#Reconfigured Dark | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iamquiantrelle · 3 months ago

Text

BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

previous chapter | next chapter

Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

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

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

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

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

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

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

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

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

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

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton #mob!boss lewis hamilton #mob!lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x black reader

265 notes · View notes

thenameswinterfics · 1 month ago

Text

BETWEEN DARK AND THE VOID

Chapter 1 - L'Appel Du Vide

Header by me | Dividers by @emmanexelle | 18+ banner by @inklore

READ IT ON AO3

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x MutantFemale!Reader Setting: Thunderbolts* Summary: Reluctantly, after a call you accept to help Bucky, your ex-boyfriend, with a task. What should have been a simple impeachment becomes a New York rescue mission, swallowed by a mysterious dark fog. After failing to save two innocent people, and overwhelmed by guilt from your dark past, you answer the call of The Void and abandon yourself to the uncertainty of nothingness. It's up to Bucky to save you and bring you back. Word Count: 6.2 K Chapter Warnings: Thunderbolts* spoilers, Reader is a mutant with the molecular reconfiguration powers, angst, hurt, mention of past trauma, typical canon violence, mention of torture (not described), Reader being mean at first, protective Bucky, no use of y/n. If I have missed some CW, please let me know and I'll add them!

AN: I'm back, this time for real! I never thought that a Marvel movie and my old obsession with Bucky Barnes would bring the writing muses back to me. This is the first fic after some months of writing's block, so apologize if it's not perfect. Many thanks to my wife @sylasthegrim for helping me with the title and to my love @bcksbarnes for beta reading, brainstorming through the fic outline, being my cheerleader and simply bear with me. You're the best, I love you with all my heart! I highly expect this to flop, so thank you for the few ones who will read it.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST | BETWEEN DARK AND THE VOID MASTERLIST

Appel du vide: "The call of the void". French term that explains an urge to do something dangerous even though you don’t intend to.

The streets of New York had never been so dark.

The skyscrapers that once towered over the city, imposing and gleaming, now disappeared into a veil of darkness, their figures swallowed up in an ominous embrace. Even cars and people seemed to suffer the same fate, falling into a dark hole that slowly, but dangerously, spread through the streets; swallowing everything in its path.

Above this dark fog, Void stood, now in full control of Bob, watching the chaos unfold beneath his feet, not blinking at the high-pitched screams of people running for safety. As he stood, like a god descending to earth to judge mankind, he slowly raised a hand, transforming people into powdery silhouettes stuck to the ground, soon to be moulded by the impending darkness as it moved swiftly towards the crowd.

It was like the scene of one of the most terrifying horror films: planes crashing next to buildings, piles of rubble falling from the sky and destroying everything in sight, cries of children looking for their parents. People ran with every ounce of strength they had left to escape this dark nightmare that was spreading across the city like a living shadow, swallowing up hope, light and every trace of normal life in its relentless path.

But this was the reality. And nothing would seem willing to stop this madness.

You paused under a porch with the rest of the Thunderbolts, your cheeks flushed as you placed your palm against the cold plaster of the wall, your chest rising and falling at a fast pace. You could hear Bucky muttering a few words as he watched the city go pitch black, Walker holding an unstable Alexei, ranting about losing Yelena and not forgiving himself. Ava was the only one silent, pondering her next move, and you were glad that your powers did not allow you to read people's minds, or you would go mad between your own thoughts and those of others.

You knew something was wrong the moment Bucky called you after months of silence; given the strained relations between you two, you were even surprised that the former Hydra assassin - now Brooklyn Congressman - had the time to dial your number and ask for your support with a mission.

You were different from the other heroes and villains who lived among humans — there was something deep and unpredictable in your genetics that set you apart. Most of them chose to become one voluntarily, undergoing genetic experiments to enhance their physical abilities. Others were tech geniuses who compensated for their lack of physical strength with their intellect, building armour and other technical equipment to support civilians. Then there were those who were simply highly trained agents and assassins, who had spent most of their lives honing their bodies into weapons for use for either good or evil.

But you? You were born with powers; your genes had been mutating naturally ever since you were in your mother's womb. There were no labs, no special training, no choices. It was just you, emerging with untamed powers cursing through your veins, marking you as someone superior to the humans.

