcasm drips from his tongue.

“I assume, since you’re here, you have decided to stand with us,” Winston states. It’s not quite a question but he seems to be waiting for the smallest tell. Anticipating a falter. The new Head of Camorra offers him none. “You know what this will mean for you and the others.”

Heavy silence envelopes you three. Briefly, your eyes flicker towards Hector who stands with his hands in his pockets and hunched shoulders, a smouldering cigarette dangling between his lips. His sardonic stare doesn’t waver and in the end you force your eyes away first. An unspoken weight hangs between you but this is no time for him to be demanding more answers from you.

“I’m aware.”

Santino’s answer is resolute. Strident in a way you’ve never associated with him before.

It’s in the air again—that tangible reshape from mafia heir to mafia head.

You peer at him, examining his steady gaze and confident posture. Winston, you know, is doing much the same.

At least a minute drags by before, “Very well, Mr D’Antonio.”

The Italian nods, once. You’re not entirely certain what passes between the two men but you don’t question it. Subtle tension seems to ebb from both of them with the exchange and relief webs through you.

The manager’s head slants back in your direction. “Let's go.”

“The sewers,” Santino’s voice rings dry, unamused. “How original.”

He stands beside you while the rest of your party spills out of the cars. The Four and Ares linger around you in formation—in protection of their leaders; shoulders set and hands poised over their weapons. Winston commands his own guards into place but so far you’re the only ones here.

The agreed meeting point looms in front of you. A remote opening situated on the outskirts of the city where an entrance to the sewers lays unguarded. A humorous repeat of events for certain. Pricking coldness envelopes you, itching your lungs and skin, while you continue squinting at the empty opening beyond. Santino appears about as thrilled as you do with the notion of going back into the wet, slippery maze of darkness and rot.

The last time you came anywhere near sewers it ended disastrously.

“It’s smart,” you say.

And it is. The Lovers were stationed in sewers for a reason even if their location was closer to the city. It’s an advantageous position if one wishes to remain unseen and unfound. Burrow yourself deep enough in the bowels and you become a ghost. The source of inspiration for this hiding spot is clear, even if it leaves you bristling in your skin.

It always did make you wonder how the Bowery King was able to locate the Lovers so quickly. It’s clear to you now he kept such a location in mind for a reason.

No Bowery King or John in sight though. The former you didn’t expect. His injuries are undoubtedly still too disruptive for him to have much mobility. He isn’t a foot soldier either. No John, however, is a bit more concerning. No guards or messengers to greet you rings alarm bells loud and clear. You’re running late which left you assuming John will already be present upon your arrival.

Did he leave already? Did he not come at all? Or did he think your offer of joining forces is a trap? Is this a trap set by them to lure you all in?

Your neck tingles, your instincts sharpening to a needlepoint. Shifting in your spot, you subtly scrutinise your barren, hoarfrost covered surroundings. Hector does the same up ahead, his expression shadowed. Julian’s pistols are drawn and close to his sides, the curve of his lean shoulders taut. Ares and Dario linger close to Santino, Step and Roberto remaining at the rear.

Hector’s eyes gleam from the dim street lights while he scans mountains of dirt nearby. Anticipating unwanted company. Or an ambush.

No. Surely not.

John wouldn’t. In the deepest parts of your heart, you know he won’t do such a thing. It’s not in his nature. Then again, from his perspective, you as good as let him die. Allowed those bruised and broken bones and injuries. Stood by and watched while Winston delivered cruel justice onto him.

Back then, after everything Lucien had divulged to you only moments prior, you were too shell-shocked to act. Even if you had wanted to help him. You couldn’t. Because it would have given too much away. It was more advantageous to have the High Table think your relationship deteriorated after he shot Santino. It came so close to exactly that anyway. Now they believe John to be dead and you to be unconcerned with his passing. Glad to be rid of someone who took too much from you.

And most certainly not looking for revenge of your own.

Focused on your duties and obedient. Like a good little dog.

“Well,” the Italian begins after a pregnant pause. “I must say, I’m rather underwhelmed by this welcoming party, amore. Where are they?”

Blinking from your stupor, you glance his way, shaking your head at the flat expression carving his face. His subtle show of displeasure reminds you of a time long since passed. When things were far simpler—as were your feelings for a man whose arm you can feel brushing against yours. His earlier words still rest beneath your skin, warming you from inside.

“Some invaluable observations there, Mr D’Antonio,” Winston’s voice floats through the quiet night air. He approaches you with his hands in his pockets, his expression curious when his eyes find yours. You ignore the knowing glimmer you see reflected back at you, his attention sliding promptly towards the Italian beside you. “But correct ones. They should be here.”

A weighted silence blooms between you once again. Nervous, jittery tension coils through the group as you swap uneasy glances. It’s clear others are starting to doubt the legitimacy of this agreement. It’s hard to blame them, either, when they’re being given nothing in return for their leap of faith.

But leaning on the back of your heels, you stand by your conviction, “John will come.”

Not a hint of doubt in your voice. From the corner of your eye, you note the way Santino’s jaw flutters, clenching tight. Much to your surprise, he doesn’t speak up. No snarling words of virulent anger he might have spat out at your conviction once. His lack of reaction forms a hard weight inside your chest. Like a stone, it wedges in your ribcage, making you bite your tongue from the burning need to say something.

Winston casts another inquisitive look your way but doesn’t comment.

“Heads up,” Hector’s rough voice splits the air and all heads whirl towards the sewer opening.

An outline of a tall man, melting into the shadows he calls his own, stalks towards you. You could recognise him anywhere. His shape and the way he moves. A second later blackness gives up Baba Yaga, his reticent stare already locked on you. You recognise some of the Bowery King’s men behind him, their weapons drawn and faces grim. Hector’s muted scoff is audible, satirical with its dismissiveness. Being outnumbered has never been an issue for him. You, for one, always believed he enjoys impossible odds more.

Similar serenity rests across the faces of other Elites as well. It’s not arrogance—not quite—but unfaltering confidence in one’s skills and skills of others present. This is their bread and butter. Standoffs and bloodshed. In Italy, you know, things are done very differently. The power and ruthlessness of Camorra on display here is but a sliver of what you’ve witnessed when staying with them. They’re muted from the near godhood they’re known for on their home soil.

Much to your surprise, numerous unknown faces on John’s side greet you too. They may possess unfamiliar features but the hard-trained grace of their movements betrays who they are all the same.

The Ruska Roma.

John’s people. His blood. Amongst them, leading the pack clad in all black, he reminds you of a dark king in control of his subjects. He commands the air around himself without a single sound and your back straightens in response.

How far you’ve both come. Him leading his own ranks, and you fitting in-between two ruthless, powerful men. In command of your own. The ring on your hand is not a shackle. It’s absolute proof you’ve managed to forge your own loyalties. Grasp and maintain your own power.

Winston and Santino are here by virtue of choice.

You’re not alone. Not anymore. People stand behind you—and what a curious, odd thing it is; to feel not horrified but relieved and warmed by the presence at your back. Each and every reminder of this fact punches you just as hard as the first time. Fragile pride nests inside your heart at the realisation that, if nothing else, you might have managed to overcome at least this one fear.

The tension in the air feels like barbed wire cutting into your windpipe when John eventually comes to a halt. Several meters away, he continues gazing at you, his expression indecipherable. But buried under the cool indifference of an assassin, you glimpse the minute relief. You’re not sure if anyone else reads it but you do. Your own features remain a blank mask, giving nothing away while in the presence of others. Seconds stretch but John doesn’t remove his attention and you force down an imperceptible gulp at his scrutiny.

Beside you, every muscle in Santino’s body holds rigid, practically vibrating with agitation. His muted glare cuts into the assassin but he keeps his quiet. You can feel apprehension oozing out of him, and you edge closer, tempted to say something but know this isn’t the time. His unease, even anger, is understandable. When faced with a man who nearly ended his life with a single bullet, it would be impossible for anyone not to have a reaction.

Finally, as if noticing your tiny gesture towards Santino, John’s eyes slide towards the Camorra’s new leader, his stare still inscrutable. Guarded.

Years of history arcs between them, none of it good, most of it involving you. The two men stare each other down—and neither looks happy about their current predicament.

“Johnathan,” Winston greets loudly, dispelling the suffocating tension for a bit. You subtly suck in a breath when the man blinks and turns towards the manager at long last. “Fashionably late, are we?”

“We saw you coming,” is all John says. His stare flickers your way again, then, “They’re ready for you.”

No one comments about the group of at least twenty men behind him. Neither does John point out the presence of the Elites or Ares with Roberto. Santino could have called more men, you know as much, but he clearly understood the sensitivity of this move. He only took his most skilled and trusted with him. Same with Winston.

Drawing a fortifying breath, you make the first move.

Soles of your shoes scrunch against dirt and frost, impossibly loud and jarring in your ears. Despite the stifling atmosphere, you set an example. All of this has been one small show of trust after another. Tic for tac. If this is to work, you’ll have to take more steps towards blind faith. Hope. Raw nerves and unease boil in your stomach the closer you advance towards the yawning darkness behind John.

It’s only because of your group, silent but watchful, at your back that your gait doesn’t falter.

“I’m glad you came,” is the greeting you offer John when you stop before him. “I was starting to freeze my ass off.”

A blink—slow, unsure—then some of the tension recedes from his face. Wiped away by familiar companionship between you. Lines of his forehead smoothen, eyes softening with subtle amusement, and lips hooking to one side. Barely a smile, really, but from John, it’s as good as a roar of laughter. Those words ripple through both groups, and a few breathe a little easier for it.

“That would be unfortunate.”

“For me, or for my ass?”

Another faint glimmer of humour sparks, followed by and a subdued exhale from him that echoes your shared past. Him indulging you in your silly conversations and questions. Back when you were so curious and eager to understand his world, to belong in it.

“Both.”

For a split second, John’s dark eyes flicker behind you, to your left. He doesn’t betray anything, and you don’t want to guess what expression Santino might be sporting right now. You half expect him to speak, address their misfortunate last meeting but neither does.

“Shall we?” Winston prompts dryly from your right. “Or are we going to stand outside in the cold all night?”

John inclines his head towards the manager. “Winston.”

Another measured examination of the group surrounding you, then John dips his head again. “Lets go.”

The Bowery King’s men filter inside first, mixing with members of the Ruska Roma, and you know it’s a show of trust from their end. To allow your party at their backs without anyone moving at the rear to box you in speaks volumes. John’s approval, his trust in you, seems to sate them. For now at least.

Little to no conversation fills your lengthy trek. Any exchanges are few and far in between instances all marked by low rings of mother tongues. No English.

The blackness of the tunnels is so dense, a ball of nerves rolls inside your stomach. Dim torches line the walls but they do little aside from illuminating contours of the path ahead. Your chest tightens uncomfortably the longer you walk, and you clench your fingers at your sides. No feeling races through them, not even discomfort. Step by step, every movement of your body brings you deeper into the depths and sweat coats your skin. One terrible memory after another assaults your iron self-control, your mouth dry and limbs stiffening further with every shaky move forward.

Dead to the world.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

You were his favourite.

Tragedy.

Tragedy.

Tragedy.

If you can’t find a way to help yourself, no one can.

Voices mix, cooing and cawing in your ears. They drown out people around you, smearing the world into a dizzying jumble.

A stagger of your feet nearly sends you falling, and it’s only a swift latch onto your wrist that prevents it. Burning, secure grip and Santino’s body heat brushes against your side. Close enough to support you but careful not to trap you. A lucid, analytical corner of your mind ponders when exactly he learned these things. When they became so natural and instinctive to him.

“Amore?” he calls, his voice a low murmur, concerned.

Your party shuffles, a ripple of unrest spreading, and you gulp down several, hurried gulps of oxygen. In, out, in, out. Your lungs stretch, still painfully constricted, and you work desperately to clear the clog of panic.

“I’m—I’m fine.”

John’s group halts, still ahead, a murmur of questions spreading like wildfire, and you feel Winston’s presence on your other side. His arm hooks around your elbow, pulling your arm close to him. He pats your hand, chuckling under his breath for everyone to hear and see.

“My apologies,” he calls out loudly, his voice reverberating. “I’m afraid my old age betrays me and I tripped up. We can proceed now that I have assistance.”

Your throat burns.

Soft sips of oxygen force their way from between your quivering lips but you work to keep your expression rigid. Controlled. Your arm tightens around Winston’s squeezing it once in silent thanks.

“Deep breaths, cara mia,” Santino urges softly, his mouth scarcely moving with the words. Protecting the illusion of Winston’s quick thinking. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

His fingers sear into your cold, clammy skin and a nod is all you manage.

Grumbles of displeasure flow through the group ahead at the delay. They move ahead a minute later, a few pausing long enough to shoot suspicious looks in your direction. The Elites and the rest of your group stand close, and you can almost sense the warning sneer resting across Hector’s face. Daring anyone to make an issue of the pause.

You take a wobbly step ahead, and then another, breathing as calmly as you can manage. Embarrassment and panic battle for dominance inside your chest; two vicious beasts snapping their jaws at each other. After all this time, after all the fighting, still nothing more than a scared little girl. Unable to hold herself together when it matters the most.

As if sensing your trail of thought, Santino grazes his thumb against your inner palm, making you swallow heavily. His soothing, featherlight touch anchors you. Steadiest your weak knees.

Not alone.

You’re not sure how you look right now. Nor do you want to know. You’ve made it into a habit over this last month to avoid your own reflection. It’s become sickening to so much as glimpse your own features in any reflective surface now. If you ignore your visage well enough, perhaps you can still pretend you’re you. Not a stranger—a ghost, a fraud—inhabiting a body of this girl others believe they know. Real enough to touch but never to stay.

You can’t bear to think about the throbbing hole deep inside your chest right now. Instead, you force your shoulders back. Battle your laboured breaths, allowing the heat of two men beside you to stabilise you.

You just need to hang on a little while longer. Just one more fight.

Stay alive long enough to give others a future you can’t have.

Light flares ahead, drawing your eyes to it.

Sounds of life greet you. Chatter, arguing, footsteps and distant laughter. You squint, swallowing again over your too dry tongue. Even with your panic, you haven’t failed to notice the lack of dirt, rot or mould around the tunnels. Dirty water or stench of filth sewers are typically known for. The maze leading here has been dry and well maintained, indicating a far larger window of preparing this place for living than a single month.

Seems like the Bowery King harbours a few secrets of his own.

A glimpse of John’s raven hair catches your eye for a split second before he disappears into the light.

Santino’s heated fingertips scrape against your skin once more before he pulls back. Dario and Hector are first to pass the threshold—biggest physical threats, no doubt already scouring every corner and nook for hidden dangers.

For a second bright light blinds you but it only lasts a second. After which you, the head of Camorra, and the manager beside you pass through as well.

The Bowery King and the Director are here to greet you this time.

The space resembling a room is a massive, hollowed-out cavity reminiscent of the one the Lovers used to house their own troops. Not a drop of water is around this time though. The area appears well lived in and bustling with members of both the Bowery and the Ruska Roma alike. Dull, dark grey metal walls are lined with more torches, tunnels surrounding the large cavity busy with passerbies, weaving in and out. People moving food, weapons, and other supplies. Racks of weaponry of varying makes sit against the walls, ready for use. A board full of pictures and maps detailing the New York City landscape is stationed at the centre of the makeshift den. You’re not surprised to immediately spot your own likeness captured in monochrome. Winston, Santino and the Elites have all received similar treatment. Pictures pinned to form a clear group circle; a silent acknowledgement of an alliance.

And there, seated behind a circular, carved wooden table like at the eye of a storm you find the Bowery King and the Director. Immune to the bustle around them. Two gargoyles peering at you with varying degrees of scepticism.

It’s clear to you, then, that this operation has been in the making for far longer than a month.

The Bowery King grins first, and the deep, puckering wounds across his face stretch with it. It’s an effort to control your own reaction and lock it away. His face has been slashed apart. Practically torn. Extensive damage and only half-healed. Every cut looks raw and painful even from this distance. It’s clear they will never fully heal and will scar eventually. Much the same way you spot bandages still firmly wrapped around the Director’s hands. Her scowl is fierce. Her mouth a thin, red line of strict coldness. The woman’s dark eyes track you, an eyebrow arching challengingly at your brief inspection of her hands.

They’re alive. And it’s pure luck they are. Especially for the man who rises from his seat, his arms spreading out in a grandiose greeting. Despite the clear effort the gesture demands, the King still does it regardless. Yet the motion lacks the vitality it once held. The innate flare you used to associate this man with. But ever the showman, the Bowery King still plays at being in control. At being a boisterous, unflappable host.

“Welcome!” he calls out, his deep voice bouncing off the walls, echoing. “Hope you don’t mind what we’ve done with the place.”

His eyes slyly drift towards the head of Camorra beside you but Santino wisely doesn’t answer. A taunt. Because them being here just edges on territory that’s officially under Camorra’s jurisdiction right now. Santino claimed it in his move to take New York right before his showdown with John.

The assassin in question moves like an ink spill across the space, circling until he’s left standing on the other side of the table. It draws a clear battle line. Three against three. John’s stony features give nothing away. Yet his watchful stare unfailingly notes every twitch from the Elites. He knows where the fight lies if this situation deteriorates.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” Winston greets bluntly, not bothering with ceremonies. “Shame about the…”

In your peripheral, you see him gesture around vaguely.

