#Santino getting fucked with a gun :)

[bluelolblue]

Favorite Toy

Summary: Being Santino D'Antonio's bodyguard and in a secret relationship with him makes for interesting afternoons. John was cleaning his gun after a job when Santino pushed him to take a break... by using his favorite gun to fuck him.

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Santino D'Antonio/John Wick

Note: Here it is, the gun fucking fic! Finally finished. I got inspired by one post from @evrensadwrn for this, and it's been months since that AHAH!

☆ SPECIAL THANKS TO @mrssimply ☆ for beta reading, helping with it, and doing research! Everyone say thank you MrsSimply because Santino would've ended up in a hospital if we went with my first idea LMAO!

Enjoy Santino being fucked with a gun ^ ^

●・○・●・○・●

Snippet

There's nothing that can surprise John about Santino. Not anymore.

Sleeping with his boss was already a risky move. To him at least.

Every bodyguard signed an agreement that they were not allowed to be in any romantic or sexual relationship with their bosses.

However, Santino didn't care about that. A damn contract wasn’t going to determine with whom he can and cannot fuck.

John was fucking good. Handsome. Strong. Loyal. Everything Santino adored.

And the way he used his weapons! It didn’t matter if it was a gun, a knife or something else. He used them well, in such a professional and attractive way.

Santino loved to watch him in action, and maybe he was a bit embarrassed to admit it, but he got turned on by it. The amount of nights he had spent pleasuring himself while thinking about John killing people he was ordered to, with any kind of weapon... or just his hands, was a bit ridiculous.

His hands. They were big, bigger than his. When John gripped his hands while they fucked and Santino got a chance to look at them, his hands were actually huge compared to his.

Sometimes his hands wwere covered in small cuts from shards of glass or a knife, but they were always soft. No matter how strong of a grip John had, his hands are always soft.

And they felt amazing around Santino's neck.

This evening Santino watched John carefully as he cleaned some of his guns, going over them with a tissue. Santino watched the way his hands moved gracefully, how he gripped them, sliding the tissue over the barrel.

“You're quiet today,” John said after a while. Santino blinked, making eye contact with him.

“Just thinking,” Santino replied quietly, smiling faintly at him.

“Yeah? About what?” John asked over a small chuckle.

“About how you're stroking this gun the same way you stroke me.”

That made John nearly drop his gun. Of course Santino was gonna say something like that. “Well... I take good care of the things and the people I like,” He placed his gun on the counter.

“And I care for you,” John smirked. Santino chuckled and got closer to him, reaching for his tie.

“Are you saying you care for me as much as you care for a gun?” He asked playfully and looked up at him, lust and desire swimming in his eyes.

Read the rest on ao3

[kavalyera]

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

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

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

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

their fates are sealed

[happy74827]

One Call Away

[Wade Wilson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: During one of his "jobs," Deadpool gets a call from his favorite gal [GIF Creds: jdsheart]

WC: 1970

Category: Fluff, Major Comedy {TW: Deadpool’s Humor/Nonfiltered Personality}

This man is so hard to write. I’m always stressing the noggin when it comes to planning and plotting 😔

『••✎••』

"And away we go..."

One neck crack and a couple of hip twists later, he was off like Aladdin and his fucktoy carpet, scaling the building similarly to a chameleon on LSD.

The only thing that was missing was some epic music.

He'd been chasing this baddie around the city for almost two days now. Some big-shot mob boss with ties to Hydra, or the Mafia, or the Yakuza, or some other three-letter-acronym organization. It was hard to keep track of them all at this point. They were all the same, except for the name.

They all had their own agenda.

Kill him, keep him prisoner, pay him off...

Wade never cared enough to listen because it was always the same. He just got hired to do the dirty work, and the pay was good.

The killing was better.

This one, however, was particularly good at eluding him. He'd been trying to get his hands on this man for a few days now. It wasn't as though he was trying to be stealthy or anything, either. He'd walked right up to his front door, knocked, and was greeted with a spray of machine gun bullets.

So, the usual.

But then the guy ran and didn't stop. It was like the fucking Roadrunner met Sonic the Hedgehog, and they decided to fuck around and find out.