In the same way you didn’t choose who to work with, you were too young to understand the wrong hands you had fallen into. You were a victim of your own father’s plans to rule the world, seeing you as both his cherished daughter and his precious weapon.

After years of being chained against your will, you became a free spirit, travelling the world and playing the role of the hero you'd never been, helping people and saving them from the clutches of enemies. No matter how strong or bizarre the villains were, whether they were dangerous aliens from another universe or little bullies tormenting the weak boy at school: you would be there, steady and vigilant, protecting every human in your sight. Whether this was your sudden calling, or simply a way to lift your shoulders from the burden of your past, orto keep your hands clean from the innocent blood spilled, was hard for you to know.

But as you listened to Congressman Barnes' voice - low and soft, which was how he usually spoke to you - rattle on about a crucial task for the New York citizens, you realised how high the stakes were.

He called it “impeachment”, a way to remove Valentina and her shady business away from the CIA and the government, and valid witnesses were still on the loose. Four former assassins who cleaned the mess the woman made, four valid testimonies that would make Val’s empire fall like a house of cards. Who better than you to know the best tactics to track down a group of former criminals and catch them?

A part of you wanted to refuse — you were “cleaned” from that shady business. And how could you ever work for the political machine that still had a price on your head, after being a former criminal yourself? The same twisted mechanism that drove a wall between you and Bucky?

Yet, the shivers that ran down your spine when you heard Bucky's voice, the way his tongue rolled deliciously every time he called you 'doll', the pleading tone of his request, the puppy-dog steel-blue eyes that you could almost feel through the screen…it made it hard for you to decline.

And so there you were, stuck with your ex-boyfriend and a bunch of people you barely met less than 24 hours before, one of them lost into the darkness.

Not the best situation to find yourself in the last moments of your life.

“I’m going after her,” Ava said, breaking the silence as she marched quickly through the dark fog that continued to spread.

Bucky grabbed her arm with his vibranium hand, stopping her from carrying out her plan. “And then what?”

“If she walked there, she did it for a reason,” Ava answered quickly, nervously looking at the black fog spreading.

“What if she’s dead? What if there’s no coming back?” Bucky countered, the frustration and worry in his voice clear to hear. They had already lost Yelena, as well as many others who had fallen victim to Void’s actions. Deep down, he was regretful for not being the hero he wanted to be, and for letting down all the people who had applauded him just minutes before the disaster was unleashed.

It was a sight that reminded him of all the sleepless nights and looming nightmares, and of that damn little notebook with all those names marked in it, deluding him into believing he was absolved of sins he himself was not the main perpetrator of.

Your heart ached to see him so defeated. So remorseful.

"He's right, Ava," you said, standing up straight and joining the conversation. Your voice was still slightly breathless from the previous run. “Did we all see what happened to Yelena?” She was there with us, flesh and blood, with just a few scratches on her pretty face. And now? Puff! Vanished! Gone!” You grabbed your knees, allowing your lungs to catch as much air as they could before continuing. “Let’s get one thing straight. We lost. Just… how can we protect the people of this city if we aren’t able to defend ourselves? We can’t win against that thing. It’s over.”

A heavy silence fell over the group, and you almost cursed yourself for what you had said. Had they lifted the group's spirits? Of course not.

“You know? You have many great qualities, but comforting people isn’t one of them” said Ava, breaking the silence once again. Her voice was decisive and carried a hint of disdain. Then, she faced Bucky again, her gaze sweeping over the city. “And about Yelena. What if she isn’t gone?”

“How do you know that?” Bucky replied, his voice a little lower as he resumed his argument with her. You turned your head to look for any human who had escaped the powers of the Void, and that was where your world stopped.

And Bucky's words were the last you heard.

Everything around you grew muffled and distant, as if you were sinking underwater. You could hear Walker muttering something to the team, but his words seemed to come from miles away. Alexei's voice was next, you were sure of it, but this time you couldn’t make out his exact words. A third voice called out to you - who was it this time? Ava? Bucky? You imagining Yelena’s witty comments over you? You couldn't tell - it sounded like distant echoes.

You seemed gone, your mind disconnected from your body, travelling to another universe. But the truth was that something - or someone - caught your attention.