You have to bite back a grin. The Bowery King has always been a pain in Winston’s books. Too scheming, too powerful for his own good. Never one to agree or abide by the Table’s rules. At least never entirely. Only ever enough to appease, to get by while he concocts his own plans.

Funny how time changes things.

The Bowery King’s grin sharpens and he offers a careless shrug. This, too, is a gesture to demand a physical toll. Your keen eye tracks over his hunched frame, mentally filing away the weight loss, the strain of muscles on display. He hasn’t had the most pleasant month. Far from it. But he doesn’t feel weakened. Or frail. No, not at all. He’s wounded, yes, but he feels all the more dangerous for it.

“But they do say the higher you are the…” Winston trails off, turning towards you. “How does the rest of the saying go, dear? It’s my old age, I’m afraid.”

Another dig at the Bowery King’s constant baiting about Winston being too old to still be a suitable manager.

“The further you fall,” you supply evenly.

The Bowery King’s grin twitches, edged by something goading. “Well, much the same could be said about all of you, couldn’t it? Allying yourself with the rats. My, oh my, how far the mighty have fallen.”

“You’re boring me,” Santino speaks up suddenly, his smooth voice carrying. “Are we going to do business or are you going to stand around making old men jokes all night, hm?”

His head slants with those words, ever-so innocent despite the verbal cut.

“Santino D’Antonio.” The Bowery King drags out the name, slow and considerate. His inky eyes seem to gleam with the address. Aside from the faint marks left behind by John, the Italian looks the same as always. Nonchalant, arrogant, dressed sharply to reflect his power position. Yet the Rat King notices something different in him as well. His grin is slow coming with his appraisal, teeth on display. His voice dips towards reluctant, sugary play at respect he always used when talking about the High Table in the past, “Our newest superstar. Oh, happy be this day, ain’t that right? The prince finally become a king. How does it feel up there at the top of the hill? Is the seat comfortable? Or is your darling sister’s blood still a bit too sticky and hot for you?”

He doesn’t allow time for Santino—or any of you—to respond, gesturing with his hand to the three empty chairs promptly. “But please. Wherever are my manners. Do sit down.”

The last part flows out as bait, a dare for you to commit.

Chin slanting upwards—cold to the bone, another mask, most worn and beloved guise—you walk ahead, dropping in the middle seat unceremoniously. No emotion shows as you stare down the trio in front of you. You feared all three once, at one point or another. But this, too, has changed.

Winston and Santino are only several steps behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know Elites are lingering only a step behind your chair.

“Let me make this quick,” Winston begins deliberately the moment he’s comfortable. “The High Table is a problem that requires…remedying.”

“If my memory serves me correctly,” the Director returns, her words terse. “You are also a part of the High Table. As is the Camorra head. Tell me, why should we trust anything you say?”

“We’re here,” Santino snips back from your left. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

The woman’s head slants, her golden jewellery glittering in the dim lights. The Bowery King has lowered himself back into a sitting position, his elbows resting on the wooden table. Fingers laced and hands resting in front of him to partially obscure his face. Not a self-cautious gesture. It's more of a trick to hide his features. Make him harder to read.

Your gaze lingers on him. On the blood and flesh he uses as a shield to no doubt hide a scheming smile.

From everyone here, it’s him who poses the biggest challenge. He will not cut a deal unless he’s convinced it’s the most beneficial course of action for him personally. He’s always been like this. Many things change, but some things never do.

“If by nothing you mean possibly another gimmick, then yes,” the woman drones, her eyes narrowed and expression sour with dislike while her eyes linger on the Italian. “You are well known for being a man who does not follow through on his word, D'Antonio.”

A clear dig at him for him doublecrossing John but you don’t have the time for their petty barbs. Dragging forward old ghosts will do nothing more than waste time and stir more animosity.

“You need us, and we need you,” you cut in, voice icy, measured. “Neither of us would be here if we could do this without the other. This is an equal risk for all parties involved. Even more so for us. You’re hidden away. We are not. So how about we skip past the empty chit chat altogether. Or talks about how evil we all are unless you prefer to waste more time. I would much rather we discuss what we’re going to do about this instead.”

John’s eyes burn into you with quiet intensity from his spot beside the Bowery King. He looks at ease but if there’s anyone alive who is an expert in tension-filled situations, it’s him.

The Director doesn’t share John’s ease. Her head tilts in your direction, dragging over your body as if she were viewing a rotting carcass. Her hands remain in her lap. She doesn’t move them. Mutely, you try to estimate out how much mobility she still has left in them, if any. If she would risk an attack. You’re all being closely monitored from the swarming shadows, this much you know. Every instinct and nerve ending in your body warns you of it. You’re also vastly outnumbered.

“Yes, the snake,” she voices, still considering you. A sound slips past her blood-red mouth. Thoughtful, a touch scornful. “Jardani has informed us of your woes. The Elder’s prized viper is to return to her master’s side. How… fitting.”

John’s head turns her way slowly. He doesn’t make a sound but the roll of something dark emitting from him is palpable in the air.

“That,” Santino responds softly, his accent cutting sharper than metal. “Will not come to pass because the High Table will soon be ash.”

“There are conditions.”

Your eyes snap to the Bowery King.

His silence isn’t to be trusted and you’re not shocked to hear his abrupt declaration.

“Such as?” Winston poses, his voice too calm, pleasant.

The King’s razor-sharp eyes remain locked on you, and you stare back, tense.

“You will help us, or the High Table will learn very quickly how naughty the viper has been,” the Bowery King explains with another little shrug. He leans back in his seat, his elbows digging into the armrests and it’s then you see the golden, elaborate design of if. It's no chair; it's a throne any king or queen would gladly sit on. “Remember our good ol’ friend Zach? The poor man has found himself quite suddenly and mysteriously dead. It would be such a pity if the Elder mysteriously learned where the magical juice to do the killing came from, don't cha think?”

Dead silence engulfs the room, suffocating everyone at the table.

The Bowery King grins; a broad, cheery shift of his mouth. It looks torturous. He still does it though. Savouring the leaden sense of doubt hanging over the room.

“Be very careful—”

“Don’t, Santino,” you interrupt his furious words. Shifting in your seat, you hum under your breath. “And you want what in return? New York?”

The Bowery King doesn’t blink, holding your intent stare again. “Why not? New order won’t be such a bad thing. You get rid of the Table for us and can go back to Italy with Mr D’Antonio. Seems to me like Camorra would be more than thrilled to have you. And I’m sure Winston can join a nice retirement home, ain’t that right? I have some lovely brochures at the back if you like.”

You can almost taste the rapidly mounting hostility in the room, festering and spreading. John’s eyes connect with yours briefly again, searching. One glance is all it takes for you to know he wasn’t aware of this. He had no idea the King was going to play this card. Hold an old favour from what feels like so long ago now against you.

It’s a smart play, this much you have to admit. Use you to get rid of the Table and give up your power in New York for a chance to walk. Leaving the city for him to take and rule. Wholly. Unchallenged.

“No.”

You puff the word out from between your lips, slumping backwards into your chair. Near slouching. Lazy.

Eyes are on you, digging and probing at your blunt, cordial refusal. The Bowery King isn’t smiling anymore.

Your head slants to one side. Curious. Innocent as his own coy acts tend to be. “There is a wonderful man named Rasin who lives in Armenia. Did you know that? He’s an amazing cook. And an even better poisoner. You see, I learn my lessons,” you inform him nonchalantly, ignoring everyone else. “I was powerless for a long time. All I could do was sit back listen. For years. Lessons from different people. Yet all brutally efficient.”

You consider the man before you, biting back the embers of rage you feel building at the back of your throat. You expected something—a play of some kind to try and collar you—but never this blatant. Or this severe.

“I always suspected something wasn’t right,” you tell him, placing your folded hands on the table. Mirroring him. “It was too easy. Too… not you to use poison on someone. You not wanting me there personally to carry out the assassination was an even bigger red flag. I did my homework of course. But it all came back clean. Perhaps too clean. The nagging suspicion did not go away so I contacted my good friend Rasin. Asked for one of his formulas in exchange for one of mine. So whatever proof you think you have on me is non-existent because it’s Rasin’s signature formula the High Table would find if they dug into this. And all you would do is expose yourself for them to look just a little bit closer. Someone who is supposed to be dead. But it goes beyond that, doesn’t it?”

Everyone is silent. The Bowery King doesn’t say a word, staring you down unblinkingly.

“See, it wasn’t until the Lovers that I fully grasped just how much deeper this goes,” you continue, and it’s almost like no one else is present in this massive space, just you and the Rat King. A challenge one on one. “My good friend Step was kind enough to dig up some old information about the Lovers and send it to me a while back. It’s while reading through their file that I stumbled upon a particular and all too familiar name. Zach Kahanek. Yet another member of the Shódigan institute. He was there at the same time the Lovers were. One of few fine establishments dotted around the world where the High Table trains and recruits new individuals under the guise of behavioural correction facilities. Mostly orphans. But Zach wasn’t an orphan, was he? A Czech father and an American mother. A mother who suffers from Pulmonary fibrosis and just so happens to live in New York. I imagine getting to her was easy for you. And this was important because Zach wasn’t just another faceless nobody at the High Table. He was your informant. Your way of always having your fingers on the beating pulse of the High Table and staying ahead. Why? Because Zach worked directly under the Elder’s brother Rafik. I know because I met him only once when I went back to Casablanca years ago. Even if I didn’t know it was him at the time. Not until I saw his picture after he was already dead. He must have been so useful. But he no doubt got too comfortable. Perhaps even tried to blackmail you back. But you don’t like loose ends, and so came an unlikely request for poison. That subtle touch you mentioned. A touch that would reassure no one suspects you and giving you a card to use against me any time you please.”

It’s so deafeningly quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even the idle chatter to have previously imbued the space has ceased.

“Am I wrong, your majesty?” you pose calmly, leaning in closer, allowing faint tendrils of mockery he’s used so often on you over the years to bleed through. “So. Before you go ahead and use an old favour as a way to manipulate or threaten me into compliance, I ask you this: can you afford to, knowing I’m going to torch your little rat nest if you so much as attempt it? Because I reassure you, I’m done being merciful.”

Because if you fail, you will see to it that he fails too. It’s then you notice it. Not on the Bowery King’s face, or John’s. Not even the Director’s who is peering at you intently, a faint whisper of surprise present in her cold regard.

Terror tinged with unease at the open threat.

It’s reflected in the faces of the guards behind the opposing trio. You’ve gotten used to the emotion. You’re so familiar with it, and while it's no novelty to you, it still startles you for a split second to see it in response to your words.

Then, follows a tinge of grim satisfaction.

Good. Let them hate as long as they fear.

You’ve always only ever wanted enough power to keep yourself safe. Free yourself one day. Nothing more. But now you can appreciate why people like Tarasov, even Santino, get so addicted to this feeling. This rush. The knowledge your enemies are disturbed by your presence alone. That what you have to say others will stand and listen.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

It’s slow, rhythmic sound. Still holding an edge of mockery to it. As does the Bowery King’s smile.

“Bravo,” he drawls unhurriedly, his arms rising in the air at either side of his head. “Guilty. My bad. You got me.”

Did I?

It nearly escapes but you don’t permit him to see the insecurity. Certainly not give him an impression of doubt.

“And what of your word?”

Your eyes jump towards the Director, her surprise from moments ago long since buried.

“My word?” you repeat.

A wry quirk of her mouth, and cold claws creep up your back at the tepid calmness on her face. The verbal advantage of moments ago once again feels precarious, endangered by the hard glare from the woman in front of you.

“You only got to Casablanca, only escaped this city, because I permitted it,” she reminds dryly. “I extended this kindness to you in good faith. You swore to never forget it. As good as a life debt, is it not? So. I ask you, snake: do you stay true to your word, or are you the type to judge others for not following through on their word to then do the same?”

Your expression tightens. You haven’t forgotten, and it was foolish of you to hope she won’t use it against you now. A part of you figured she might. John may not have been looped into this power play but it’s abundantly clear the Bowery King and the Director came prepared. No doubt having discussed all the aces they might have collected against you.

“What is it you want?” you ask eventually, not defeated but back in an impasse.

The woman shrugs, somehow managing to make the gesture appear elegant. A dancer’s grace.

“A fair deal,” she muses, her shrewd stare sliding towards Santino. “Once we deal with the High Table—together—you will cease your expansion plans. You will halt all attempts to take over the city permanently. Everyone keeps the territory they had before this mess started. We work out a new system. If you attempt any tricks, we will take it as a declaration of war. It’s more than a fair deal to ask. That is, if your word is indeed worth something.”

The final part is directed back at you and you incline back in your seat, ignoring the bubble of frustration.

It is a fair deal—more than fair. It would be nothing other than a power reset. Setting the board back to the way it was. But—

“Fine,” Santino bites out softly and you freeze. “Consider it done. Camorra will repay. Let this be another show of our good faith, no?”

It takes every shred of restraint not to turn towards him. Would he truly agree to this? To halt his ambition, take the higher road and let it go. Realistically it’s not some incredible feat of heroic sacrifice. He will still be allowed to keep what his family has owned for decades but Santino expressed a desire for more repeatedly. Has unfailingly fought for it. This is him having to swallow his pride once more. But perhaps he’s wise enough to now understand how treacherous your situation is. How fragile. How you will need every last shred of help you can get to even have a chance.

Maybe he’s finally thinking with his mind—with a Camorra boss’s mind—and not that of an impulsive man you’ve known for years.

Even the people on the other side of the table appear taken aback by his uninhibited agreement.

“Now that we have this out of the way,” Winston says, the only one to have remained entirely unmoved by the sequence of events. “Let us discuss this properly, shall we?”

“Our priority should be people we can sway to our side once main opposition is removed.”

Dario hums his acknowledgement beside you. His tall, brawny build seems to shrink the shadowy tunnel as you both stride ahead. You’re perfectly aware of the fact at least one Elite is unfailing there to meet you outside the tunnels. Unspoken support each time you need to make the journey.

While frustrating, it’s a welcome gesture of care. You’re not certain who exactly proposed it but the feeling of gratitude is sincere all the same. Because no matter how much you would prefer to act unaffected, you are. Attesting anything different would be a stupid and blatant lie.

It’s been a little over a week since your initial meeting with the Bowery King and the Director. A week since an official deal was struck. You will work together until the High Table is dismantled. After which a new system will be put into place. The nitty-gritty details of said system are still being worked out—and you’ve entrusted that particular task to your smartest and most trusted. Winston will leave no stone unturned. Nor will he be quick to cave or overlook any loopholes for the King to exploit. The latter is no doubt eager for them.

The Rat King is far from pleased, especially when you so publicly foiled his attempt to blackmail you. Distrust in him sits like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Only the reality of your situation is stopping him from retaliating, this much is clear. The High Table is a far bigger and dangerous enemy to have. You all need each other. No further weakness can be allowed. Not when you’re already reaching for the seemingly impossible. Also, you imagine John’s silent glower meant the two men had words after you departed the first meeting. The King was back to his happy, sly act the following day—as if your whole exchange from the day before never took place. You would consider it water under the bridge normally but know better than to underestimate him.

The tunnels have become your hub of planning and preparation ever since. The main den of your operation. Yet another irony not lost on you.

“Halt, snake.”

Two guards stand stoic next to the entrance of your makeshift base and you slow to a stop. Dario is silent beside you. He’s so tall, he looms over the well-built guards who seem to grasp this advantage a moment too late. The air crackles with bubbling tension.

One of the men steps forward, a cocky swagger to his movement. “I need to search you.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“New orders.”

Of course they are. They’re the Bowery King’s men. The guard reaches out, aiming for your coat but Dario gets to him first. The Elite doesn’t need to step forward outright. His reach is wide enough to close the gap in a second. He merely lays his hand on the guard’s shoulder, his stance nonthreatening, relaxed—barely a tap of his strong fingers, hardly a rustle of fabric, really. Yet the man freezes under the touch, his shoulders curving downwards.

“I suggest you rethink this, friend,” Dario speaks, his voice a distant thunder rumbling despite the allaying tone, generating whole new friction in your bones. Over his trimmed beard, Dario’s mouth barely seems to move with his words but the guard gulps regardless. “It will not end well for you.”

Against the menacing confidence of the Camorra’s strongest fighter, this man would likely last minutes, if that.

Tension coils, tightening, frizzling around the edges of everyone’s bearing. Dario’s expression is still amiable, open. You don’t need to look his way to know as much. He’s a man to forever handle his affairs with a smile and gentle logic as opposed to rage or manipulation. For this alone, you always understood why Giovanni valued Dario so much. Much needed tranquillity in a sea of fighters with oftentimes loud and overbearing personalities.

“We’re allies,” you remind the two guards coolly. “Unless you forgot?”

Your attention settles on the man behind the first and he shakes his head, a touch frantic. “Uh—no. I mean, yes. Allies. Go right ahead. We were just joking around, right Mike?”

Not lingering, you push past them, trusting Dario to follow you. He does. You just catch his deceptively light pat on Mike’s shoulder before he steps around him. For such a larger than life, notable figure, Dario moves lightly on his feet. Perks of being a killer moulded by years of hard training at Camorra.