Wade was getting real sick and tired of being a Roadrunner, too. He had a reputation to uphold. He wasn't known as the Merc with the Mouth for nothing. He was supposed to be the one doing the running and the killing.

Not the other way around.

Finally, finally, he managed to reach the roof where the guy was currently taking cover behind a small brick shack. The sun was rising, but it was still dark, and there were a couple of floodlights shining on the rooftop. It made him think of the night he'd had that heart-to-heart with Blind Al, even though all she really wanted was for him to bring her some of that special brownie mix.

What a night that had been.

But anyway, this monologue is starting to get too long, and we should probably move things along, eh?

Right.

So, the baddie.

His name was something long and non-English.

Salvatore, or Santino, or Salvation... Whatever the fuck it was, it didn't really matter. What mattered was that it was time to make him dead.

He stepped around the corner and was met with a spray of bullets, all of which lodged themselves into his Kevlar vest.

"Oh, come on!" he yelled over the sound of the gunfire. "This is real leather, you know. I'm tired of all the offscreen sewing and shit."

When the spray finally ended, he took a moment to catch his breath.

"…ow," he whispered to himself.

"You shouldn't have followed me here," the man said.

"Yeah, whatever," Deadpool replied. "Look, I'll make this easy for you. You drop down and give me fifty, and I'll let you keep that hideous mustache you're sporting."

The man's eyes widened in surprise.

"It's not that bad, is it?"

"Yes, yes it is," Deadpool assured him. "You got a squirrel living in it or something?"

"It's just a little bit of gray, you dick," the man argued. "What about you? What's with the mask? Are you hiding a mustache under there, too, or something? Maybe some acne scars?"

Deadpool shook his head and stepped forward, his guns drawn.

"Don't come any closer!"

"You know, this would be much more intimidating if you didn't look like a cartoon mouse."

"Stop it with the mustache!"

"Alright, alright," Deadpool said. "Enough with the mustache. But what is it about your hairline? I can't put my finger on it."

The man sighed in exasperation and pulled out his pistol, aiming it right at Deadpool's face.

"Hey now, don't point that at me," Deadpool scolded him. "That's not a very nice thing to do."

He ignored him and pulled the trigger, a loud boom ringing out as the bullet fired. It whizzed by him but missed its mark.

"You really are a dick," He grumbled before aiming his gun right between the man's eyes. And he was going to shoot, honest.

He really was.

But then his phone rang, and he was well-reminded of the current song playing through his head.

I'm a buff baby that can dance like a man. I can shake-ah my fanny, I can shake-ah my can!

Needless to say, he was distracted.

He lowered his gun and looked down at his pocket, where his phone was still ringing and still vibrating against his leg.

"Shit, hold that thought," He said to the guy, and he holstered his gun.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?!"

Deadpool put his finger up to shush him before pulling his phone out of his pocket to answer it.

If you're an evil witch, I’ll punch you for fu—

"Heyyyy," he said in a sing-songy voice, "you've reached the phone sex hotline. For kinks and fetishes, press one. For booty calls, press two. For your favorite mercenary, press three."

"Ey, pendejo—" His opponent started, but he cut him off by snapping and raising his finger.

"Cut it, Tuco Salamanca. Breaking Bad called and wants its meth-cooking mustache back."

"Wha-I-you-"

"Anyways, this is your favorite merc speaking. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"Is this a bad time?"

Wade's eyes widened in shock, and his jaw dropped open when he heard her voice on the other end of the line.

"Baby girl! Is that you? Oh, how I've missed your voice. It's like hearing an angel, or an angelic chorus, or a whole bunch of angels, but you're the most important one. Like, the lead singer or something."

"I literally saw you last night." Your voice was always drenched with the most amazing kind of sarcasm, and he'd missed it.

"And?"

"It's only been a few hours."

"And?"

"That's a short amount of time."

"And?"

You sighed, but he knew you weren't really annoyed.

"Anyways, you sounded busy," you continued, "so I'll just let you go."

"What?! No! Don't hang up!" He shouted into the receiver. "I've only fiddled with my pistols! Nothing interesting is happening right now!"

"Your pistols, huh?" You asked a hint of mischief in your voice.

"Well, yeah. They're the most important part of the mission, you know."