Your gaze was drawn to a small figure in the distance, wriggling through the rubble, and the rest of the world faded away. You could hear and feel the child’s loud cries in your ears and in your heart. You could feel your eardrums ringing and your chest tightening in an uncomfortable vice. Next to the child was a woman who quickly scooped him up and ran as if her life depended on it. They were running away — or at least trying to — desperately seeking refuge to save themselves temporarily.

They were like the same civilians that you had tried to help before but failed to save, and who had now been sucked into the void.

And suddenly your words ceased to make sense.

“We lost”, suddenly echoed in your head. “How can we protect the people of this city if we aren’t able to defend ourselves?” These words made you wrinkle your nose in disgust. How could you ever call yourself a hero when your mind was clouded by such pessimistic thoughts? Had you not sworn to protect the most vulnerable after leaving your brutal past behind?

The shame of your words gnawed at you, raw and relentless. Hearing the mother reassure her son, keeping her nerves steady despite the situation made you feel the urge to act again. They were a reminder of how hard they were still fighting. How they were still trying.

This gave you a new sense of hope. Maybe the war was far from over.

You quickly stood up, your hands trembling and adrenaline suddenly rushing through your veins as if your body had awoken from a paralysed state. Without thinking, you started running towards them, your mind filled with a new sense of purpose.

But your dreams of glory were cut short by a firm grasp on your arm and the coldness of metal beneath your leather tactical suit. You turned your gaze and saw Bucky watching you with a clenched jaw and a severe but worried look in his steel-blue eyes.

“Where do you think you're going, doll?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice, pulling you close with a firm grip. It was bruising, but not tight enough to cause pain.

“Let me go, Barnes!” you replied through clenched teeth, jerking your arm free. He loosened his grip and you stood facing each other while the rest of the group watched, ready to intervene if either of you lost your temper.

“There are still civilians out there who can be saved. I’ll go and keep them safe-”

“So what? Do you want to end up like Yelena? Disappearing inside that black thing and leaving no trace?” Bucky snapped at you, your sudden recklessness was the last thing he needed. There was no venom in his words, only concern and… Was it protectiveness what you felt?

“You've seen how devastated Alexei is. Do you think we can face another loss like that? Well, let me tell you something, doll. We can’t take another loss like that. I can’t bear the thought of losing you!”

You stared at him, stunned by his words. You noticed how his voice faltered when he said he couldn’t bear your absence, how his body trembled when he was overcome with anger and fear, and the apprehension lurking beneath his words. Suddenly, memories of your past together rushed wildly through your mind, making your breathing quicken and your heart hammer in your chest.

That was the Bucky you fell in love with. The damaged super soldier who struggled to find his place in the world. The man who would scream in the middle of the night, beads of sweat on his forehead, and you would rush to his side, cradling him in your arms and mentally curse Hydra for the damage they had done to him. The sweet, caring and overly protective man who would always watch your back on missions, check your wounds and kiss every inch of your bruised skin to ease the pain. The man who would not hesitate to sacrifice his life for you.

But that part of him died the moment he chose to run for Congress, hiding behind a cloak of righteousness that felt uncharacteristic. You could see it in the way he immersed himself in the country's twisted politics, pretending to read file after file and barely acknowledging your presence in the house. You could see it in the way he came home late and stressed from endless meetings, barely having time for you. And when you chose to run away and find your own place in the world? There were no messages, no missed calls and no attempt to trace you.

You became strangers. Never before had you considered going back to when life was easier for the two of you, when you would cuddle up together, feeling the ghost of his lips on yours.

No, there was no time to regret what had been. The lives of ordinary people were more important than a futile argument.

“James,” you called him, his real name felt strange on your tongue. “I saw a mother and child running through the streets, trying to find shelter. They can’t save themselves if we stand here mulling over what to do.”

You saw Bucky moving around nervously, his hands firmly on his hips and his gaze darting between the black fog and you. “You will fail like all the others we have saved before. Like we failed to keep Yelena with us. If they're not dead, they're stuck in that nightmare from which there's no escape."

“We don’t know if we don’t try!” you countered back, frustration rising in your voice as you heard the few people’s screams die behind you, making you more and more nervous.

“Oh, so Miss ‘We-Fail-Because-We-Suck’ feels guilty and decided to return to action?” Walker joined the conversation, a hint of mockery in his serious voice.

“I don't need you to remind me of what I said before, Walker, thank you,”' you replied, annoyed. “Stay here and mutter all you want, but those two people outside are still our last hope, and I won’t be the one to let them down.”