He falls against your side in a single stride. “More baiting,” he notes quietly.

You nod. Both parties have been testing limits and prodding. The situation is tense. It’s to be expected in hindsight. Yet it’s still irksome to experience. People and egos. It’s hard to operate when you barely tolerate each other but necessity still binds you together.

“Keep an eye on them,” you order, eyes sweeping over individuals present in the main room. “I know we have our individual tasks but don’t drop your guard. Especially around the Rat King.”

Dario’s answer is swift, low and measured, “You think they will try to betray us.”

Not a question. He’s far more perceptive than people give him credit for.

Your eyes flicker to him, then around you. “I think right now we’re useful to him. But it’s use with an expiry date.”

“Would he really risk open war?”

Over the hard edge of his muscular arm, you catch a glimpse of Step plugged in a dark corner of the den. He’s been tasked with gathering as much information about all the members of the High Table as he can. Everything from their habits, locations of interest and, of course, trying to determine how deep their loyalty to the Table runs.

Your suggestion was simple: split the Table into two groups, those who would never choose to see a new way of things, and those who may be swayed. Taking on the entire might of the Table, once mobilised to its full extent, would be nigh impossible. You’re not stupid enough to assume you could attempt it even with the additional advantage of the Ruska Roma and the Bowery now at your disposal. But you just need to weaken the Table enough for others to start doubting. Make sure they listen when you present your case.

“We’ll see,” you say, giving him a distracted pat on the arm. “Keep your eyes open.”

Dario follows your line of sight with a discreet glance over his shoulder and offers a tiny nod. Understanding shines in his eyes and he continues on your original path without another word while you veer towards Step.

The hacker doesn’t react when you tap him on the shoulder, a lollipop sliding from one cheek to another. It sometimes takes a while for Step to detach from the task at hand. With that in mind, you lean against the table with a cross of your arms over your chest and wait. This position offers you a complete view of the rest of the room. People seem to be in motion wherever your attention wanders and you bite back a sigh. This is about as private as you can hope for right now. If anything the prep has only intensified in this last week, bringing more people around.

Your window of opportunity keeps shrinking and there’s still a mountain of things to account for and prep.

Step finally snaps out of his daze with a few more clicks against the laptop keys.

“Pretty good security,” he muses in Italian, his voice raspy with disuse. No humour. Just intense focus is evident in his demeanour today. His face rests pallid and smudges under his eyes are more prominent than when you saw him last. Worry lances through your heart but pointing out his poor appearance and clear exhaustion would be futile. Step would resent it and you’re hardly in a position to comment when you look just as bad if not worse. “Not like it matters though.”

Icy, absentminded words. Step enjoys a challenge but a real challenge drives him to a far more focused, chilling version of himself. It’s then he seems to spot you, or at least register your presence proper. A grin splits his cheeks at once and he pulls out his lollipop, his lips and tongue tinged with deep purple. Wide and toothy, and there’s just enough lightness in his baby blues for you to discern the sincerity in the gesture. Rare as it is.

“V! You look awful, amica,” he concludes promptly, his eyebrows pinching. “And that’s coming from me.”

Something close to dying does that to you lingers behind your teeth but you swallow it down. Self-pity is not going to get you anywhere right now.

“How is it going?” you wonder instead, purposely in Italian.

Step shrugs, gives his lollipop a distrait lick while his eyes follow the code reflecting back at him. It makes little sense to you but Step follows every flicker with keen interest.

“Triad paid, uh, pretty penny? Yeah, that’s the one. Very, very good money to make sure no one can dig up anything,” he explains, popping the lollipop back into his mouth to type a sequence at rapid speed. “It’s layered protection. Firewalls to make the wall of China look…tiny.”

He squints, still half-distracted with whatever is on his screen and your shoulders tense, reading his colder edge differently now.

“Slyfer?”

His old cybercrime syndicate. One of the few still capable of pushing Step like this. It would make sense for Triads to employ one of the very best in the world to protect themselves and their dealings. Everything in today’s modern age leaves a digital trail, Step taught you this himself. It’s simply a matter of having the patience to dig deep enough, and knowing how to without leaving a trail leading back to you.

You hear Step’s teeth crack around the lollipop at that word. A crunch of bone and hard candy. Jarring and too loud, it drowns out the gentle whirl of laptop fans. The bite flexes his jaw, stilling his long fingers over the keyboard briefly. Darkness washes over his face for a blink-and-you-miss-it second.

Then, Step laughs. Cheery and lighthearted. Brittle, near acidic undertone is present despite his effort to hide the contempt. This time his laughter rings false. Nothing but needles against your skin.

“Possibly.”

Which doesn’t answer your question but you don’t push him. Not with the tightness of his slim shoulders or the painfully hard way he chews the lollipop until only the stick remains.

Shifting gears, you change the subject, “Any rumours?”

He’s still stiff with agitation but his voice sounds bright and animated as always, “Oh, always,” he answers conversationally, clicks repeatedly on the backspace button before sloping backwards in his chair. His hands lock behind his head almost causing his sunglasses to slide off the top of his head. “They don’t like you. But they also fear you. So nice job. The big man especially doesn’t like you but apparently your Baba Yaga wasn’t very pleased with his threats the other day. They exchanged words. Nice thought from the Boogeyman but kinda stupid. Rat man will absolutely try to stab you the second you stop serving his purpose now. We live in a world of beasts. And he does not like the idea of no longer being the alpha. Nasty man but a smart one. He thinks you’re too much of a threat now.”

“Just because my poison—”

Step clicks his tongue. Waves his hand dismissively. “Nope, nah, nay. That’s not it. Goes way beyond poison now.”

Your arms loosen, eyebrows drawing together. “What do you—”

“Vipress!”

Your head snaps over Step’s shoulder, arms loosening and falling back to your sides. The Bowery King has entered the space, grinning and gesturing for you to come closer while he stands by his boards.

“Join us.”

His voice booms, echoing. John’s black-clad figure hovers just behind him and you loosen a breath.

“Better run along,” Step drawls pointedly, stretching his hands over his head, adding a more subdued, “Don’t trust him. Stick by Baba Yaga. He’s the only one here beside us not wondering how pretty your head would look on a stick right now.”

You don’t offer a reply to his words or point out how you never trusted the King for a multitude of reasons. Patting him lightly on the shoulder, you push away, cutting across the room. People brush past you, all focused on their own tasks. Your and John’s eyes connect for a second and you offer him a weak smile. A lacklustre effort but it’s all you can muster up right now. He gives you a wordless nod but by his standard, he appears worried. There’s a shadow, a tightness, to his features as he picks apart your exhausted mien.

“I have a little present for you,” the Bowery King declares in a greeting, stabbing his finger towards your chest.

It doesn’t make contact and he’s lucky it doesn’t. Instinctively your mouth twists and his slight, biting grin widens. His arm drops to his side but your edgy reaction has been noted and filed away.

Bristling, you bite out a restrained, “What is it?”

The man inclines towards the same large table you all sat around only a week prior and gestures towards a scattering of images. “Have a look.”

You peek at John who shows no outward reaction and you take that as a go-ahead. Taking a few cautious steps forward, you let your fingertips flutter over the images, spreading them across the wooden surface.

Most of the faces staring back at you awash you with a sense of familiarity; a nagging, persistent sensation of knowing but not being able to put your finger on it.

“The current High Table Spares,” John offers helpfully, his voice subdued.

Exhaling, you nod your head in mute understanding, spreading the photos further across the surface. You linger on certain individuals longer than others. Faces of the current active seat holders are already hung on a board behind you. In order of threat. These are the faces who might make a difference in the long run. Who you need to bend to your side.

Your fingers slide towards the final two photographs and your heart stutters at the sight awaiting you.

Two very familiar men peer back at you.

The Elder’s face. Rafik’s face.

Both solemn-faced and younger, staring back at you as if they could reach through the glossy photograph and snatch you. Drag you to them and away from home. You nearly flinch away, your breath locking in your lungs. Controlling the quiver in your limbs, you ease back, your glare immediately latching onto the Bowery King.

“Where did you get these?”

The King casts an innocent look your way. “Our mutual friend.”

Zach. Of course.

From your peripheral, John fidgeting fingers catch your notice. Namely his missing finger. His missing wedding ring. Avoiding his stare, you instead examine the two photos closer. Your chest hurts to do so but seeing these faces once more, now knowing what you do, brews a storm of emotions you find hard to articulate even to yourself. Something fierce and harsh, boiling and scalding with its intensity.

Rafik would have known. He’s the one person whom the Elder trusts completely. His betrayal hurts no less despite you being nowhere near as close or familiar. Did he try to stop his brother? Questioned him? Or did he help him orchestrate each nightmare personally?

No wonder he was so eager to meet you back then. To learn more about you when he visited. Unearth why his brother is so taken with a girl from nowhere with nothing.

A man who you foolishly thought cared for you. Considered you a friend, at least.

You did this to me. You hurt me. Why? Why? Why?

A wail of question burns your throat and tongue, chipping at your teeth.

Elder’s grave depiction offers no answers. No commiseration.

Someone calls the Bowery King’s name but you barely register it, a blur of a sound, focused on the pictures as you are. Pressure gathers against the back of your skull, your vision smearing at the edges. It’s only after the man departs that John edges closer. His black-clad frame dear and soothing in its own way.

“I won’t let him take you.”

Such simple words. Yet nothing about this situation is simple.

“I know,” you say calmly.

Because it’s kinder. Because lying is becoming so much easier than it should be. Pointing out how failure will result in all your deaths seems futile right now. Or maybe the Elder would keep you alive. For his own amusement. For whatever purpose he kept you alive all these years.

The Elder’s prized viper is to return to her master’s side.

His words about you being equals sound like mockery now. How could he ever expect you to be equals when he did this to you? Scars—mental, physical and spiritual mar you, they will until you die. And it’s his fault. Others broke you over and over again, and it’s his fault.

The Elder’s face distorts—

“V.”

John is there in the next heartbeat. His warm breath fans one side of your cheek, his fingers gripping your elbow securely. You feel numb. Too cold and too hot all over. You blink your eyes but everything swims. Scratchy. Too loud. Your skin feels too tight. Air too dry and stuffy.

The world is coming undone at the seams.

Shit—

“V, you’re bleeding,” John states tightly, a rare note of urgency in his low voice. His hand reaches for your face and it’s then you register hot wetness over your upper lip. Streaking downwards. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Calluses of John’s hand scrape against the side of your face and you inhale through your mouth, tasting copper in your windpipe. Hands shaking, you reach for your face, wiping blindly. Your nose feels heavy, numb.

Shit, not now.

No response prompts John to pull you closer, practically tucking you to him. You turn your head from his grip, your heart hammering in your chest. He can’t see. He can’t fucking know. You’re out in the open. Anyone spying right now might simply conclude it’s some intimate moment you’re both sharing but panic swells in your gut.

“V—”

“I’m fine,” you choke out. Wipe at your nose again. Read smears against your sleeve. Your head pounds like a war drum, thrumming through every cell and crevice of your body. “Just…I was testing something…earlier. New formula. Must be a side effect.”

John’s eyebrows knit together. Dark eyes probing. “I’ve never seen something like this happen.”

“How would you know?” you snap back, jerking your elbow out of his hold. “You weren’t there for years. Things change.”

Regret is immediate. It lashes across your heart and you shake your head, your eyes lowering. Dabbing at your face again, you mutter an apologetic, “I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I didn’t mean it. I—it’s been a stressful month.”

“It’s fine.”

You lift your eyes to him, taking him in. He’s still close enough to touch and you clear your throat when you realise he doesn’t intend to move away. “It’s not fine,” you rebuke mildly, pointedly glancing away from him. “Stress is no excuse for lashing out. This is just a blip, don’t worry. I feel fine.”

You don’t. You feel minutes away from crumpling on the floor and never getting up. But at least the momentary spell has passed. Blood flow has ceased, leaving you breathing cautiously. The most likely cause is a spike of stress or lack of rest, or both.

John doesn’t seem to buy your reassurance. A faint, concerned frown rests across the planes of his face. Once it might have prompted a snarky comment from you to lighten up but right now you can’t draw up enough energy for jokes.

“Get some rest,” he insists lowly. “Take care of yourself.”

He raises his hand, his thumb brushing gently over your chin. You gulp down another shaky breath at the contact. Painfully familiar as it is foreign.

“Blood,” he says softly in a way of explanation.

Yes, blood. Blood and things unsaid. It’s a language you and John have always spoken the best.

“Can I speak with you?”

The air around Santino D’Antonio seemingly cools by several degrees, his team pausing mid-discussion around him. His right hand, Ares, glares holes into him and John tries and fails to quell the bite of guilt. He came so close to ending her life, would have done it too. One day he may have a conversation with her as well. Survival or not, he would prefer to make it clear it was never a fight born out of a desire to end her life.

Santino’s back remains to him, the man in no rush to show his hand, but John doesn’t let this deter him. He, himself, would rather not be doing this if he had much of a choice. But the necessity of this conversation has become unavoidable. If not for himself, then at least you.

You’ve been under too much stress. He’s certain that the palpable friction and dangerous atmosphere of unease every time he and Santino are in the same space attributes to it. Constantly being on edge about the mounting animosity between both sides has pushed you right in the middle of it. Tearing you in two.

After earlier, after seeing the steady gush of scarlet, John feels only dread. He’s seen how little things as such add up. Tiny abnormalities you don’t pay enough heed towards until it’s far too late. He lost Helen this way. Cruelly. Without enough time to prepare for goodbye.

He’s not going to let his past take you as well. He’s done giving it that power. Oversight is not going to rule him again. What happened on the rooftop had hurt but at least now he sees the necessity of what transpired.

Santino shifts, inclining his body as if to check if John is still there. “Leave us.”

The Camorra Elites—two of them, Strength and the Sharpshooter—exchange glances but obey a second later. Santino’s second in command does not move, and it requires an additional, cool call of Ares from the new Head of Camorra before the woman stalks away. Her glare cuts into John when she passes him. He doesn't doubt she will only go far enough to provide them with privacy but no further.

“Johnathan.”

His name whistles past Santino’s teeth like a fine curse. The Italian faces him at long last, his suit missing and white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. John’s attention involuntarily snags on Santino’s head, the scars left behind by the bullet with which he nearly ended the man’s life.

A green storm brews in Santino’s eyes too. No doubt close, if not on the same, trail of thought.

“I was hoping we could…discuss what happened.”

The man before him scoffs, a muted sound but a nevertheless withering one. “Oh? I’m thrilled. Truly. Do sit. I’m sure this will be riveting.”

John moves to do exactly that. He has his piece to say, and then if Santino never speaks another word to him, that’s fine.

He waits till they’re both seated before starting, “I don’t expect forgiveness.”

Santino doesn’t so much as blink. “Good. Because you’re certainly not getting it.”

“You betrayed me,” John states frankly. “And put a contract on my head. What choice did I have?”

Santino’s mouth hooks into an ironic half-smile. “Why are you here, John, hm? I have nothing to say to you.”

John lets his hands fold over the table. His missing finger makes for a grotesque sight. Though he supposes they’ve both lost something since they last saw each other. Payment for their individual mistakes.

Instead, he discloses the only truth that matters. “I’m not doing this for you.”

Understanding glints in Santino’s eyes, his features stirring with dry amusement. He likely suspected it already but having it confirmed is different.

“Ah. Hoping to win back some broken trust?” he probes with an impatient tap of his fingers against the table.

John feels a distinct pang of surprise at the lack of mocking or gloating in the question. There’s only genuine curiosity mixed with dislike Santino doesn’t bother hiding. He’s grateful for it. He would much rather they’re open with each other when it comes to this.

“I don’t expect us to be friends, Santino,” he states bluntly. “But I know you care for her. You’re doing this for her. Risking it all. You see what I see. We can remain civil so she doesn’t have to fret every time we’re in the same room together.”

The Italian peers at him for a tense beat, visibly mulling over his words. His head slants away, pensive. John doesn’t know if he should be relieved Santino is genuinely giving this thought or not. He just hopes that for once they can find common ground. Just this once. If nothing else, he has to trust that a man who doesn’t compromise for anyone will this time. For you. If not then they're both running a risk of losing you.

Santino’s stare drags back to him. He appears blasé but there’s a certain coldness to his voice when he speaks, “Fine. For her. Anything else?”

John almost stands to his feet and says no. Almost. But the truth is there is one thing on his mind. It crawls to the forefront of his thoughts every time he sees you and the Italian together. One would need to be blind to miss the way Santino looks at you. As if you are the sun and he won’t mind going blind as long as he gets the chance to continue gazing at you. It’s familiar to John. The compulsion. He’s stolen many such glances in the past. Even if it was another time, another life.

“I know I’ve done her wrong,” he finds himself admitting, a heavy ring of defeat stark in his voice. It’s never an easy task to acknowledge mistakes or face them but he’s done repeating the same pattern of error. “But one day I will regain her trust. If such a day comes, if she forgives me, if she chooses me…will you let her go?”

He’s never allowed himself to consider it before for many reasons. So much has transpired between you that the mere thought of acceptance tastes sweet. Even if you never regain what you once had, if you never let him close again—nor does he expect it, not after everything—he just needs hope of something. A promise he will have you in his life in some shape or form. John knows full well it’s a tall order after the last several months. But you, yourself, once told him how when you have nothing you have to believe in something, and he chooses to believe in this. In you.