In the corner of his eye, he could see his target making his way towards the edge of the building. Quickly and efficiently, without dropping his attention from his conversation with you, he lifted his gun and fired a shot at the man's knee.

"Ah, fuck!" the man screamed in pain. "My knee!"

"Hey! Language!" Deadpool scolded him. "The lady of the house is listening!"

"Lady of the- what the fuck?!"

"I said language, you mustachioed rat!"

"Mustachioed rat?" You asked.

"Sorry, babe," he replied. "You know how excited I get when Downtown Abbey is on."

“There’s gunshots in Downtown Abbey?"

"Gunshots? Oh, no, no. That was… uh, a car alarm. Yeah, the neighbor's car alarm was going off."

"Uh-huh," you said, not sounding very convinced. And, of course, that was right around the time the guy's gun went off again, this time hitting him square in the shoulder. It made the phone fall out of his hand and clatter onto the ground, but the call was still connected.

"Dammit!" He yelled, looking at the fresh blood dripping down his arm. "That's gonna take forever to heal!"

"Who are you talking to?" The man demanded, his gun still aimed at Deadpool's face. "You're working with someone?"

"Hey, now, I don't remember giving you permission to talk," Deadpool told him, holding his bloody arm up to his face. "Look, I've gotta call you back, babe. I know it's been so heartbreakingly long—"

"Again, only a few hours," you said.

"—but duty calls. Love you, bye."

"Love you, bye."

With that, the line disconnected.

"Ugh," he groaned, his heart aching for the loss of your sweet voice. "I miss her already."

"Ey," his opponent growled, drawing his attention. He started speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, which Deadpool didn't really understand, but he didn't have to. The guy was just ranting and raving.

"Alright, alright, chill," Deadpool said. "Just calm down. It’ll all be over soon, little buddy."

"I am not little! I am a giant!" The guy protested, and Wade could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. "And I will not chill!"

"Well, can't argue with that, I guess," Deadpool said with a shrug, and he took aim. But before he could pull the trigger, the guy was running again.

"Hey, what did I tell you about running?!" He yelled, but his voice fell on deaf ears as the guy reached the ledge.

"I am a giant!"

"No, you're a giant asshat!"

"I will not be bested by some masked buffoon!"

"Buff? Me? Why, I never!"

"You're the biggest asshole I've ever met!"

"You know what? I am a big ass! A big, round, bubbly ass." He paused for a second. "Hey, what's your favorite flavor?"

"Fuck you, you red-clad imbecile!"

"You know, I'd ask you out to dinner first, but we're kinda past that now."

"Argh!"

"Alright, enough stalling," Deadpool said. "It's time to end this."

"Yes," the guy said, turning his gun back on Deadpool. "It is."

Of course, Deadpool being the smart-ass he was, he'd already taken a step to the side. As the bullet whizzed past him, he reached for his gun.

"Now, where did I put that thing? Oh, there it is."

He aimed the gun and fired, and the man fell back onto the ground. The bullet hit him right in the middle of his forehead, his blood splattering all over the concrete.

"Ha ha! Fatality. Deadpool wins!" He said, his voice taking on the deep, grounded tone of the narrator from Mortal Kombat. "Flawless Victory."

He stood over the body for a few seconds, reveling in his victory, before he felt the presence of another.

The gun on his right side got ripped from its holster, and the barrel was aimed back into his face, as it always seems to be.

But, he already sensed it was coming, so his fingers wrapped around his other and aimed that right in the golden spot… and let’s just say, The Golden Girls was a little less golden and a lot more crimson.

"Wow, this has got to be a record," He said as he bent down to stare at the new one’s anguish. "Two dead ugly mustaches in the same day. You can call me Sweeney Todd because shit… I just shaved you the fuck up."

He didn’t give the poor bastard a chance to even whimper before he fired another two shots into the man's head. All in all, this had been the easiest payday he'd had in a while.

He picked up his cell phone and slipped it back into its pocket before bending down and scooping up the mustache man's pistol.

"Ooh, lookie here, a nice, shiny new pistol," he said to himself. "Just what I've always wanted. Well, I don't actually need it. It's not like I have any other holes in my body, but you know what they say. The more the merrier."

He stuffed the gun in his holster and turned around, heading back the way he'd come.