You approached Bucky with slow and deliberate steps, your hand raised in an attempt to cup his cheek but you stopped mid air, afraid that he would not welcome your gesture. It was the intensity of his gaze that made you want to give up, but then your hand was on his cheek, gently rubbing his stubble.

“I’ve seen that look of yours, James. Every damn time. You think it’s because of you why we’re all stuck here, you feel guilty because you brought us with you and see the failure of your actions in our eyes,” you spoke to him, low and soft, as if you were talking to a frightened child, “You have done more than enough. You couldn't have foreseen that this would happen. You have all played your part. Now it's my turn. Let me make things right for once in my life.”

You were about to turn and leave the group when you felt a sudden warmth anchor you in place — a firm, slightly trembling hand covering yours. Bucky's hand held yours with an intensity you hadn't felt in years. In that breathless instant, his steel-blue eyes met yours, no longer guarded or distant. Behind them was something burning and pleading, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, desperate to be heard before the wind carried everything away.

“I won't allow you to sacrifice yourself, doll,” Bucky replied firmly, his voice contrasting with the anxiety he was feeling. Drawing on the last of your mental strength, you slipped your hand out of his.

“I'm not going to ask your permission,” you said, turning your back on him. Before his hands could reach you again, you were gone, like sand carried by the wind.

The city opened up before you, revealing a surreal scene: the dusty streets were strewn with debris and parts of places had been destroyed amid the chaos that had unfolded. But it was the deafening silence that struck you the most, so atypical for such a huge, lively city.

In the distance, you could hear the soft, quick footsteps of the remaining survivors, the gradually fading noise of cars, and several thuds that echoed in the air — a sign that they had been sent into that darkness with no apparent escape.

You were now standing in an open field, easily navigating the debris as you scanned the area for the mother and son running away in the distance. Maintaining your focus, you pressed your palms against the boulders, which shattered into many small pieces as they fell softly to the ground. Dust swirled in the air as you moved forward with fluid, measured movements, turning over large boulders and clearing the way for the civilians still fleeing.

From a young age, you had the ability to manipulate matter and turn it into whatever you pleased. You first demonstrated this ability when you were with your mother at home. A soft crackling sound came from the ceiling, startling you both, but it wasn’t serious enough to cause any alarm. Then the crack spread further and splinters of wood began to fall to the ground. When you saw that the entire beam was about to collapse, something inside you snapped.

At first, it felt as if time had stopped and the wooden beams were gracefully floating above your head. Then, as if in response to an unspoken command, you could feel the air humming around you. The matter melted and reformed as the splintered wood bent and flowed like liquid silk. The newly formed jagged shards fell to the ground like a thousand needles.

Your father called this a blessing. You called it a curse.

As you grew up, you learned about the dangerous paths you could take with your abilities, and your father forced you to do things you would later regret. You reshaped walls, floors and ceilings whenever you needed to break in unnoticed; you turned a broken chair into a weapon whenever there was a fight; and you were quick to disarm enemy weapons. You could still remember how easily you turned an endowed rifle into a puddle of dark liquid, giving you an advantage in close encounters.

It wasn't just the objects that could be mutated; the enhancements to your powers also enabled you to reshape human molecular structures. At first, the changes were subtle – a quick realignment of a shoulder or cauterisation of a wound. Then, under your father’s command, you were pushed further and soon learned how to break and reform bone density, alter muscle tissue and dull pain receptors in others to force compliance or enhance physical performance.

You couldn’t count how many people you'd fixed before breaking them in the most vicious ways, some of them not surviving at your powers. You wore their pleading eyes and cries of help as a second skin, and the helplessness in their eyes was the purpose that made you escape from a reality that had become suffocating, that brought you only regret and endless nightmares.

And you swore to keep this part of your life buried forever.

After looking around, your gaze finally fell upon two figures stumbling around on the ground, recognizing them as the mother and child you had seen with the group earlier. Behind them, the black blanket advanced threateningly. It would only take a few minutes before they, too, would become black silhouettes on the ground.

Mustering all your remaining strength you moved hurriedly, your adrenaline winning over your aching legs. Clearing the path of debris, you were quick to reach the two people, swiftly reaching for their arms and helping them up, before turning and running in the opposite direction of the fog.