Santino watches him watch him, utterly silent. John waits for some reaction—be it anger or bitterness. Instead, the Camorra family head remains still, his very being drawn. Walled off.

“I’ve known her for six years,” he responds softly, his voice near absentminded. “Six years of thinking of her as everything from a convenience to a partner. My friend. Years of envying you. Of wondering what it would be like to taste but a shred of the love she has for you, hm? As much as I would love to put a bullet in your head, John, I want her happy more. So yes, if she chose you, I would let her go. I waited for her for years, and I’ll always wait for her.”

Because you love her.

John can sense it in his bones. He’s suspected it for a while but as they sit together in fraught silence, he knows it for a fact. Somewhere along the way, Santino D’Antonio fell in love. He won’t be risking his empire for anything less than the most important person in the world for him. Santino is ready to lose it all, and it’s a choice John respects and more than understands. He gave it all up for love once too.

“Are you not going to ask me?”

A twitch of his mouth. “Ask you what?”

John stares at the man and ponders if he’s playing some game after all or if… “If I will do the same if she chooses you?”

Once more he waits for some reaction: a laugh, a sneer, a deride comment. But Santino only looks back at him solemnly, and looks, and understanding dawns on John in hushed seconds of quiet between them.

“You don’t think she will.”

Only calm acceptance greets his verbal assumption and John blinks. Then silently questions how Santino can be so blind to what he—and others—can see so clearly.

“You were there for her when I wasn’t,” he finds himself reminding the man. And he’s not sure why. Reassuring Santino is the last thing John figured he would be doing when he made the decision to approach him. “Shared struggles and stood by her. If I know V at all those are not things she will ever forget. She cares for you. It’s far from the indifference you think she’s stuck in.”

He sees it. Even if he wishes he didn’t. Because it still aches. Deep down. A throb he has to physically readjust himself from every time to shake. He keeps reminding himself it’s not his place to feel any type of way about you being with Santino. He left, built a life of his own. He would have felt far worse if those five years had brought no one new into your life. The dread of being alone is the one fear he always saw most distinctly in you. He still hates himself for fueling said fear.

“Are we done here?”

Despite all he said, Santino’s cast remains icy. His words have made no difference. Whatever doubt, whatever acceptance Santino has settled on, it’s far-reaching. Sheathed deep in his heart. John doubts he could change the Italian’s mind even if he endeavoured to, and it would be cruel of him to try. Given the topic at hand. It would be far simpler if John could believe the one-sided nature of your and Santino’s relationship the way the man himself seems to.

But John knows what he saw. What witnessing Santino getting shot did to you. How hard you fought for him.

“Yeah,” he grunts in reply, understanding the futility of his attempts when faced with the walls Santino has erected so high. “We’re done.”

Evening draws swiftly. Hours blur into one another seemingly in blinks, and by the time nightfall embraces New York, you’re still back at the den, still working and planning. Others have long since drifted off towards their own destinations, focusing on their own tasks.

Your feet haven’t carried you past the main target board. Now complete with all the new additions. Arms crossed, you lean against the table behind you, still covered in scatterings of information and plans. Dates and times all drafting up potential attack scenarios. Weighting weaknesses against strengths. Who would be best suited for which target.

Triads and Bratva will be the biggest obstacle to overcome. John volunteered to handle the latter personally but an equal amount of consideration and opposition has to be thrown towards the former.

Exhaustion pulls at the corners of your eyes. After your earlier episode a dull ache has settled between your temples; a throbbing, irksome thing. An unnecessary distraction. Despite your debility, you don’t head back to the hotel or penthouse just yet, instead allowing yourself to drink in the sight around you.

People who should never be able to work together, striking an unease truce. It may be temporary but it’s still union which would have been difficult to comprehend only a month prior. Your eyes snag on Santino who stands between Dario and Ares, in deep discussion with both. A heavy furrow sits between his brows and the yellow tinge of the table light bathes his lean figure. He’s convinced he can strike a deal and turn Cosa Nostra and Ndrangheta to your side. Both have been allies to Camorra almost as often as they’ve been foes but Santino is hard to argue out of an idea once he’s set on it. Not to mention the turn of those two groups would be a massive boon to your efforts.

He, much like you, is banking on others like him who may have been overlooked once. Those who were shunned or not given a chance due to prejudices or the power dynamics of the Table itself.

And yet.

“You should tell him.”

Swiping your palm against your forehead, you grumble a weary, “Anything else, Hector?”

“Nice to see you too,” he bites back, settling on your left with a quiet scuff of shoes against concrete.

A wet crunch sounds and you turn to him, eyebrows rising at the massive bite he takes from an apple sitting snug in his hand. Only one bite yet it makes half the fruit disappear in a blink.

“It can wait.”

Hector swallows. His leather jacket creeks as he lowers his arm slowly, giving you a narrowed-eyed look. “Until when? Until your insides are oozing out of every available crevice? Or until you’re dead?”

Your muscles coil, tensing under your skin, followed by a rushed sweep over the space around you.

“Feel free to shout it a little louder,” you hiss, a snarl starting to form. “I’m not sure everyone present quite heard you the first time.”

“You’re being pissy because you know I’m right,” he rebukes swiftly, his features set. “How long till this shit starts affecting your abilities, huh? Your normal day to day function? When you cost someone else their life because you can’t react fast enough you really think you’re not going to eat yourself alive over it? I don’t think so.”

You force your head away, unable to handle the digging stare he’s levelled on you. Or the stinging truth of his words. “I’ll find a way,” you mutter tightly.

You stay likes this for a few minutes, both silent. Your eyes slide over the board again. Over your targets. The pyramid of control. Eventually, they settle at the top. Linger there.

The Elder.

His face peers back at you wordlessly. An ancient, terrible being. A phantom of your life. Your creator.

“You know I saw Giovanni and Emilia together only twice before she was killed,” Hector suddenly speaks up, his words near idle. Another crunch of the apple. Chewing. Swallow. “I was still a brat. New blood in Camorra’s darling care home. But to this day, I’ve never seen a man love a woman as much as Giovanni loved Emilia. He would have burned this world to ash and built it back up in her image if she wished.”

A shiver skitters down your back at his casual words. They ring far too close to the same words Gianna imparted on you before she died.

“Santino is exactly like his father. Only so much more dangerous because he inherited every bit of wildness and fire his mother was known for,” Hector continues at your silence. You feel him turn towards you, his hard glare burning into your temple. “Your love has effectively created a ticking time bomb and I know exactly how this shit ends because I’ve seen it once before. Giovanni died with Emilia. One day, you will have birthed a fucking monster into this world and it will be your doing. Is that how little he matters to you, huh? Next time you think some bullshit like it can wait, you think on that, sweetheart.”

A needle wedges in your throat, your attention momentarily flitting to the man in question. Would he truly become nothing more than another Giovanni if you died? You want to disagree, defend him, assert that Santino may be like his father but he’s far from being the same man. He’s proved as much numerous times already and yet…

And yet.

Your attention drags back towards the board. Towards those dark, watchful eyes. They never seem to let you go. Even now. Visage alone holds power. The hurricane inside your chest is barely suppressed even with the calm now cloaking you. Yet you’re still too afraid to prod at it lest it escapes.

Forcing down the lump stuck in your throat, you instead manage a strained, “As long as I wear this ring…”

Searching for the right words, you let your fingers fold into a fist, the Camorra ring standing out starkly on your hand. “You still answer my command, right?”

Hector grunts. You’re not sure if it’s in thought or out of annoyance you dismissed everything he just disclosed. “In theory. What did you have in mind?”

Your attention remains glued to the Elder’s picture. Mapping features of a man holding the world in his hand with cruel interest. Hunter assessing prey.

It began with you, and it has to end with you, doesn’t it?

“There’s a saying,” you begin, your words a slow rasp. “That if you can make God bleed people will cease to believe in him.”

You feel Hector follow your line of sight, focusing on the pinned image as well. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what you’re getting at.

“You don’t think this will work, huh?” he poses. A beat, then a more morose, “What are you planning?”

Even with your advantage, even if other seats fold, even if you win this fight for control—he will always remain victorious. Will always hold power over everyone. He’s the symbol of who the High Table is. While he governs others will always fear him above any notion of a new start. He’s too ingrained into the very foundation of the Table, too in control.

Ends justify the means.

Elder wasn’t wrong. They will this time too.

The murky feeling you had prior intensifies, clears, crystallising into new resolve inside your ribcage. One last fight. Hector wasn’t wrong, either. Your body will only serve you so far. In this fight, you will deteriorate to an exploitable disadvantage soon enough. Your fight was never meant to be here, with the rest of the High Table. There’s enough talent here to handle them. You trust others to do it.

Your path was always meant to lead you back to him after all. He said so himself.

“We’re going to cut off the head of the snake.”

. . .

an:

and then there were five.

thank you so, so much for still being here. this year has been incredibly taxing on me and very dark in many places. the idea of people still eagerly waiting and sticking by this story warms my heart more than you know. my fragile plan IS to finish this story before this year ends so we shall see how that pans out. but thankfully this is the last of the "boring" chapters that, while a pain to write, are necessary to give us a breather from chapters 17/18 & set up this final stretch of the story. and come next chapter, I think many of you will much rather we stayed here : ) see you then, and as always, any thoughts/theories/questions/reactions are very welcome!!! love you all & hope you're all well

oh, also! if you're confused as to who Zach is, please reread chapter 5. don't you love waiting for 15 chapters for a payoff to one tiny set up : )

[rae-gar-targaryen]

I have to thank you for introducing me to COA when you reblogged the masterlist - you were not kidding when you said it was a masterpiece! I have literally never been so blown away by a fic before it is incredible

I am SO excited you're reading it as well! I am LOVING it. @luxurybeskar and I have been screaming about it for a few days.

It's one of the most layered, visceral, mind-blowing, angsty and beautiful fics ice ever read. It is something special.

I don't know how far you are in it, so I don't want to spoil it. But I'm like SO curious about how it's all gonna end, who the endgame ship is. But it's so beyond just the romance aspect. I want V (the reader) to be her most happy.

And I will never again feel bad, or let anyone make me feel bad, about writing a 12k oneshot or a 9k chapter. 30somethingk chapters?????

If anyone is curious, read "children of ares" by @the-darklings here (john wick x reader fic, tw: lots of violence)

[weclassygirl]

Almost forgot 😅🥺

Posted it on discord already but it won't hurt to be put here as well 🥺

Happy 1 Year Anniversary to the most amazing piece of writing I ever read and the stunning person I got to know behind it @the-darklings 💚❤️💚❤️

[xxlovingfandomsxx]

Ill Timed Confessions

Paring: OC! V x Santino D’Antonio

Warnings: death, gunshot wound, nothing but pain 😭

Word Count: 1,429 

A/N: This is an AU for the ending of chapter 13 of one of the most amazing stories, called Children of Ares written by the talented @the-darklings​ If you haven’t read COA yet, you really should, it’s a masterpiece. But anyway, I’m sorry for the pain that you’re probably going to experience from this and I hope you enjoy the ride, I guess? 

Clara races to the Continental, her lungs aching for air and her limbs screaming for rest be damned. Ares’ words still running through her head, he loves you, gives her another burst of speed as she finally lays her eyes on those familiar doors.

Clara runs straight through the lobby where she spots Charon who manages to get out the word lounge before she starts barreling towards her destination, a feeling of unease and worry flow through her as she pushes herself to run like her life depended on it.

I’m coming grumpy, hold on

Clara repeats her mantra over and over until she sees the warm and welcoming light of the lounge. She’s finally reached the top of the stairs when she hears Winston’s wary voice “Johnathan… just walk away” 

At that moment, Clara realizes that no matter what Winston said, no matter what anyone said or did, he won't stop.

John can't stop, she knows that now, she’s always known that he won’t ever stop, he's too determined to place a bullet between Santino’s eyes. Time stops as she comes to a decision, the finality settling deep in her gut, a gentle calmness washes through her body as she slides down the banister.

“Yeah Johnathan,” Santino starts, in a mocking tone, “Just walk-” 

BANG

A harsh quiet fills the room, a sudden unexpected stillness that has left the three men utterly speechless as they watch the scene unfold before them with looks of terror and complete shock.

Clara stumbles a bit as she tries to grasp onto the table for balance. She clutches onto the wound as she looks towards Santino, his normal expression of a cool, arrogant heir gone, an expression of pure terror replacing it.

Clara reaches out for his face, smoothing out his furrowed eyebrows, “I told you I’d come for you” She gives him a weak smile as she finally collapses, her injuries and fatigue finally catching up with her.

Multiple things happen at once, Santino reacts the fastest, jumping out of his seat to get to her. Winston struggling to keep his composure in check, John standing absolutely still, staring at the spot Clara was just occupying.

I shot her

Santino gently gathers her into his arms, “Amore, can you hear me? Open your eyes please? For me?” He watches as she struggles to open her eyes and sets her gaze on Santino’s face.

“Grumpy, are you alright?” She reaches for his face and he leans his cheek into her open palm, savoring the familiar burn of her touch. “Don’t worry about me cara mia, you just focus on keeping your eyes open, Hm?” 

He frantically looks around the room until eyes land on John, fury burning in his eyes. “Look at what you’ve done! This is all YOUR FAULT!” He starts to yell in sharp Italian while an unmoving John finally lays his eyes on Clara.

I shot her

Running footsteps can be heard barreling down the stairs as Ares and the Elites made their way onto the scene. Ares does a quick sweep of the room and lands her gaze on her boss yelling at John. She slowly moves her gaze unto the body in Santino’s arms and her eyes widen as she realizes who it is.

She slowly makes her way to them, her eyes burning and slowly filling with unshed tears. Clara notices her first, a small smile on her face as she sees Ares inching her way towards them. 

Clara struggles to lift her hands to speak to Ares, Santino stopping his yelling to look in the same direction as her. “Ares, grazie a Dio, I need your help… Clara was shot and she needs a doctor. You have to go find one before it's too late.”

“Grumpy-”

“No cara mia, try to stay still, we’ll get you help. What are you all just standing around for… GO GET HELP!” He yells in italian. 

“Santino, look at me… Please?” Santino finally gets a good look at Clara, eyes starting to fill with tears as he met her gaze, surprised to see a loving gaze staring back at him.

“I think I have to break another promise to you grumpy, I don't think I’m gonna make it to Paris with you” She let out a sigh, her breathing growing heavier as she continues to lose blood.

She gives him a teary smile “I don’t regret it, taking the bullet for you, so don’t beat yourself over it when I’m gone okay? Don’t do anything stupid either because I won’t be able to save you next time” She inhales deeply, Santino feels a few tears slip out and cascade down his cheek. 

“I promise to try not to do anything stupid amore mio” He grabs onto her hand laying against his cheek as he feels it starting to slip.

“Ares, you know how Santino manages to attract danger wherever he goes so you have to make sure he’s safe okay?” Ares manages to sign a weak I promise before she falls to her knees beside them, tears falling down her face as she gazes upon the closest thing she had to family, struggling to breathe.

“I left a letter for you in my room, Cha-Charon will be able to retrieve it for you” She inhales another sharp breath. Clara feels moisture on her cheeks, she gives her Santi a teary eyed smile.

“I know that you lo-love me grumpy,” He looks startled by the confession,”I don’t know how you managed to do it but you snuck your way into my he-heart” He lets out a shaky breath.

“What-what are you saying cara?” Clara sighs, “You’d have me be weak in front of you Santi?” She teased, he gave her a flash of a smile, “I-I,  I love you Santino D’Antonio… I’m sorry for the crappy timing.” They both let out a weak chuckle.

“I’m sorry it’s taken you so long to hear it.” He shakes his head, “I would’ve waited for a lifetime if it meant you would have said it. Oh amore mio, I-” He takes in a sharp breath, trying not to let the dam break, “Clara, te amo… Ti amo con tutto il cuore” He whispers the last part, making sure that only she heard it.

Clara smiles and feels a warm type of feeling spread through her chest, the feeling disappearing as fast as it spread leaving her feeling numb. Santino leans down and leaves a kiss on her forehead, gently bumping it against his own. 

She leaned forward a bit, her lips ghosting Santino's, he could feel her weak exhales this close. With his heart practically pounding out of his chest, he closes the distance and finally kisses the love of his life.

Santino feels a warmness spread throughout his body, along with a sense of relief, having learned that she did love him back. He pulled away reluctantly, cursing his lungs for their need of oxygen. 

He felt her hand slip from his face and frantically looked back into her eyes. "Amore?" The light in her eyes dimmed as she managed a final adoring smile, Santino watching in anguish as she exhales for the last time, slipping into death's cold embrace.

"Cara mia?" Santino shakes her once "Clara? Wake up, amore, wake up" He shakes her again, a bit more forcefully. "Clara don't leave me please don't leave me" Santino feels the dam break, all his unshed tears making their way down his face, falling onto her cheek.

He repeats it over and over, wake up, shaking and tears streaming down his face. Ares trying to pull him away, finally succumbing to her grief as she leans onto Santino's shoulder. 