"Time to get back to the good stuff," he said. "I have a date with my favorite girl."

He hopped up onto the ledge and looked down, his eyes locking on the window to his apartment.

And when he arrived, bloody and battered, you could only smile while holding up little ole Mary Puppins in all her drooling glory.

God, how he missed his girls.

[multific]

The End or The Beginning

Vincent De Gramont x Reader

Summary: In order to save John's life. You offer yours.

You were a really good assassin. Many fought to have you work for them.

John was a really old friend of yours.

You knew him even before he left.

In your eyes, John was a difficult man.

He wanted out, then he wanted in and now he wants out again?

He said he wanted to be free. But freedom is all he had.

You understood the reason he took revenge. You understood that Santino didn't give him a second choice. 

But you were a firm believer that freedom starts within. And then you can achieve it.

John was never free.

He might have buried his guns. But he never buried the assassin within him.

And now, now you had to yet again, save his ass.

But The Marquis was a completely different case.

You heard about him and you also knew that this fight against John might never fully stop.

So, you had a simple offer.

"I'll work for you and in exchange you and the High Table leave John Wick alone. He will be a free man and you get to have me on your side." a simple offer. Anyone would be stupid to say no.

You were legendary.

But you also had a feeling that the Marquis would be too smart to give up John Wick and too cunning to give up the opportunity of you working for him.

You knew he would try and make you work for him. 

So, you were careful with him. You heard about him after all.

When he asked you into his office so he can give you an answer, you were happy to walk in and not only put on a show, but also enjoy it.

You knew this would be difficult, but you were ready.

Or so you thought.

You certainly were not ready for the gorgeous red and black suit he was wearing.

You were not ready for the handsome face waiting for you.

You honestly thought the Marquis would be an older man like Winston.

But you were wrong.

Very wrong.

He was handsome, smart, looked good in a suit and he had power.

He was tall, lean yet muscular, and that accent... 

You thought you had the upper hand... you were wrong.

Very wrong.

And judging by the smirk on his face, he was aware of it as well. 

You watched him as he was thinking about your proposition. 

You were honestly ready for almost any idea he would have.

You were ready for him to come up with something where John would still need to die.

You even thought he might somehow go as far as having you kill John.

"Would you die for John Wick?" he suddenly asked.

"Die for him?"

"Yes, would you?"

You had to think for a second.

"No."

"Then why offer your services for the rest of your life in order to save his?"

"Because I'm sick and tired of it. Ever since he killed that asshole's son, all I hear is how great he is. All I see is my friends die to his hands."

"Then why not kill him yourself?"

"Because John and I took a vow to never fight against one another. And he has lost so much already, death would be kind to him." Vincent looked you up and down, trying to find the catch in your whole story.

"I'll take your offer. You will work for me and Jock Wick shall be forever forgotten and left alone. But you already knew I would take the offer right?"

"If not you, someone else would have."

---

You working for Vincent made you two become closer by the day.

You learned a lot about him and his work ethic.

To say that you were rather used to it after a couple hours would be difficult to say, but you got used to him way too quickly.

Some would say alarmingly too fast.

But in this industry, you had to.

Or at least that is what you told yourself so that your mind would be at ease. 

But both you and Vincent knew that you were just as crazy as him.

You both knew that he liked you just as much as you liked him.

And fuck... he looked way too good in a suit!

He invited you as his guard to an event.

The man was basically a walking full-course meal, it was hard to concentrate.

The event in question was a charity where they were selling all kinds of things.

Expensive things.

Very expensive things. 

Vincent said he was only there to be present because there are powerful people present.

But he also said if you wished to bid for an item, go for it.

And an item did catch your eye. It was a beautiful opal necklace. It was sold as a cursed item.

"This beautiful necklace was once owned by Mrs Melony Jones. It was said she was a witch and she cursed the necklace. Many believe the deaths of the owners following were due to this curse. Starting price is 200,000 dollars."

There was something about it. You had to have it. 

And in the end, it was yours. For only 575,000 dollars, you were the happy new owner of the opal necklace.

Vincent watched you closely during the entire thing. He had never seen you so excited about something, it was good to see your passion because you just had to have the necklace.