“Keep going and don’t look back!” you called out, your voice slightly hoarse from the fatigue, “I’m here. You’re safe with me.”

The woman blinked rapidly and placed her child safely at her side, a flicker of gratitude crossed her frightened gaze. This stirred something new inside you, filling your chest with a sense of contentment. You were used to people looking at you with fear and submission, as if you were a monster walking among them. But this woman thanked you silently with her eyes? It made you believe that you were finally doing something right in your life.

You took a deep breath before resuming your run. Controlling two bodies while sprinting through wreckage was no easy feat, but you didn’t let that deter you. Your resolve was hard to falter.

As you scanned the horizon, only one safe place emerged in your mind: the porch where the Thunderbolts were watching you - silent and still while holding their breath - the only place in the whole city untouched by the spreading darkness, the only place that could shelter two civilians before coming up with a plan to stop that madness.

You were both halfway through the run when you felt your lungs burning inside, the muscles in your body desperately pleading mercy - you felt the need to stop and give yourself some time. But you couldn’t, no. You won’t stop.

This wasn’t about your endurance anymore. This was about safety.

And so you kept pushing harder with your legs, sprinting firmly but under control to prevent the people holding hands with you from falling during the path. Step by step, you could see the arch approaching on the horizon, and a sense of relief washed over you: you were almost there. One more little effort and your mission would be accomplished.

You could do this. You had to do this.

And then you felt it.

Thud.

A piercing, howling sound reached your ears, sending shivers down your spine. For a moment a part of you feels lighter, as if you were running faster. But it was when you turned back and checked the mother and child’s health that reality stuck at you as a loud smack in your face.

They were gone, turned into powdery silhouettes, stuck in the ground and sent who knows where.

The realisation hit you, fear crept into every bone in your body and, for a moment, you forgot how to breathe properly. Your body was completely spent after being pushed to its limit, and you felt your legs giving in, collapsing under your weight.

The air felt heavy, your surroundings blurring into emptiness as every sound faded until complete silence was reached. But only one noise crept into your mind: an annoying little voice repeating a phrase that had been your mantra all your life.

You failed.

The thought was sharp and cruel, gripping your heart like a vice and making you feel sick. 'You failed' repeated over and over again like a broken record, a merciless reminder that no matter how hard you tried to be a hero and do things right, you failed.

How could you protect the people of this city if you just kept getting them into trouble?

The dark fog continued to advance undisturbed, engulfing and reclaiming the mother and her son's shadows. The group's attempts to bring you back were in vain: shouting and inviting you to join them on the porch, you couldn’t hear them, too focused on the darkness reaching you. Soon, you would become part of that nothingness — a nothingness you thought belonged to you.

It was there that you raised your head, and you finally saw him clearly.

The Void.

The dark figure floated motionless in the air, looking at you with white spotlights that seemed to peer into your soul. You didn’t see his lips curl into a mocking smile, nor did you feel the judgement leaving his mouth – if you could have seen it – instead, he just looked at you as if waiting for your next move.

He tilted his head slightly before finally speaking up. His voice was deep, and its measured pace reflected the weight of her words, which hung in the air like an approaching storm.

“Is that why you're so sad? We're all alone. Hopeless. Without redemption.”

And you never felt so understood in your life.

You were used and abused countless times, your mind bent by the will of people who wanted to use your powers for ulterior motives, and you were too young and scared to break free.

By the time you realised what they had turned you into, it was too late. You looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise yourself: not your face, not your eyes, and certainly not your hands. Hands that you had washed almost maniacally every day, watching the water turn red in your eyes when it was actually crystal clear. You couldn’t find comfort in the silence; only the cries of men and women begging you to stop torturing them and leave them alone filled your ears. It was all too much for you to bear. How many of them had families who would never see them again? The same happy family that was ripped away from you when you were just a child, a victim of your father’s ambitions?

You thought Bucky could be your beacon in the storm. Hell, that man’s life was a horror story, and he could empathise with your sins and past mistakes. But you were too afraid to tell him about your past, afraid that he would turn you away after learning that you had committed crimes possibly worse than his own. Now your paths were divided by an invisible wall, and you had never felt so alone.

Nothingness is all you have left.

Acting on impulse, you stood up and marched silently towards the dark fog. There was no wavering in your actions, no second thoughts.