Winston, still struggling with his emotions, makes his way over to them, gently grasping onto Santino's shoulder as his sobs grew louder. The finality of Clara's death sweeping through the room, not a dry eye in sight. 

John sitting himself onto a chair, tears in his eyes as he realizes he killed the only other person he ever cared about in the world, Charon finally making his way into the lounge, taking in the scene before him, a look of sadness crosses his face as he inches closer. 

Santino doesn't let go of Clara until she's safely placed on a gurney, attaching himself to Ares as his grief and anger take over and he dry heaves into her neck as they try to comfort each other, knowing full well that they may never recover from this devastating loss of their beautiful viper.

[kieli13]

I finished chapter 17 of @the-darklings COA series. A MASTERPIECE. Go check her out!!

I am now an Elder x V shipper. 👌🏼🐍🐍 ...as well as V x Santi. So 🤷🏻‍♀️ we’ll see who wins.

[eyyitsaisyah]

Ｎｏｗ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｔｈｅ　Ｖｉｐｒｅｓｓ　ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ．

Fic - Children of Ares by @the-darklings​

My interpretation of how V looks like.

I hope y’all like it. 

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

Master List - Part 2

Started: 8 May 2022

Last Updated: 8 September 2024

Total Works: 79

I don't own nor do I claim to own any of the characters or fandoms below. The only things I own are my stories and some more of my work can be found here on AO3.

Click me for part 3 of my master list.

John Wick

Multichapter Fics

John Wick

Competition for a heart (Avengers Crossover, Greek Champions AU)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

The Avengers

Multichapter Fics

Helmut Zemo

Hunting Roses (yandere Helmut Zemo)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Werewolf By Night

Drabbles

Jack Russell: 1 2 3 4

Miscellaneous

Drabbles & Mini Fics

Ares (Wonder Woman)

Mini Fic #1

The Master (Doctor Who)

Drabble 1

Jango Fett (Star Wars)

Drabble #2

Max Phillips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

Drabble #3

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Drabble #4

Otto Octavius/Dr Octopus (Spider-Man)

Drabble #6

Drabble #7

Request #1

Request #3

Request #4

Request #6

Multichapter fics:

The Bond Unbroken: 1

Norman Osborn/Green Goblin (Spider-Man)

Request #2

Request #5

Request #7

Dr Zachary Smith (Lost In Space, 1998)

Mystery of dreams and reality

Norman Stansfield (Leon: The Professional)

Mystery of dreams and reality - part 2

Mystery of dreams and reality - part 5

Alistair Russell (The Woman In The Window)

Mystery of dreams and reality - part 3

Father Solomon (Red Riding Hood)

Mystery of dreams and reality - part 4

Dracula (Bram Stoker's Dracula)

Mystery of dreams and reality - part 4

Sirius Black (Harry Potter)

One Step Series - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Severus Snape (Harry Potter)

The Danger of Devotion - 1

Marvel/OUAT

Sinister Strange/Reader/Jafar

Something Magical

Chapter 1 Preview

1, 2, 3, 4

Buffy The Vampire Slayer

Multichapter Fics

Rupert Giles

The One With the Fight (Parts 1 & 2)

The One Where Ethan Rayne Returns - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

The One With the Switch

The Vampire Diaries/The Originals

Multichapter Fics

Mikael Mikaelson

Battle Lines: 1, 2

Elijah Mikaelson

Yandere Elijah Mikaelson ask

Yandere Elijah Mikaelson Fluff Alphabet

Klaus Mikaelson

Yandere Klaus Mikaelson ask

Yandere Klaus Mikaelson (Klaus courting the reader)

Kol Mikaelson

Yandere Kol Mikaelson ask

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Hey Steph! Hope you’re doing well. I’ve only recently watched John Wick (tragic, I know - so long deprived) but I wanted to read some fic for him and saw you reblog some. Do you have any other JW recs? Thank you my angel 🙏🏻💕

- @nothoughtsjustmeds

Hiiii"

Yes I have. So many.

Might I interest you in some of mine? lol I wrote A LOT for Keanu's characters in general and I'm planing to go back to it and also finally finish those Wip's I have in my drafts.

There are soooo many talented writers for John. Have some of my faves

The Brooklyn Baby Series by my sisterwife @ladyreapermc which had me screaming with every part (big age gap fyi) Also Check out Demon John in her master list!

Primed to sin by @fanficsrusz is a Priest AU so.... 😏

@ficsnroses whole Masterlist. But especially One night

If you have a week or two to spare you have to read @the-darklings Children of Ares which I am OBSESSED with.

That old feeling by @omg-imagine Just.... The Yearning..... Check out the rest of the masterlist too!!!

But baby I'm better by @fortheloveoffanfic 🤤

One cappuccino and a chocolate brownie please by @keanureevesisbae is giving me cavities if only this about it

Check out all the master lists of the people I tagged cause this premium content lol

I'm sure I forgot people so if you have anything to add and recommend? Doooo it!

[safarigirlsp]

Off with A Bang!

Off with A Bang!

Flip Zimmerman x Reader

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: NSFW. Language. Extra Smut. Graphic Violence. Gun Violence. Knife Violence. Lots of Violence. Action themes.

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: Please enjoy my contribution to the New Year’s Eve celebration! There aren’t enough fics out there of Flip being a badass, so I’m fixing that! Buckle up for a John Wick/John McClane style holiday! ✨🥂✨Happy New Year✨🥂✨

Snow fell lazily down outside the window of your elegant hotel suite. Fluffy powdery flakes, tinged pink by the soft light of dawn. The snow was too thick this morning for you to make out the distinct silhouette of the city of Paris, the sight that had greeted you the past few mornings of your winter vacation. A beautiful snowy morning to greet you on this New Year’s Eve.

A deep appreciative hum accompanied the light scratching of your husband’s goatee against the delicate skin of your neck as he nuzzled you from where he lay behind you. His powerful arms were wrapped securely and warm around you, as they had been all night. As they always were throughout the night.

“Mornin,’ gorgeous,” Flip murmured huskily against your skin as he kissed you softly between nudges of his large nose against you. His attentiveness to you never failed to make your heart flutter and your lips smile.

Rolling toward him and onto your back, you stretched luxuriously in the sheets. With your arms reaching as high above your head as possible, back arched, tits pushed out, hair splayed beneath you, you knew you looked good, showing off for your man. The hunger in Flip’s eyes as he admired you rewarded your display, as did his lips when he brought them down to kiss you softly.

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you pulled him close against you as you kissed slowly. When you broke away, you smiled brightly up at him, smoothing your hands over his neck and shoulders.

“Are you excited for today, handsome?” you asked teasingly. “Shopping, lots more sightseeing, pictures, and museums. Did I mention shopping?”

“I’m not respondin’ to such negativity first thing in the mornin.’” Flip glowered at you playfully.

Flip had really been putting in an exceptional effort for you during your vacation. He had taken it upon himself to personally book a week in Paris for you both over the holidays, knowing it had been a destination on your travel list for as long as you can remember. He had planned it so that you could ring in the new year together in the City of Lights. He had even tried to refrain from growling and glaring as much as he wanted to, keeping himself pleasant for you.

To say that Flip was enjoying any part of your Parisian vacation, other than his time with you, would be ludicrous.

Shopping and taking pictures were hardly high on Flip’s priorities, but he made a valiant effort to smile through it for you. Even if his smile did look more like a grimace most of the time. Not to mention that his boots were ill-suited to walking the miles required to see all the sights daily, just as his flannel and jeans earned plenty of disapproving stares from the chic locals.

On several occasions so far, Flip had almost ripped an aggressive bicyclist off his bike and slammed one of his meaty fists into the offending man’s face. He damned sure didn’t appreciate the cyclists weaving haphazardly between pedestrians and coming far too close to colliding with you.

Crowds generally did not add to Flip’s good humor either. After a day in the city, he had started audibly growling at people, in addition to fixing them with his most menacing glare, who dared try to shove in front of him when he was trying to take your picture.

A running theme during your vacation had also been that your poor husband had so far been unable to even get a decent meal. It was burgeoning on comical at this point. Between portions far too small to put a dent in his hunger and the scarcity of steak and potatoes on menus, you thought he had already lost a couple pounds since your arrival.

“How about breakfast in bed this morning?” you suggested. “I’m sure they’re used to dealing with grouchy Americans at this hotel.”

“Somethin’ tells me they won’t give a damn how grouchy I am,” Flip huffed. “They know I’m stuck here for the rest of the week regardless.”

Laughing as you smacked his chest, you pushed him off of you as you reached for the room service menu.

“French toast for me,” you said, handing him the menu. “That should be a safe bet.”

“I wonder how they’ll fuck up an omelet and toast,” Flip mused, chewing his lip. “What do you think?”

“I think that if you ask nicely, maybe they’ll even fuck it up extra just for you.” You smirked as he shook his head at you.

“That’s what they’re gonna do no matter how nicely I ask, sugar,” Flip groaned as he rolled to the far side of the bed to reach the phone on the nightstand.

You watched in amusement while he ordered, repeating everything slowly, no doubt inadvertently insulting the French lady who spoke perfectly fluent English. It seemed to go smoothly until he tried to explain he only wanted plain toast instead of their breadbasket.

“No. No croissants. No bagels. No muffins with pieces of fruit and shit stuffed in ‘em,” Flip gestured animatedly as he tried to explain. “Just toast. Regular toast. That’s it. Alright?”

You grinned at him from where you lay, one arm propped behind your head.

“They’re gonna fuck it up,” Flip grumbled as he hung up the phone.

“Maybe they do it on purpose because they find you as sexy as I do when you’re all riled up,” you teased.

“Sexy, huh?” Flip smirked, crawling back to you.

“You have your moments,” you said with a playful wink.

Instead of laying back down beside you, he grabbed your hips, pulling you to him. You were laughing happily when he pushed your thighs apart to settle between them. Lowering his shaggy head, he pressed open mouthed kisses beginning at the base of your throat and trailing down the center of your body.

“I like your idea of havin’ breakfast in bed,” Flip spoke against your belly between kisses. “At least I know there’s one thing in this damned country that I love to eat.”

Hooking his arms under your legs, he lifted your thighs up to rest over his shoulders as he kissed his way down to your pussy. You were already heady with anticipation before he even touched you, but when his hot tongue licked a fat stripe up your center with a satisfied groan, you shuddered at the sensation. His hips thrust reflexively against the sheets as he kissed and licked into you, making out with your pussy as ardently as he would your lips.

Flip loved the taste of you, loved being surrounded by you while he indulged in your body. He could cum from that alone, although that was never as much fun as when he stuffed you full with his enormous cock followed by load after load of his thick cum.

“You feel so fucking good, Flip,” you moaned, twisting a fist into his dense hair, feeling his tongue trace patterns of his adoration into you. His eyes smiled in response, wrinkling at the corners, looking up at you with his predatory gaze from between your thighs.

Pinning you firmly with one hand on your lower belly, he moved his other down to push two thick fingers into your pussy below his chin, pumping them into you as he sucked your clit between his lips. The added stimulation had you bucking your hips against him and using your grip on his hair to yank him closer.

The coil of your pleasure was already tightening in your core, your pussy dripping and clenching around your husband’s fingers. Flip hummed his rich approval into you as he sucked hard on your clit. The vibrations from his deep voice sent the first wave of pleasure surging through you. Feeling your pussy start to tense on his fingers, Flip knew exactly what you needed, how to work your body perfectly.

Shoving his meaty fingers into you and curling them just right, he aggressively stroked against your front wall. His soft lips fervently sucking your first orgasm of the day out of you in a hot rush of throbbing pleasure.

Through the haze of ecstasy, you saw him smile against you as he licked and kissed you eagerly until your pussy had stopped pulsing around his fingers and your thighs had stopped quivering around his head.

“Breakfast of champions,” Flip said huskily with a smirk as he withdrew his fingers from you.

A knock on the door interrupted your reply and signaled the arrival of your actual breakfast.

Flip kissed your inner thigh before wiping his mouth on your skin. Easing off of you quickly, he threw the covers back over you and pulled on a pair of his pajama pants from the floor. There was really no possibility of hiding his massive erection through the thin material. He grinned at you comically as he stepped to answer the door, his cock bobbing heavily. You thought he was mostly successful at blocking himself with the door while he told the bellboy that he could leave the tray for Flip to manage.

Carrying the tray to the table seated next to the window, as if he could read your every thought, he grabbed his soft flannel shirt that he had worn yesterday and tossed it to you. Smiling broadly at Flip, you proceeded to shrug it on, securing a few buttons while he lifted the metal covers from each dish.

A sarcastic laugh drew your attention away from buttoning the shirt. Flip held the breadbasket out for your inspection, one eyebrow raised. Not a single piece of toast was in sight among the gourmet croissants, bagels, and muffins. You couldn’t help laughing at his ongoing plight.

Taking your seat opposite him, you accepted the mug of coffee he had just poured for you. You thought to yourself that for your next vacation together, this was all you wanted. A nice room that you never wanted to leave, shared with your handsome husband as he laved you with his attention and adoration.

That’s all Flip ever wanted himself. To make you smile, laugh, and sigh from the things he did to you. To shudder in his arms and collapse against his chest as he held you close. Looking at you now, hair wild, eyes beaming, and wearing only his flannel as you smiled at him over the rim of your mug, Flip thought that he’d never seen you looking more beautiful.

*******************************************************************************************

After finishing breakfast, you rose to take your morning shower.

“Care to join me, handsome?” you asked coyly, pausing at the bathroom door. You laughed as Flip stood up so quickly that he almost knocked his chair over in his haste to shower with you, crossing the room in only a few long strides.

Before you could even set the temperature of the water, Flip was on you. Standing behind you and removing his own shirt from your body, replacing it with kisses along your bare skin, as you reached inside the large shower to turn the knobs.

As soon as a healthy cloud of welcoming steam filled the shower, Flip stepped inside, holding his hand out for you to follow him. He instantly pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. Holding you against his chest and rubbing his hands along your back, his lips on yours heated you faster than the warm water that washed over you both.

It seemed immediate that his cock was hard and heavy, eagerly pressing against your stomach. Smiling up at him coyly, you turned in his arms to press your hands and tits against the cool tile of the shower wall, facing away from him and pushing your ass out to rub his cock.

Flip’s hands traveled down from your waist to your hips, his left gripping you there and pulling your hips out further toward him while his right smoothed over your ass. He rubbed the swell of your ass appreciatively before landing a playful smack. Grabbing his cock, he ran his thick head through the folds of your pussy a few times before pushing into you with a heady grunt.

“There’s nothin’ like sinkin’ my cock into your perfect pussy first thing in the mornin,’” he growled, relishing in the feel of you.

“I love how you fuck me, Flip,” you moaned, pushing your hips back against him, taking him in further. “Make me cum again.”

“You know I fuckin’ will.” He grinned as he began thrusting into you.

Each thrust rocked you against the tile, the sensation on your tits as they pressed and rubbed against the cool stone going straight to your pussy. Flip pounded his cock into you, his grip bruising on your hips as you pushed back to meet him.

“Fuck, this is a helluva view from back here, sugar,” Flip groaned, watching his giant cock pump in and out of your pussy, spreading you apart around him, and your glistening body bounce in the steaming shower.

This angle allowed him to rub the entire length of his cock along your front wall with every thrust. Each one igniting sparks of pleasure that surged through your core. Flip reached to the detachable showerhead, quickly thumbing through the spray settings to find the jet. Removing it with a self-satisfied smirk, he brought the shower head in front of you, aiming the jet of warm water right on your clit, as his cock spread you open.

“Oh, fuck!” You almost screamed from the intensity of the stimulation. The sensations of the heavy spray on your clit combined with Flip pounding his massive cock into you had your pussy clenching in minutes.

It was almost overwhelming, the way your pleasure exploded through you. Your pussy pulsed around Flip’s cock as you gushed around him and bucked your hips back harder onto his cock. The jet on your clit drew out the pulses of ecstasy until it became too much and you had to push Flip’s hand holding the shower head away. You couldn’t remember the last time you came so hard. Shuddering and breathing hard, you leaned against the shower wall, hoping your legs wouldn’t give out as Flip fucked you.

“I’m glad you enjoyed that, gorgeous,” Flip huffed with a laugh. “Fuck, I love feelin’ your pussy squeeze my cock that fuckin’ hard.”

After returning the showerhead back to its attachment, Flip grabbed your hips with both hands, supporting you as he slammed his cock into you. Pounding his cock into you hard with one final thrust, he came with a growl, filling you with so much of his thick cum that you could feel it leak out around his length.

Flip leaned his own head against the tile above you as the tension left his muscles, a satisfied groan rumbling through his thick chest. His hands moved to squeeze your breasts, pulling you up with him, your back against his chest, when he straightened behind you. You swore the heat of his cum trickling down your thighs was even hotter than the shower as you stood under it in his embrace. Turning in his arms, you reveled in the feeling of his densely muscled body under your hands as you lathered and smoothed body wash over every plane. Flip, of course, loved any excuse to have his hands on you, caressing your body lovingly. Although, his hands loved to linger unduly on your tits and ass.

Flip always left the shower before you, always there to hold a towel for you when you followed. Making quick work of scrubbing the excess water from his hair, he finished drying as you wrapped your hair in a towel. You cast him a warning glare when he removed his towel. He smirked back at you, amused at your preemptive warning against him snapping his towel in your direction. Instead, he dropped his towel in defeat, leaving the bathroom to dress.