In the end, the necklace was given to you in a sealed box with a caution note.

"Cursed item... you have quite the taste."

"Something about this is just so beautiful."

"Maybe that it was found next to a decapitated woman?" he asked with a smirk.

"At least you know what happened to me if I die."

"You don't believe in curses?"

"I believe if I see one." you looked up at him and locked eyes. "Oh, here's one." you smiled and Vincent did too. 

When you were called over to pay, Vincent stepped in front of you, paying for the necklace. 

"You didn't have to."

"Are you going to wear it?" he asked as you two got into his car, ready to head home and for him to drop you off.

"I think I will just put it into my collection."

"You have a collection of cursed items?" you laughed a little.

"No! I have a collection of vintage jewellery and items." you said as you turned to him. "I don't believe in curses, but I wouldn't risk it either. It will look nice on my shelf." Vincent turned and looked at you. You looked so gentle and pure.

If he didn't know that you are a vicious killer, he would believe that you were a simple woman. 

He had to remind himself that you were indeed a woman. Your curves in that dress certainly reminded him but now, so did your eyes.

"I would love to see your collection one day."

"Oh? So you want to come to my house? Or is this just an excuse to come to my house?"

"Yes." he replied, eyes shining and you smiled.

You watched as his driver turned into your street.

"Would you like to see it now?" you looked back at him just as his finger reached your knee.

"Maybe. You just have to say the words, Mon Amour."

The words.

Something he told you only on your first week of working with him.

"I want you." you hand suddenly grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him towards you. You gasped as his other hand reached behind you and pulled you in to meet his lips. 

The devilish grin on his face and he pulled back should have been a warning.

But it was over for you when his finger ran up to your panties, slowly pulling it away so he could reach his destination.

His fingers were long and skilled.

---

For months you thought he only wanted you for your skills.

For months you believed he seduced you because it was the easiest way to keep you by his side.

You truly believed it.

Until one day.

He was in his office, having a couple men in there for important business. As usual.

But when one of the man had a rather... questionable comment about you... Vincent snapped.

The man ended up with two bullet holes.

"Everyone who dares to disrespect, MY WOMAN, gets that fate. Am I clear?" everyone in the room nodded as they fled.

"I could have killed him my self." you told him as he pulled you to another room so his office can be cleaned.

"I needed to send a message. No one messes with us." you smiled at him. He looked furious, still ridding the adrenaline the anger gave him upon hearing those words thrown at you.

"No one messes with us... I quite like that."

"You should marry me. I would much prefer to shout, wife than woman."

"Oh? Is that so? Where is my ring? Romantic dinner and a speech about how I changed you for the better? How you cannot live another day without me?"

"I think we both know you changed me for the worse." he smirked. He reached into his pocket, getting out a small box and opening it. In there was a lovely vintage ring. You looked up into his eyes than back at the ring. "But I truly cannot live another day without knowing you are fully mine. Not just as the trained assassin, but more as the amazing woman. What do you say? Will you marry me?"

"Vincent... You know I joke a lot about things. I actually never expected for you to pull out a ring." you looked up into his eyes again, all you could see was sincerity. "I would love to marry you." he smiled and pulled the ring out, placing it onto your finger.

"Then you shall be mine and I shall be yours. Not my bodyguard, not my assassin but mine." you knew he was trying to sound romantic, and this was his version of romance. But it did sound rather possessive.

"Can we get married on top of the Eiffel tower? Probably not... too windy I assume. Then how about Italy? You know I love Tuscany?"

"You name it, it's yours."

"Then can I have you?"

"You already have me." you reached up with your arms around his neck, leaning in for a kiss.

"Can you take me on that table?" you pointed at it behind you. He smirked. 

"I believe, that can be arranged." he easily scooped you up with your two legs and walked you to the table.

His lips never leaving your neck as he started to remove both of your clothes.

You offered up yourself for John Wick's life.

What you believed to be the end for you was only the beginning.