The Void was calling you, and you were eager to answer its call.

You heard someone - a very familiar voice - shout at you to turn around. But this didn’t stop your silent march; your body moved towards the dark needles approaching you as if on autopilot.

All you had to do was take a step, and all your pain and remorse would disappear with you.

While hearing a muffled, raw, broken scream, your foot stepped onto the black ground.

And your body moulded into the darkness.

Bucky felt as if his world had collapsed in on itself. Destroyed, disintegrated in the same way his own body had turned to dust years ago when Thanos claimed half of the population's lives by snapping his fingers.

This time, however, the Avengers would not be there to save the day. No one would build a time machine and retrieve six powerful stones, nor would anyone snap their fingers and bring back all the people swallowed by the void.

You were gone, just like Yelena. Just like everyone else.

His mind short-circuited, the guilt of not being able to save New York’s people mingled with the regret of not being able to stop you and your selfless actions. Countless images and what-ifs crossed his thoughts — what if he had followed you and pulled you away sooner? What if he had been more insistent and said no? What if he had been strong enough to counter your stubbornness, to hold you in his arms and never let you go again?

But there were no answers in the echoes of what-ifs. Only silence.

Unlike his former self, Bucky was never one for many words. His time in the clutches of Hydra was enough to break his spirit, strip him of his confidence, and rob him of his cheerfulness. All that remained were the emotional scars that would never fade. He became a shell of his former self: a grumpy, introverted 110-year-old man who believed that pain was an inevitable part of life and was more inclined to expect negative things than positive ones.

Since being released, he had spent most of his days trying to make amends and find a way to redeem himself. He would sit in the eerie quietness of his apartment, muttering about a past that still haunted him, and about the ghosts of all the people he had murdered and who came to visit him in his sleep. Then he would wake up with short, frantic gasps, his gaze fixed on an empty spot, while the sound of the television in the background tried — in vain — to calm his racing heart.

Bucky slipped into a daily routine that he struggled to adjust to: mandatory therapy sessions in the morning, undertaken more out of a sense of duty than for relief; solo missions throughout the day to erase the names of people on his list who wanted closure. Loneliness in the evening and nightmares at night. Each day was the same as the previous one, and the day after that would be the same again.

But you? You were the one who shattered his monotonous routine.

You slipped quietly into Bucky's life and became the spark that ignited it. Despite the aura of mystery that wrapped you like a veil, you gave him a sense of purpose, helping him to break free from his endless cycle of pain and self-loathing. With you, he rediscovered the meaning of love and being loved. His fear of being touched melted away beneath the warmth and delicacy of your touch. His body trembled and demanded more, his flesh burned under your fingerprints. Whenever he felt insecure, you would remind him that every part of him was perfect, kissing and adoring the scars on the joint of his metal shoulder — the part of him he disliked the most, but which you were immediately drawn to.

But your love was not enough to appease his desire to help others and redeem his past, and when the world of politics opened up, something between you cracked. Soft whispers of love turned into heated arguments and nights curled up in bed together became a distant memory. You grew further and further apart until you disappeared without trace.

In the silence of his feigned apathy, Bucky’s heart was breaking; your distance was far worse than the torture inflicted by Zola and his men. Relief filled his chest when you agreed to help him, albeit reluctantly, and part of him promised that, once Valentina was out of the picture, he would take you in his arms and kiss every inch of your face, murmuring endless apologies against your skin. His arms would wrap around your waist as he promised that he would never push you away again, in the hope that you would both have the restart you deserve.

But now The Void had taken you, trapping you in his dark fog, and with you, every possibility of reconciliation had disappeared.

Bucky could feel his legs trembling beneath him. If it were not for Alexei’s strong arms supporting him, he would have fallen to the ground. The group stood in silence, watching as Bucky’s face contorted with desperation and misery. His blue eyes were glassy and devoid of light, and his mouth moved involuntarily, whispering apologies that could not be heard. It was a sign that he had given up, that all your efforts to stop Bob were in vain, and that giving him the whole city was the only solution to this never-ending puzzle.

Just when he felt he had hit rock bottom, a glimmer of hope took him by surprise. His head turned slightly towards the darkness, and he was struck by a sudden epiphany.