You took the time to fix your makeup and hair for the day, ensuring you looked a little extra nice. Stepping from the bathroom, you paused in front of the mirror on the armoire that held your clothes, standing in your bra and panties. Flip approached you from behind, dressed only in his jeans, wrapping his arms around you as he kissed your neck.

“I’m sure one lucky sonofabitch,” he purred, meeting your eyes in your reflection. “To have a knockout like you for my wife.”

“I’m not sure if you’re lucky, but you’re certainly ridiculous,” you teased.

Straightening behind you, Flip smacked your ass with a wolfish grin.

“Wear somethin’ pretty for me today, sugar.” Flip winked over your head at your reflection.

You knew exactly what he meant, too. Flip thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world whether you were wearing sweats, jeans, or a curve hugging cocktail dress. Whenever Flip asked you to dress ‘pretty’ for him, he meant something that he could push up easily when he wanted to get a feel of you. Or more.

The thought excited you as you selected a flattering sweater dress. It would pair well with your knee-high boots and leather jacket. Shaking your head in playful disapproval, you pretended to glare at him. You grabbed a charcoal grey flannel shirt, tossing it at Flip’s head for him to button on.

By the time you were fully dressed, Flip was lounging on the bed. Reclining against the headboard, one arm behind his head, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He extended his free hand to you, beckoning you to come join him on the bed.

“Are we in a hurry?” he teased.

“Did you really bring me all the way to Paris just to stay in bed all day?” You planted your hands on your hips, posturing and teasing him back.

Flip raised his eyebrows at you, imploringly.

“The quicker we get everything done that we’ve planned for today, the quicker you can continue getting our money’s worth out of the room,” you said firmly, grabbing your purse.

Grumbling for your amusement, Flip pushed himself up from the bed. He picked up your leather jacket as he walked to you, holding it out for you to shrug on.

“Where to, sugar?” he asked reluctantly, opening the door for you.

“The Louvre,” you told him, stepping past him into the hallway of your hotel. “Even you won’t be able to have a bad time at the Louvre.”

“You better find some wood to knock on after that statement,” he grouched, placing his hand on your back possessively as you walked.

*******************************************************************************************

The first stop of your day was a visit to the Eiffel Tower. To say it was not a hit with Flip would be a drastic understatement.

“The damned thing doesn’t even look as good in person as it does in pictures. It could use a good power wash,” he groused as you both walked away, his large hand holding yours affectionately. “Why don’t the travel books mention gettin’ trampled by crowds tryin’ to take a picture in front of the damn thing?”

Sightseeing was followed by a late lunch at an upscale restaurant. You protested, but Flip insisted, wanting to take you somewhere nice.

The restaurant was a disappointment as well.

“That was supposed to be a nice place, sugar,” Flip grumbled as you both walked away after your mediocre meal. “And they have horse meat on the fuckin’ menu next to the beef tongue and not a damn ribeye in sight.”

He was scowling in full force by the time you both waited through the lines to enter your final stop of the day, the Louvre. You hoped that once inside, even Flip would have a nice time, despite himself.

The crowds were thicker than usual. Banners and heavily applied regalia around the entrance and main corridors told you why. There was a special exhibition, the finest jewels from around the world were on display for New Year’s.

It was already late in the afternoon. The best the two of you could hope for today was to do enough reconnaissance to better plan your attack for tomorrow. Flip was already nose deep in a detailed map, trying to memorize the floor plan and also locate the things that might matter the most to you.

Leading you first to see the Mona Lisa, it didn’t help Flip’s mood that the crowds were still so dense, even late in the afternoon, that neither of you could get close enough to really see it.

“Just say the word, sugar,” Flip gritted, leaning in close to your ear. “And I’ll plow through this crowd like a bull at a matador.”

“You’re not allowed to try to get us kicked out early,” you scolded him, laughing.

“Want me to pick you up?” Flip raised his eyebrows at his idea.

Without waiting for you to tell him ‘no,’ he bent at the knees, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted you up high in a bear hug.

“What are you doing?” you laughed as he lifted you.

“You can look at the painting,” he instructed, smiling up at you. “I have a prettier girl to look at.”

Flip turned his back to the painting, giving you a bird’s eye view of it over his head and far above the heads of everyone else in the crowd. Meanwhile, he teased your neck and then your breasts with his nose, nuzzling into them in turn while they were pressed close to his face.

When you were finally able to convince him to remove his face from your tits and set you down, you made your way next to Winged Victory. Flip was able to shoo the crowds away enough with a growling glare to snap a picture of you at the top of the steps in front of the sculpture.

After you both descended the stairs, going through the lower levels, you were surprised to discover so many antique knives and weapons in glass cases ranging from samurai swords to Charlemagne’s sword.  

That particular relic naturally caught Flip’s eye.

“That’d be a helluva thing to come in swingin’ with in a fight, wouldn’t it,” he mused.

The crowds had thinned significantly now, with the Louvre near closing. You and Flip had just entered a room devoid of patrons in the lower levels containing the famous sculpture Pysche Revived by Cupid ‘s Kiss by Antonio Canova.   

The sculpture portrayed Psyche, who had just been awoken by her lover, Cupid, as he gently holds her from behind supporting her head and cupping her breast. Loosely draped around her lower body is a sheet, otherwise they were both nude.

As you admired the sculpture, Flip moved behind you, reaching his left hand under your arm to reach across your body and squeeze your right breast teasingly. His right hand caressed your cheek from behind, his positioning mirroring the sculpture. Playing along with him, you lifted both of your hands to fist into his hair. Pushing your tits out further into his hand, you angled your face to kiss him where he towered behind you.

Heart fluttering in his chest, Flip kissed you indulgently, too much so for a public setting. You were thankful you were alone in the room when you sighed loudly against his lips. Pulling back from your kiss, he grinned at you, still kneading your breast.

“I read about this sculpture,” he playfully rasped into your ear. “Did you know that Cupid wakes Psyche from her dream with a ‘prick of his arrow’?”

You could hear the smirk on his lips. Flip turned you to face him, wrapping his arms around you. Sucking his lip, he exaggerated eyeing you up and down with a mischievous grin. 

“I think we can put on a better show than them,” he told you huskily, indicating the sculpture.

“Are you insane?” you chastised him, but the excited gleam in your eyes betrayed you.

“Only for you, sugar.” His grin turned wolfish as he held your gaze, pointedly unzipping his jeans.

“The museum’s closing, Flip,” you reasoned, placing a hand on his chest.

“Exactly,” he said with a laugh. “We’ll have thirty minutes before the guards come by to kick out the two Americans who got lost down here.”

His cock was already half hard when you trailed your hand down his chest, down his belly, and down below the waistband of his jeans. You wrapped your hand as far around it as you could, fishing it out and giving him a few solid pumps. Flip reached to the hem of your sweater dress, hiking it up over your hips and gripping a handful of your ass. Flip backed you against a wall, his cock swelling quickly in your hand.

With a grunt, Flip hoisted you up in his powerful embrace. Your back pressed against the stone wall behind you, as your legs wrapped around Flip’s waist. Your pussy was perfectly aligned with his cock from ample experience of being pinned against a wall for a quick fuck by your ravenous husband.

Pulling your panties to the side, you let Flip thrust into you in one firm motion. You had to bite down onto your lip to keep from whining with pleasure at the feel of his perfect cock splitting you open. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you held on for dear life as he pounded into you, growling like a beast in time with his thrusts.

It was always so fucking hot when Flip fucked you like this. Holding you up and supporting your weight so easily while he slammed his cock up into you, those rigid arms and thick thighs of his as sturdy as the stone wall that pressed against your back. The thrill of getting caught added an extra edge of excitement. Flip could almost always make you cum in minutes, fucking you like this. Rough, gritty, powerfully, and fully exposed.

Flip pumped into you, teeth gritted, brow furrowed, muscles strained, a low growl rumbling through his chest. Completely lost in you. Intruding upon your own pleasure, you heard footsteps coming down the hall, approaching the room.  

“Someone’s coming,” you whispered to Flip, who was too absorbed in thrusting into you to notice. “Flip!” you whisper-screamed, giving his hair a sharp yank.

By the time that Flip opened his eyes and regained some awareness, a guard was already approaching. A young man in a blue blazer was just entering the room when Flip wrenched his head to the side to meet the guard’s shocked and embarrassed wide-eyed stare.

The guard cleared his throat loudly, as Flip cussed, fumbling while he tried to shield your body with his own.

“We’re closed. Time to leave, monsieur,” the guard commanded in English. He politely turned his back to you both, allowing Flip to withdraw from you and shove his wet cock back into his jeans while you hastily pushed your dress back into place.

The guard then laughingly added, “I hope you have enjoyed your visit with us, today, monsieur and madam.”

“Nothin’ goes right in this fuckin’ country,” Flip grumbled, helping smooth the remaining wrinkles out of your dress. You couldn’t help giggling at both the embarrassment at your situation and at Flip’s grousing. Although he glared playfully at you, his eyes were apologetic through his squint.

Suddenly, you were all plunged into darkness, Flip’s face disappearing into black before you. You felt Flip’s hands tense on you, his entire body going rigid. You heard rushing footfalls coming from the hallway just beyond the entrance into the room where you and Flip stood.

A loud bang ripped through the shadows, reverberating off the stone walls, deafening in the small chamber. Flip jolted, yanking you to him protectively.

Flip’s huge hand crashed down over your mouth, as he shoved you back flush against the wall, shielding your body with his own. Flip’s heavy boot collided with the wall as he pushed himself against you before he held you both still and silent. It was the only audible sound other than the heavy crumple of what could only be a lifeless body falling onto the stone floor.

“Who’s there? I won’t hurt you,” the voice in the dark called out in French. A different voice from that of the guard.

Your eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, now able to make out Flip’s face right in front of yours, but little else. Looking at you intently, he indicated to you to remain completely still and silent.

The charcoal shirt you had chosen for Flip to wear that morning and his dark jeans faded into the darkness of the room, as he noiselessly stepped away from you. He was deceptively agile for such a large man, moving as silently as any predator in the night.

Seconds later, the solid thump of a fist colliding with flesh resounded through the darkened room, followed immediately by the sound of wet snapping as bones twisted and broke. No doubt from Flip wrenching the gunman’s neck to break it instantly. A metal clang followed by the scrape of metal on stone indicated the dropped pistol sliding across the floor in your direction. Faint light glinted off the gunmetal as it spun toward you.

Rushing forward, you retrieved the gun, training it in the direction of where Flip had to be positioned. Ahead of your barrel you heard the sound of another body drop to the floor, but you could not see through the darkness.

“Flip, are you okay?” you asked quietly. “Are you alright, handsome?”

A strong fist closed around your hand holding the pistol, pushing it aside, as Flip returned to you, taking you in his arms.

“Yes, handsome, are you alright?” A smooth, heavily accented male voice asked sarcastically amid a burst of static.

Flip exchanged a worried glance with you.

Releasing you briefly, Flip stepped away to grab a walkie talkie from the floor and a flashlight from the corpse.

“What are you doing in here, handsome, with a woman after closing?” The disembodied voice asked through the radio, as if some French specter had latched onto you and Flip. “Tourists who got lost in the maze of the Louvre?”

You looked at Flip questioningly. He nodded No in response, holding a finger to his lips.

“I have no interest in errant Americans,” the voice continued. “We are simple jewel thieves. Well, not simple. But there is no money in killing tourists. Return the radio to Gerard and he will handcuff you while we conduct our affairs. We are all gentlemen here.”

Flip quickly searched both bodies. The assailant yielded nothing beyond the gun, radio, and flashlight. The guard’s body provided another light, a keycard, and key ring, but no additional weapon.

“Of course, they don’t give their damned guards guns here,” Flip snarled, as he removed the clip from the single handgun. Six bullets remained in the magazine, one more in the chamber.

“Lucky seven,” he huffed, slamming the clip back into the gun.

“Where is my associate, handsome?” The voice pressed, through a burst of static. “Perhaps we are not all gentlemen after all? If you have changed the rules, killed my man, I shall happily play by yours.”

Flip met your gaze as he surged toward you in the darkened room, reaching for your right hand with his left. With his gun held up, lifted near his shoulder, he led you through the doorway, exiting the room. You each had a flashlight now, each kept turned off so as to avoid detection by whomever was on the other end of the radio and his other ‘gentlemen.’

“I will assume by the radio silence that you have indeed killed my man,” the French voice spoke with a more ominous tone now, crackling through the radio static. “Which of you shall I kill in turn? The woman whose voice I heard or the handsome Flip for whom she was so concerned?”

Flip clutched your hand tighter as he walked in long swift strides down a lonely hallway. You had to jog every few steps to keep pace with him, trying to keep your footfalls quiet. With each step, the static coming through along with the voice in the radio deepened, indicating you were traveling away from the originating source.

The next room you entered was filled with glass display cases. Flip paused, turning his flashlight on for a moment to examine the contents. His light shone briefly on a plaque labeled Sixteenth Century Japan before illuminating the display of knives and swords.

Looking at you with a sideways smirk like the jackass he was, Flip slammed his elbow through the glass.

“Seven bullets might not last long,” he told you, handing you an exceptionally sharp dagger, watching as you tucked it into the sleeve of your sweater dress. Flip grabbed a few sheathed knives and daggers, shoving the leather scabbards into his pockets wherever they would fit. He then reached for an authentic samurai sword, resting in a replica scabbard. Hooking the weapon to his belt, he met your eyes with a wicked grin.

A deafening bang and a blinding flash of light erupted on the far end of the weapons display room.

Flip’s huge left hand shoved your head down, gripping you hard at the nape of your neck, as he spun toward the gunshot. Raising his own gun as he turned, he fired a quick shot aimed at the muzzle flash from the other man. Flip’s shot was followed almost simultaneously by the telltale dull thwack of a bullet hitting meat, and an immediate pained scream.

Six shots left.

Flip pushed you behind the display case, just as you heard flustered voices, speaking hurriedly in French. At least three men.

Now that your eyes had adjusted to the darkness, you could see your immediate vicinity, and you could see the silhouettes of the dioramas in the display cases when they were backed by the light stone wall of the room. Flip noticed too, motioning you to crouch low enough so that you would not be silhouetted yourself, as he did the same. Both of you pressed yourselves against the case on the right side of the aisle, sinking below the line of sight of the men.

Indicating for you to stay put, Flip grabbed your hand in a brief reassuring squeeze, before he rushed ahead toward the assailants, his tall frame doubled over. You, however, were not about to let him rush into danger alone. You followed a few steps behind him. It had to be easier for you to crouch low than it was for Flip, but he still managed to move more quickly and quietly ahead than you.

Flip had nearly reached the end of the display case when he realized you had followed him, only a few paces behind. In the split second it took him to turn his head to glare at you over his shoulder, a man charged at him from the darkness, coming from Flip’s left, as his right side pressed against the glass display case.

You heard the pained grunt, the sound of the air being knocked from Flip’s chest, as the man plowed into him from the side, slamming Flip hard into the glass case, shattering it. The gun in Flip’s hand dropped, spinning away into the shadows on the slick floor, as Flip’s body was forcibly shoved into the breaking glass in a cascade of shimmering light in the darkness.

Flip yanked one of the knives from his pocket as his body slammed into the display inside the case, its contents crashing down on him and his attacker where they both fell in a struggling mass. Flip landed on his back, the other man bearing down upon him with all of his weight and momentum.

Without hesitation, before the other man could regain his balance to strike, Flip slashed a backhanded cut through the man’s throat. In the dark, the blood shone as black as oil when it erupted from the gaping wound in his throat, raining down onto Flip’s chest.

Seeing that Flip was out of danger, you ran ahead, looking for the gun he had dropped. You rounded the end of the display case and exited out into a hall, while Flip shoved the body off of himself with a huff.

As Flip regained his feet, another man emerged from the dark, his gun trained on you instead of Flip as he advanced.

Instantly, Flip lunged at the other man. Flip hit him full force from the side, slamming the man into the stone wall with all of his immense strength. The man’s gun fired upon his impact, errant shots ricocheting off the floor and walls all around you. Flip used his considerable height advantage and his massive hand to crash the man’s skull into the wall, blood smearing instantly across the pale stone.

Unnaturally quick, Flip dragged his left elbow roughly across the man’s jaw, crushing his head against the wall harder, as a feral growl tore through Flip’s chest. Flip pushed his elbow past the man’s face, only to slam it back violently into the man’s nose, shattering the bone and whipping his head back to expose his throat. Flip’s right hand followed in a vicious punch to his opponent’s windpipe. The body fell in a twitching heap to the floor, dead and gurgling.

Flip stood above him, glaring down contemptuously at his second kill, his huge chest heaving. You looked frantically for the gun, as Flip moved toward you. Locating it only a few steps away, you hurriedly rushed to retrieve it.

Straightening with the gun in your hand, you saw a dark figure looming behind Flip, whose back was turned toward the oncoming attacker. Without pausing to think, you leveled the gun, squeezing the trigger as soon as your sights fell upon the shadowy figure just over Flip’s shoulder.

Flip flinched and ducked at the shot, the handgun firing in your grip only feet in front of his chest, the bullet sailing only inches over his shoulder.

Your shot was perfect, striking the advancing enemy right between his eyes. A plume of blood splashed almost elegantly from the hole in his forehead, as the man’s body collapsed instantly to the floor.

Flip spun quickly, ready to fight again, but instead he only admired your work.

“Nice shot, sugar.” He grinned at you, as he closed the remaining distance between you, taking the gun from your hand.

Five shots left.

Flip had taught you how to shoot. He would never allow you not to be a ‘hand,’ as he called it, with a gun. Not with him being involved in his line of work. He had made it fun too. Afternoons spent shooting together amid playful competitions and celebratory kisses.

He gave you one such kiss now, his lips pressing against yours briefly.

“I love that my wife’s a badass,” he purred low and rich as he returned his attention to the bodies on the floor. Now that you were both sure all the men were dead, Flip stepped toward one supine body, reaching down for the man’s gun.

Sparks erupted right below Flip’s fingers, as gunshots wailed from the other end of the room, bullets striking the floor right beneath Flip’s outstretched hand.

Scrambling backward, he stumbled to his feet and ran towards you. No more crouching or pretense of stealth. He grabbed your arm roughly and dragged you with him as he ran hard toward the opposite exit. You felt as though your feet barely touched the ground with Flip pulling you bodily along with him to keep pace with his sprint.

More gunshots echoed behind you, as the wall in front of you exploded in an artillery of stone shrapnel and shards that hit both of your faces, stinging violently, while you both ran ahead.  Flip slid into you, stumbling off balance and taking the turn too sharply to shoulder into your side, as you both turned through the exit door, running too fast on the slick floor.

You could hear the men pursuing you, still in the room you had just exited, as you both ran hard down the hallway. The hallway opened at its end into a large chamber, a foyer of sorts with numerous rooms lining the hall. Flip quickly ducked into one of the side rooms, pulling you roughly along with him. Inside, he pressed his back to the wall, flattening himself in the shadows, you mirrored him at his side.

It worked. The men chasing you ran ahead, following the hallway and passing you by. Five of them, a small contingent of armed men. Including the four men you had both already killed, that brought the number to nine. At least.

“We’re definitely not dealin’ with rookies,” Flip whispered to you.

“And you know they’re not leaving their heist unmanned to chase after us,” you replied back quietly.

“Yeah,” was all Flip grumbled.

“What do we do if there’s a lot more of them?” Your voice was more concerned than you intended. “Even you can’t fight off a small army, Flip.”

Flip brought his mahogany eyes to yours, looking at you intently.

“Whoever comes.” Flip raised his hand to your cheek, stroking you gently with his thumb, holding your gaze. “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.”

His hand fell from your cheek down to take your hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a soft lingering kiss on your skin. He then gripped your hand tighter, leading you across the room to another exit at the far end.

Following another hallway for a distance, you found yourself in another wing of the labyrinthine museum.

Stone sphinxes, colorful murals, and giant sarcophaguses told you that you had both entered the Ancient Egypt section. Enormous stone pillars decorated the room, providing Egyptian ambience and also potential cover.

After assessing your surroundings and listening carefully for any sounds for several minutes, Flip pulled out the radio.

“The cops have a designated frequency in the states. It’s probably too much to hope the frogs have the same one here,” Flip huffed, turning through channels.

“Hello, can anyone hear me?” Flip asked when he found the frequency, trying to keep his booming voice low. “I have an emergency. L’ urgence. Over.”

After a few moments a nasally woman’s voice responded in heavily accented English. “Monsieur, this is an official police channel. Please change your frequency for your New Year’s Eve party.”

Flip’s head fell back in relief, as he shook the radio triumphantly.

“I have an emergency and I need to report a crime,” Flip explained quickly. “My wife and I are locked in the Louvre. There’s a robbery takin’ place as we speak. They’re heavily armed and dangerous. They’re tryin’ to kill us for witnessin’ it. Get some cops over here right fuckin’ now. Over.”

“Monsieur,” replied the very unamused voice. “We are quite accustomed to holiday pranks from drunken tourists, however, an armed robbery at the Louvre is too outlandish for us to take seriously. Your American pranks are not appreciated here. Good evening.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, lady?” Flip was shaking, on the verge of crushing the radio in his fist, having difficulty keeping his voice low. “People are fuckin’ shootin’ at us and robbin’ your historical landmark blind.”

“This is for emergencies only, monsieur,” the woman explained, bored.

“Exactly what the fuck do you think this is, lady?” Flip growled.

“You need to know, monsieur, that misuse of this channel is a crime,” the operator replied calmly.

“Oh, really? Well, that’s good to hear, honey, because I’m gonna misuse the fuck out of it,” Flip assured, his voice rising. “Come arrest me.”

Radio silence.

“I’m also gonna break some shit while I’m stuck in here. Vandalism is pretty fuckin’ serious too. Even worse than misuse of emergency channels. You can arrest me for both,” Flip raged. “Get some of your croissant eatin’ bastard cops off their asses and come down here to do their fuckin’ jobs.”

“Oui, monsieur,” the voice replied sarcastically. “I shall send a battalion of officers to stop the armed robbery at the Louvre at once.”

With a growl, Flip pulled the map of the Louvre from his pocket, reviewing it briefly.

“We’ll make for the main exit,” Flip spoke into the radio again, studying the map. “Have police backup there.”

“They’re not going to come. They think you’re just bullshitting them.” You raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Yeah. Sorry bastards. That’s the closest exit. The one the guys we’re stuck in here with will expect us to use. I said that just in case they’re eaves droppin.’” Flip winked at you. “We’ll make for one of the further exits, the one by the Metro. They won’t expect that.”

“Won’t the cops come from the gunshots?” you asked, confused by the lack of police presence.

“Not on New Year’s Eve,” Flip grumbled, switching the radio back to the criminals’ frequency. “They’ll blend right in with the fireworks.”

Flip gripped your hand tighter, his jaw clenching in thought as he considered your situation.

“Do you think that we are not monitoring the police frequency, handsome?” The smooth French voice intoned, cutting through the sepulchral quiet of the room. “No one is coming to help you tonight.”

“I’m not worried about it. I can kill you boys all fuckin’ night,” Flip replied gruffly into the radio. “I was just tryin’ to avoid workin’ more while I’m on vacation. The wife always says I work too damn much.”

“You speak, finally,” the Frenchman said pleasantly. “Turn yourselves in to us now and we shall not harm you.”

“Not all of us Americans are quite as dumb as you give us credit for, Frenchie,” Flip quipped.

“Indeed,” the voice laughed through a burst of static. “A stroke of genius to be locked inside the museum overnight.”

“Funny thing about that.” Flip grinned darkly. “That also means that you’re all locked in here with me.”

“Oh, dear,” the other man patronized.

“You’re down some of your men already, Frenchie,” Flip spoke sarcastically, like the smug bastard he was. “Better call it quits while you’re ahead.”

“We came prepared to deal with an armed response,” the man explained calmly. “You do not think we can neutralize two tourists?”

“I wouldn’t put my money on you, Frenchie,” Flip replied, his tone taking on an ominous edge.

“What exactly do you think you are?” The voice asked indignantly, much clearer now. “Some kind of American cowboy?”

“Yee haw, motherfucker,” Flip growled into the radio.

Returning the radio to his pocket, Flip moved to the entrance to the Egyptian room, gun held at the ready. He had heard the clarity on the radio, indicating the originating source was much closer to you both now. Flip pressed himself against the wall by the entrance, sinking down to kneel against the wall. From his knee, he motioned you to crouch down behind the huge stone sarcophagus in the center of the room.

In the deathly silence, befitting of an actual tomb, from your place hiding behind the sarcophagus, you heard the unmistakable sound of a boot scraping on the floor.

Kneeling, Flip was below the expected line of sight. Fast as a striking snake, he whipped his body around the doorframe of the exit, just enough for his head and right arm that singlehandedly held his gun to peek out. His eyes immediately focused on the contingent of five men, firing instantly on instinct as soon as his target was locked.

Two shots rang out, deafening in the stone chamber, from Flip firing in rapid succession at the approaching targets. Two men crumpled to the floor, as the wall beside Flip exploded in a hail of gunfire just as Flip pulled himself back inside the room.

Pushing himself up from his kneeling position, Flip lunged toward the sarcophagus, planting his left hand on it to easily vault over the large tomb and land in a crouch beside you. Ducking down almost to the ground, Flip looked underneath the sarcophagus, sighting down the barrel of his gun.

When the first man entered the room at a run, Flip squeezed off a shot at the only target within Flip’s view, striking the man in the knee and collapsing him instantly. Another shot to his forehead stilled him permanently.

One shot left.

Grabbing your upper arm again in his unyielding grip, Flip pulled you with him as he surged up from the floor and through the room.

Dodging exhibits, statues, and tombs, you both ran through the Egyptian exhibit. A huge wing, composed of many long rooms emptying into other smaller chambers, all filled with artifacts.

Beams of light chased after you, bobbing haphazardly while they pierced the darkness searching for you both, as the armed men chased you down. Gunshots echoed through the chambers, striking stone and artifacts alike, fired erratically by the running men.

Your lungs burned from fear and exertion, even though Flip was pulling you along in his powerful wake. Sparing a glance to him, you saw his jaw set and brow tensed, his expression one of sheer will and focus.

Rounding a corner, Flip stopped abruptly, shoving you against the wall behind him. He had to wait only seconds before the first man came into view, looking ahead and not to the side, an automatic rifle pointed forward as he walked past Flip.

Using his handgun like a hammer, Flip viciously slammed the butt of the grip into the man’s temple, crushing through the fragile tissue like paper mâché. Flip’s left elbow followed immediately to the back of the man’s head. The man, dead on his feet, fell to the ground in the span of a heartbeat without wasting a bullet.

A single perfectly aimed shot to the head dispatched the second remaining man who rushed at Flip. The last shot Flip had left.

Out of bullets.

As the man’s body collapsed, you felt more than heard something behind you. You didn’t have time even to turn when gunfire erupted around you, striking the wall and exploding artifacts. The space lit brightly by the muzzle flashes of gunfire behind you.

Shoving Flip forward, you both turned into another long room leading to an exit.

Flip’s left hand found yours again as you both ran. Running hard, you became aware of a wet heat in your palm where it rested in Flip’s. Looking over at him while he ran beside you, you saw his left arm coated in a dark stain that ran down from his shoulder to drip down his hand.

“You’re shot, Flip!” you exclaimed, breathlessly.

“It’s nothin,’” he huffed. “Just clipped my arm.”

“It’s not nothing!” you hissed, fighting for breath as you ran, the sounds of the men chasing after you echoing off the walls.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Flip panted. “Did you see how many men there were?”

“Three. Or four,” you strained for breath. “I think.”

“Hardly seems fair, does it?” Flip smirked, even through heaving breaths and sprinted steps. “Only four men against me.”

Flip still had the samurai sword he had belted on from the Japan display. You instantly knew what he was thinking.

“You can’t be serious!” you wheezed incredulously, as Flip pulled you through another doorway into a room filled with Persian artifacts. “You don’t know how to use a fucking sword, Flip!”

“Sure, I do,” he grunted, pushing you ahead of him toward a large sandstone bull, intending that you shield yourself behind it. “The pointy end goes into the bad guy,” Flip informed you with a wink, shoving you behind the statue. Even though he was shot and bleeding, he still fucking winked at you and flashed you his handsome grin.

Turning back toward the doorway, Flip drew the samurai sword, holding it in a two-handed grip in front of him. The running footsteps quickly grew louder, thudding in your ears in time with your frantic heartbeat, as the men fast approached the doorway.

This time, you had a bad feeling, a darkness creeping into your chest. Flip was bleeding and he was bringing a sword to a gunfight. Even in your darkest hour, Flip lifted your spirits and fought just as hard to give you hope as he fought the gunmen.

The first man was easy. Flip swung the sword like a major league bat at the man’s throat when he passed through the doorway. You watched as every rigid muscle in Flip’s massive back tensed with the force of his strike. The man’s body continued stumbling forward with inertia while his cleanly severed head toppled behind, landing near Flip’s boots and rolling away.

The second man was close behind, automatic rifle held out in front of him. Flip grabbed the side of the rifle near the action with his left hand, his grip slick with his own blood. Holding the gun pointing forward, Flip kept the second man blocking the doorway, as he roughly stabbed the point of his sword through the man’s diaphragm. The point popped out through the man’s back as his body doubled over the blade.

Gunshots pierced the darkness, striking the corpse of the second man who luckily blocked Flip’s own body.

Using his immense power, Flip shoved the impaled man back violently, pushing him into his associate behind. Flip followed, shoving through when the body collided with the living adversary, knocking him backward off balance.

It gave Flip just enough of an opening. Using his bloody left forearm, Flip slammed the man’s handgun away from his aim on Flip’s body. Flip’s steel right fist then crashed into the man’s jaw, wrenching his head to the side in an eruption of blood and teeth slinging from his gaping mouth that now hung open with a fractured jaw. Simultaneously, Flip’s left hand wrenched the gun from the dazed man’s grip, reversing the barrel to press against the man’s chest and firing a round straight into his vitals.

As the body fell to the floor, Flip was just quick enough to duck off balance to the side as a fourth man ahead fired a wild shot, narrowly missing Flip. The pistol in Flip’s hand followed his gaze instinctively as he moved, his finger squeezing the trigger when the sights fell on the other man’s eye as he was likewise training his gun on Flip. A mix of pulpy white and watery blood exploded from the man’s eye socket with the impact of the bullet, his head jerking back, before his body too fell in a lifeless pile onto the floor.

Returning to his full height, Flip surveyed the room. His handgun followed his line of sight, held at the ready, as he looked for any other attackers. Satisfied they had all been neutralized, he returned to you.

You ran out from behind the statue when Flip walked back through the doorway, jumping into his arms like one of those ridiculous scenes from a movie. Smiling broadly, Flip wrapped his free bleeding arm around you, holding you tight against him.

“I told you that it was hardly fair for ‘em,” he laughed with relief in your embrace.

Disentangling himself from your arms, Flip again took your right hand in his blood-slicked left and led you out of the room. You both moved quickly but silently down another cavernous hallway. You recognized this one. It led to the staircase that you needed to ascend, past Winged Victory, to the upper level to make your way to the Metro exit.

When you reached the stairs, you could see slightly better. Light from the upstairs windows filtered down the flights of stairs to you. Fireworks from countless parties outside illuminated the stone facades inside the museum in flashing bursts of color.

As you both climbed the stairs, a faint noise resounded below you. Flip pushed you ahead of him, turning to cover your rear, backing up the stairs himself. You walked a few steps ahead onto the first landing, passing beneath the sculpture of Winged Victory.

Suddenly, out of the penumbra of the sculpture, a cruel foreign hand gripped your arm harshly. You jumped, yelping in surprise, at the man’s grip on you. Flip spun back to face you, his gun following his murderous gaze, pointing at a target just over your shoulder. You felt the cold press of steel against your temple, a gun barrel kissing your skin.

“I am an exceptional thief, monsieur Cowboy,” the Frenchman whose voice you had heard on the radio spoke near your ear. “I always find the most valuable items. Whether they are the Crown Jewels themselves, or just this little gem of yours.”

“You won’t have much use for loot where I’m fixin’ to send you, Frenchie,” Flip growled menacingly, his gun held as steadily as the marble sculptures around you.

“Drop your six-shooter, monsieur Cowboy,” Frenchie commanded, tightening his hold on your arm and dragging the muzzle of his gun between your ear and temple.

Flip grimaced at the sight, his jaw clenching so hard you expected to hear his teeth crack from the force. He extended his right hand holding the gun to the side, dropping it to the floor.

“Satisfied?” Flip asked, as his arm returned to his side. His fists were clenched tight and his shoulders set forward, ready to launch a ferocious attack at the first opening.

“Not yet, no,” Frenchie replied airily.

The man’s hold on your arm was hardly enough to keep you completely in place, but for the gun at your head. Otherwise, you could easily yank yourself free or turn in his grip. He had underestimated you.

You were hardly a damsel in distress. Flip knew that too. In fact, you knew that your husband was counting on it.

“You have made my evening quite inconvenient, Cowboy.” Frenchie pressed the barrel into your temple more harshly, emphasizing his point. “It is only fair that I now return that courtesy.”

“Better shoot me first.” Flip bared his teeth in a snarl. “Because if you shoot her, you’ll be a dead sonofabitch before you can get that gun pointed back at me.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Frenchie sneered. “Finally, we find ourselves in agreement.”

The Frenchman swung his gun from your temple toward Flip, leveling it on his huge chest. At his motion, Flip lunged forward toward the armed man behind you.

You were quicker than both of them.

As soon as you felt the gun move, you stabbed backward with the dagger Flip had given you earlier. The dagger that you had let fall into your palm from where it was tucked inside your sleeve while the villain monologued. The dagger that now met only minimal resistance as it sank easily into the flesh of Frenchie’s inner thigh.

Turning into your strike, you used your free hand to knock the gun back away from where it moved toward Flip, trying to aim it in a safer direction.

Frenchie yanked the trigger in pain and shock, a shot firing errantly in Flip’s direction, as Flip closed the distance between them.