His mind darted back to the conversation he had had with the Thunderbolts just minutes earlier, before your stubbornness had won out over your rational thinking and led you to your suicide plan. He remembered how Walker had approached him and Ava, admitting that she was right and that there was indeed something lurking in the darkness. The former Captain America recalled the dread he had felt after touching Bob, reliving for a bit the period in his life when everything had fallen apart, when he had failed both as a father and a husband.

A part of him was partially relieved that this could not be the end, that somehow you and Yelena could be saved. It was the reviving of the past that frightened him, more yours than his. Bucky had always been unaware of your history, having confessed at your behest your despondency at reliving certain stages of your life. He feared what you might be forced to witness and how you would change after returning to him. How broken you would be.

With a newfound strength Bucky stood up, his gaze resting on the dark fog, which had almost engulfed most of the city.

“She must be trapped somewhere there,” Bucky muttered with his jaw clenched, drawing the group's attention. “I have to get her out of there.”

Ava was the first to respond, almost nodding in agreement with his idea. “Thank you,” she said. “Someone who supports my plan!”

“So, what’s the plan? We go in, find Yelena and our mutant friend, and then what?” Walker mused, his hands placed on his lips. He watched Bucky moving his first steps, almost leaving the porch and facing the fog alone.

“Stay there. I’m going to drag her out of this and we’ll be back,” he growled, his eyes flaring with anger and determination: your safety was his priority.

“What!?” echoed Ava and Walker together, their faces contorted in dismay at the former Winter Soldier’s sudden declaration.

“Hey, hey, slow down a bit” Alexei interrupted, wrapping his strong hand around Bucky’s vibranium shoulder and forcing the ex-assassin to turn and look at him. “I know you’re the mighty Winter Soldier, and you’re cool enough to be unstoppable and kick everyone’s ass along the way. But you can’t face this alone. We must stick together as the Thunderbolts!”

Bucky looked down and his jaw tightened as he absorbed the Red Guardian’s words. Although temporarily blinded by his protective instincts towards you, he had to admit that Alexei was right. He could not face the threat alone if the enemy had expanded their powers on a large scale.

He closed his eyelids, inhaling deeply before resting his gaze on the remaining team, looking at them with a solemn expression.

“We'll go there together, then. Try to find Yelena once you’re inside. I’m going to find my girlfriend, and then we’ll manage to meet up together. Is all that clear?” he said solemnly, the word “girlfriend” still spilling easily from his mouth despite your relationship having ended years ago.

At first, silence was their answer. The group quickly exchanged glances, as if looking for implicit confirmation from each other. Then, after moments that seemed like an eternity, the three looked at Bucky, approving his plan as a new sense of hope lifted the group’s spirit.

Walker turned his gaze towards the dark hole and took the first steps towards it. “Try not to get stuck there, Bucky,” he said dryly, the super soldier’s faint smirk was his only answer.

“Let’s go, Thunderbolts!” Alexei roared in support, his spirits lifted again by the slightly increased possibility of seeing Yelena alive.

All four of them entered the ghostly city, the fresh air of New York caressing their skin for the last time before darkness consumed them. Ava was the first to step inside, her body being claimed as soon as her feet touched the black ground. Walker and Alexei followed, marching with no hesitation as their bodies turned into shadows and were claimed by the darkness.

When it was Bucky’s turn, he hesitated at first. He stood still and watched the dark needles advance quickly, covering the shadows of his friends and then going to claim him.

He lifted his gaze slightly, looking into the heart of the darkness. Countless images of his past flashed before his eyes and his spirit was weakened by the thought of reliving a past that he had spent his whole life trying to redeem, wearing its scars like a second skin.

But he remembered the purpose of his actions, and a new wave of determination pushed him into action. He would rewatch his torture and brainwashing, he would fight his former self as the Winter Soldier, he would never let the souls of the people he had tortured and brainwashed leave him, haunting him with their desperate cries and laughing at him every time he woke up trembling on the floor after another nightmare.

If walking back from that darkness meant pulling you out from there, then no trauma would be able to stop him from reaching his purpose.

Bucky took a deep breath before continuing his advance, his feet almost touching the black floor as he entered the tunnel.

And after taking the last step, his world went black.

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.7

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @volklana @sylasthegrim @watermeezer

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #james barnes x reader #james barnes x you #james barnes x y/n #bucky fanfiction #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts bucky #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic

113 notes · View notes