A faint spray of crimson plumed on Flip’s chest, just below his collarbone, where the bullet struck him, burying itself in his upper chest near his left shoulder. Flip flinched just as you wrenched your dagger free from your enemy’s thigh and drove it brutally up under his chin.

Flip slammed his fist into Frenchie’s face in a crushing blow that snapped his head backward. Although it was unnecessary. The man was already dead on his feet from your blade. His body fell backwards into a twitching pile onto the stone floor.

Immediately, Flip stomped his boot down on the man’s wrist of his gun hand, pinning it in place as a precaution, while he bent to retrieve the gun with a grunt.

“Did he hit you, Flip?” you asked urgently. Rushing to Flip, your hands found his chest, as he straightened painfully. You looked over his body, sick with worry.  “Did he shoot you?”

“Maybe a little.” Flip tried to smirk, but it was more of a grimace. “Don’t worry, sugar. It didn’t hit anything important.”

Ignoring his protests, you ripped his shirt open to assess his wound, sending buttons flying across the stone floor.

Blood trickled out from the bullet hole that sat at the very top of his massive chest. At least Flip was right. It hadn’t hit anything vital. In fact, it was only an inch or so away from another round scar on his chest, from another aged bullet wound.

“My favorite spot to get shot,” Flip joked, looking down at you. He rubbed his good hand along your arm to comfort you, as if he wasn’t the one who was injured.

“We need to get you to a hospital, cowboy,” you told him, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Can you walk?”

“Can I walk?” Flip huffed. “That’s the most insultin’ thing you’ve said to me all day. What do I look like to you? Some kind of lightweight?”

You picked up the other gun just in case before looping your arm around Flip’s waist, letting him rest his injured arm on your shoulder as you both walked slowly away.

Outside, fireworks danced beyond the windows, igniting the night sky in bursts of color and sparks. Rainbows of color danced around the corridors of the Louvre, shining through the windows, painting the sculptures and artwork in bursts of sparkling light.

“We’re really startin’ the new year off with a bang, aren’t we, gorgeous?” Flip teased, leaning in to kiss your cheek with a wince.

***********************************************************************

The orange rays of the setting sun filtered languidly into your vastly upgraded suite, casting soft light onto yours and Flip’s bodies as you lay in bed together on New Year’s Day. Flip held you against his bare chest, your head resting on his right shoulder. Your hand caressing his chest, careful to avoid the bandages wrapped in layers around his left shoulder and upper arm. You had just returned to your hotel after Flip was discharged from the hospital and collapsed onto the bed.

The director of the Louvre had seen to it that your room was upgraded to the finest and most decadent suite in the hotel. On the museum’s dollar, of course. Yet, Flip was still scowling deeply, his brow furrowed and jaw set tight, his words coming out as gritted and growling when he spoke to you.

“Two weeks, sugar,” Flip bemoaned. “I can’t believe we’re fuckin’ stuck in this goddamned country for another two weeks.”

“Those were your discharge instructions,” you affirmed with an amused smile. “No flying. No heavy lifting. And no strenuous activity. For two weeks.”

Flip huffed, grumbling a curse under his breath.

“It’s not all bad. Your Captain gave you paid time off and the Louvre is paying all of our expenses here.” You kissed his chest. “And I get the feeling that they won’t even say a word if we incur some additional and very lavish expenses.”

“Lavish expenses be damned,” Flip grouched. “They couldn’t pay me enough to stay here another fuckin’ day.”

“Look on the bright side. This will give us plenty of time to do everything this city has to offer,” you said happily, knowing just how much that thought appalled him.

“You can see the cup as half full all you want, but if it’s filled with piss, it’s still not somethin’ I’m real excited about,” he grumbled, chewing his lip.

“Do you think that shopping falls under ‘strenuous activity?’” you asked playfully. “I don’t think it would.”

Flip glared halfheartedly down at you where you laid on his chest. Feeling his eyes on you, you lifted your head to look at him, propping yourself up on his chest as you smiled at him. A smile you knew he could never resist, even if he knew you were ribbing him.

“No more cultural activities of any kind. No more goddamn horse meat.” Flip fixed you with his best teasing glare. “And no more fuckin’ museums, sugar.”

“You know what we could do while you’re taking it easy?” You beamed up at him. “We could see a show at the Moulin Rouge.”

“Well, it looks like gettin’ shot twice isn’t gonna be the worst part of this trip for me, is it?” Flip growled low, leaning toward your lips, as his arm wrapped around you tighter. “How about you and I start the new year off right? With both of us gettin’ off with a bang.”

***********************************************************************

© safarigirlsp 2021

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. ii: they whose lives do not taste of evil ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.7k

warnings: none that are chapter specific.

rating: m/t

notes: thank you to everyone who has loved on me and supported me after posting the first part of this! it really makes me so warm and fuzzy inside and i cannot express in words how grateful i am. ♡

as always, thank you to my love @starcrier for being my most wonderful beta. ♡♡

Morning light filters through the curtains in the bedroom. The air conditioning had clicked off moons ago, having decided that the room was at its sufficient temperature; now just a few rays of the sun are warming the carpet on her side, cutting across the cream-colored knit blanket at the foot of the bed. Through the windows, she can hear the bustle of New York—churning, grinding, a beast of its own as it laboriously beneath their own feet.

Sometimes, Euphemia thinks that she hates New York—that she misses the countryside in Italy, that she misses bare feet on grass and warm, dark earth and the sticky-wet of pulling fruit straight from the vine. Sometimes, Euphemia thinks that New York is a beast waiting for her, to swallow her up, teeth ripping through pavement and concrete and brick to bite bite bite until it reaches her.

But not today. Today, Euphemia is not thinking about the Beast. She is thinking only about the fact that Santino’s spot beside her is empty, and then she’s reminded that today he will be wandering out into the world under the Table to ask a man who doesn’t want anything to do with Santino to grant him a favor. To grant Santino what he is owed, as he would prefer it framed.

Euphemia sits up in bed. She’s not sure when it is that she finally fell asleep, but if the drag of exhaustion in her mind is any indication, it wasn’t very long ago. She can’t recall if she dreamt, or if she rested even at all—if she had to guess, she’d think she spent the entire night tossing and turning, restless, with the burning itch of John Wick’s threatening presence looming in her future.

She can hear Santino out in the kitchen; the smell of coffee drifts in through the open door. The blonde slips out of bed to wander out, her footfalls quiet on the plush carpet, and she sees him—dressed, polished up, as though he got a perfect eight hours of sleep. An old song hums through the speakers of the sound system on the entertainment stand.

So much for keeping him distracted, Euphemia thinks ruefully.

“Good morning,” Santino greets, pouring a cup of coffee and setting it on the island counter to scoot it in her direction. “You were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You could have,” Euphie replies, taking the cup in her hands and using it to warm her fingers rather than drinking the coffee. “It wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t feel like I have slept at all.”

“Yes,” he agrees somberly, “you were restless.” His hand reaches up, the pad of his thumb tracing the slope of her jaw. “My little worrier.”

She crinkles her nose at him, finally relenting and taking a sip of her coffee. He’s made it just the way that he knows she likes—strong, rich, cream and no sugar. Santino winds his arms around her and laces his fingers against the small of her back, leaning so that he can get a long, good look at her.

“Well, go on,” he prompts her, eyes glittering playfully. “I know you want to say something to keep me home.”

Euphie’s chest tightens. It’s a little cruel of him; he wants to hear her ask, even though they both know there’s nothing she could say to change his mind. He likes to have her ask just so he can tell her no, and usually, she won’t bite. Not for his ego.

But this is different.

She sets the coffee aside, her hands instead finding his chest, holding on to the lapel of his jacket. She says, “I don’t want you to go, Santi. Please don’t go. We can stay in bed all day, or—what if we went back to Italy? Just for a little while? My mother would like to see you, I know.” Swallowing, Euphie feels her lashes flutter, the desire to let her voice wobble with emotion almost overwhelming. I won’t, she thinks, I won’t cry. “We can do anything you want, but—not this.”

“Sweet Euphie,” Santi sighs, taking her face in his hands. “Così dolce, just for me, aren’t you?” He leans in and kisses her temple; for a split second, she thinks that he might acquiesce, that he might set it aside, even for one day—indulge her, the way that he likes to do. Santino has always wanted her to be selfish with him. When they’d started dating, it took her months to get used to the way he’d buy her anything, cook her anything, give and get her anything, and for a girl who’d had so very little for so long, it had almost been nauseating. She would eat her fill, and Santino would say, more, cara mia? Would you like more? As if he had known that allowing her to indulge herself in the fruits of his world under the Table would curse her to stay, forever.

And here she was. Stuck. Blissfully, dreadfully, wretchedly, sickeningly and wonderfully stuck.

“But no,” he continues, pulling back and tilting her chin up with his fingers. “Business needs to be taken care of before I can relax.”

Euphemia releases a breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. It’s not an unexpected response, but she won’t kick herself for trying—not considering the circumstances, considering what he is leaving to do. In anything else, she might have been too proud to say please.

Her fiancé plants a kiss on both of her cheeks. “Drink your coffee,” he commands, his voice light as he grabs his phone and tucks it into his pocket, heading for the door. “What time is the engagement party?”

“Seven,” Euphie replies tiredly. She does as he bids like it’s second nature to her now, taking a drink of the coffee. “Be back by five, Santi.”

His hand is on the handle to the door outside. She thinks she might be sick. He says, “Wear the red dress I like.”

“Maybe. If you behave.”

Santino flashes her a grin from the doorway. She wonders if anyone else is comfortable ordering him around, or if she’s just so accustomed to living with an apex predator that she’s become numb to his dangers.

“Yes, cara mia,” he purrs. “Anything you say.”

Except that isn’t true, she thinks, watching him open the door and greet Ares, who has been waiting—lurking, in the hall to the elevator, like the shadows cut across the floor from the chandelier lights. There is a tiny moment where their eyes meet over Santino’s shoulder, and Euphemia hopes that she might see pity; she’s miserable, after all, knowing that Santino is walking into a slaughterhouse.

As ever, Ares is unreadable. There is only the tiny, almost imperceptible quirk of the corner of her mouth, and then door is closed and Euphemia is alone. And there is a tiny, vicious part of her that says, we ought to get used to being alone. We never should have forgotten it in the first place.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Santino is late, and when he shows up, he doesn’t say whether things went well or not.

They must have gone well enough, because he’s alive and in one piece and in a fine enough mood. But that is the problem—his mood is fine. He arrives at his own engagement party in a fine mood, and Euphemia can’t decide what’s more irritating: that he’s late, that he won’t tell her how it went, or that he can’t fake being delighted for a few hours.

“Ah, there’s your man,” Winston says, a smile lifting his expression. The older man had been keeping her company as the hour ticked by and she had to say hello and hi and thank you to every guest attending at Santino’s behest—yet another frustrating detail, Euphemia mentally notes, that he’d bothered all of these folks to show up and didn’t have the decency to arrive on time himself. She’s very certain that Winston did not intend to stay as long as he has, and for that, she feels poorly.

But she’s too irritated to express it properly. “Is that one mine?” Euphie asks lightly, turning her gaze away from Santino striding into the room and getting stopped by guests on his way to her. She twists her untouched champagne flute in her fingers, fixing her gaze back on Winston. “No man of mine would come late to his own party. Not if he wanted to walk out in one piece.”

Winston laughs at her words and gives her hand a pat. “You are a woman after my own heart, Euphemia Volpe.”

“I’ll be accepting applications for the position of my husband shortly, I think.”

She feels Santino’s hand on her waist just before he leans into kiss her cheek; the movement is so quick that she doesn’t have the time to properly avoid his affection, and he almost certainly does that on purpose.

“I am so glad you could come, Winston!” Santino announces, reaching and shaking the older man’s hand. “And that you got to spend some time with my own personal star.” He turns to her now, finally, reaching up to take her face in his hands. “Mi dispiace, Euphie, I did try to hurry.”

She tilts her head a little, lifting her chin out of his grasp. “Don’t apologize to me,” Euphemia replies. “Winston is the one you kept waiting.”

Santino grins. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes—or rather, it doesn’t look like the kind of grin that you make when you’re happy. Nothing about him screams happy, future wedded-bliss. Everything looks strained, like someone’s pissed him off and he’s just had to do something about it.

He looks at Winston, dropping his hands. “I’m sorry, truly.”

The man waves his hand, as though it isn’t a big deal—but it is, Euphie knows, at the very least to her; Winston has always treated her kindly, regardless of whose arm she was on-and he puts a hand on Santino’s shoulder. “I only came to say congratulations and see this fine lady, and then I was going to be off. So—congratulations...” His gaze turns to Euphemia. “Miss Volpe.” He kisses both of her cheeks. “Here I have seen you. And I will be on my way.”

Euphie says, “Thank you for coming, Winston. You did not need to wait around for this idiot.”

“I never say no to time with a beautiful lady,” he admonishes, making to leave. “Santino just happens to be here.”

“I will walk you out,” Santino declares. He’s only just arrived, and he smells a little bit like smoke, and he’s carrying with him a strange, frantic energy; but before Euphemia can think to say anything, he’s kissing her—hard, and a little desperate, and she can feel an eerie tremble in his hands before he pulls away and takes her drink out of her hand and swallows the entire thing in one go.

And then he’s off. Walking away with Winston, who looks calm and unbothered by the erratic display (though Winston always looks that way, so it’s no good gauge for Euphemia to tell when something is off). But something is off. As they’re walking, Santino is talking to Winston with a frenetic urgency that translates only in ways she can recognize. To the outside eye, her fiancé is composed, and perhaps a little stressed, his strides collected and tight and his lopsided grin to sharp to be pleasant.

His kiss tastes of ash. She can feel it in her mouth, still, gunpowder and smoke lingering in the palette, but she will not bring herself to think about where it came from.

By the time Santino returns from “walking Winston out”—which probably means talking to Winston about something he doesn’t want Euphie to hear—she has decided to bring it up. She doesn’t know how, yet, but she’s going to do it.

He slides his arms around her as she visits with some of their friends, burying his face into the crook of her neck, like he just can’t stand not to be touching for a second longer. The conversation carries on blithely without her; Euphie reaches up and cradles the side of Santino’s face with her hand, fingers brushing the dark, honeyed curls at his temple. She’s decided to be sweet about it.

“You seem stressed,” she murmurs.

“Not stressed,” Santino replies, speaking the words into her neck. He sways a little, turning her in his arms and pulling her against him so that he can sway her with him. The movements are leisurely in comparison to the energy that he’s carrying; pushing and pulling with the lull of the delicate music playing overhead. It should be a dream, this engagement party. It’s all golden light and warmth billowing from an ornate fireplace, the people that she cares the most about celebrating her and Santino’s love.

Euphemia says, “You smell like smoke.”

It’s not a question, and Santino knows it. He holds one of her hands in his and presses their foreheads together.

“You are so beautiful, Euphie,” he sighs dreamily. He kisses her again—less urgent this time—and she knows what it means: it’s better if she doesn’t ask. She’s going to be a D’Antonio, which means that problems get taken care of for her, and she doesn’t have to worry about following up.

Still, while the warmth of his kiss is distracting and lovely, and the feel of his hands pressing into the base of her spine where the plunging back of the red silk dress he likes the best on her makes her skin break out in delighted goosebumps, she cannot help but think, I should know. I have a right to know what’s going on.

“Santi,” she begins, lower her voice even more, “if something has happened—”

“Nothing has happened,” Santino insists, turning her slowly before drawing her back against him. “Mia piccola volpe, stop fussing. I promised you, didn’t I?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Yes,” she replies after a minute, “you did.” But if something has happened, she wants to say, and can’t bring herself to because Santino is kissing her again, pleased with her concise and obedient answer; he kisses her again and again, between breaths, funneling all of his frenzied energy into her instead. He gives it to her to hold, but won’t tell her where it’s come from or why it’s there. Just shoves it into her for safekeeping.

People cat-call and holler and whoop and laugh, and he grins against her mouth, lifting her up against him playfully—just far enough off the ground that she loops her arms around his neck to steady herself, unable to focus on how frustrating it is to be worried, and not know why.

“Ti amo,” Santino rumbles against her collarbone, kissing there reverently. “What do you think about leaving, hm? Sneak out of our own engagement party early, so I can take you home and enjoy you properly?”

It sounds too good, to go home. It sounds too good, because just that morning, she was begging him not to leave.

“I don’t know,” she ventures, smoothing her hand absently over the lapel of his suit jacket once he’s set her back down. “I don’t know, Santi, I...”

Her voice trails off. Ares is by the door. Once, the woman had been a comfort to her; now, she’s a reminder of this traitorous thing Santino has done, this thing that sits between them but only he can see and touch and feel, and Euphie just has to suffer the consequences of it one way or another.

“Come on, cara mia,” he coaxes, drawing her eyes back to him, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger. “We can do whatever you want.”

There must be something he isn’t telling me, she thinks. Something that’s blown his pupils wide until the black at them is eating away at the gorgeous jade green of his irises. Something dreadful, that he knows she’ll hate. That she’ll fuss about.

The question sits there, just on the tip of her tongue. What about Wick? she wants to ask. But she already knows that he won’t tell her, and she is learning quickly not to ask.

Ignorance is bliss, anyway.