Taglist: @fleursirvart​ @greenarrowhead​ @thisismysecrethappyplace​ @sincerelyfan​ @theoneanna​ @aestheticsandmarvel​ @rororo06​ @castellandiangelo​ @destynelseclipsa​ @spilledinkindumpster​ @capsiclesdoll​ @puknow​ @alwayshave-faith​ @alex12948​ @lxdyred​  @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl​ @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek​ @praline357​ @trshngyn​ @avengers-r-us​ @violet-19999​ @top1bbgloak​   @manduse​   @jacalineiscomingforyou​  

Vincent Taglist: @l4venderia​

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS  

[theartofimagining13]

Hello sweetie. May I request #1 & #6 with Jonathan Pine and John Wick. Reading those two sentence prompts had me laughing 😆

AMBIENCE: The sounds of rain

WRITTEN BY: A.Wölf.

NOTES: These requests have taken me months to write and for that I am sorry but here's the link to the prompt list so we all know what we're dealing with lol [ Prompt list ]

Thanks for your patience <3

Jonathan Pine did not remember the last time he had slept without a gun under his pillow, but when he heard the metal screeching as the fire escape ladder outside of his partner’s apartment dropped down, he thanked that cautious sixth sense he’d been born with. It startled him awake him in the middle of the night but, in a swift motion, he grabbed his weapon and stood near the window with his back pressed to the wall. He stared at his lover who was in a deep slumber and with the blankets covering her naked self.

Pine would protect her like a guard dog. Whoever was planning on breaking in on this rainy night was in for a surprise. The vertical window was opened from outside and a dark figure creeped in drenched in the rain. He was halfway in when Pine pressed the barrel of his gun against the stranger’s temple and cocked it, and he froze as soon as he felt the cold metal on his skin.

“Move one inch and this will be your last night on earth.” Pine threatened in a quiet yet menacing tone. “Who are you?”

The man slowly but defiantly turned his face to look into his interrogator’s eyes. Pine’s face fell at the sight of his former colleague John Wick but that wasn’t enough for him to lower the gun. Pine knew that John had been rendered excommunicado; he had gotten the text like the rest of the Continental members.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Pine inquired.

But he knew the answer for it was lying right there on the bed. Pine’s partner and John had a past together long before he came into the picture.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Wick answered.

The two men held some sort of staring contest for almost a complete minute until the lamp on the night table was switched on and both their heads snapped towards it.

“What the hell is g-?” Pine’s partner began to ask with narrowed eyes but they went wide and she trailed off when she recognized her old lover. “John?”

She immediately grabbed a robe and carefully put it on before standing up. She reached the two men and glared at Pine.

“Put the fucking gun down!” She ordered but Pine ignored her.

“After what he did?”

“So you heard about Santino?” Wick asked.

“Everybody did, John. You should not be here.” Pine answered.

 “How can we help, John?” She asked ignoring her lover.

“I just need a place to lay low for the night.”

“Of course.” She said with a nod and without an ounce of hesitation. “I’ll arrange the guest room.”

Pine’s mouth fell open and he stared at her with utter confusion as she left the room but then John said her name and Pine’s face twitched with anger.

“I’m afraid I’m not alone.” Wick confessed then whistled.

Instantly, his gray Pitbull jumped through the open window and shook the rain off.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Pine muttered under his breath.

“Dog’s welcome to stay as well.” She said before leaving, closely followed by Pine.

He cleared his throat as soon as they reached the hallway.

“A word?”

“What, Jonathan?” She sighed as she stopped to face him.

“This is madness.” He began. “If anyone finds out he’s here…”

“Jonathan…” She interrupted him. “If it were you or me, John would do everything in his power to help us and you know it.”

“And it is my job to do everything in my power to keep you safe.” He retorted. “So you need to get out of here in case things get ugly. Why don’t you stay at your parents’ for the night? I'll stay with John.”

His worried semblance and good intentions made her smile and warmed her heart, so she took a step closer, caressed his left cheek and leaned in for a soft kiss. She pulled away and Pine returned the smile thinking that he had won until she spoke.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Once in the guest room and fresh out of the shower, John sat on the bed wearing some of Pine’s clean pajama pants and a white v-neck t-shirt, and his former lover was right in front of him cleaning the nasty wound on his forehead.

“Why did you do it, Jonathan?” She asked.

Wick couldn’t stop staring at her while several memories projected themselves like films in the theater of his mind. All he heard was his name on her lips for she was one of the few people who called him by his full name.

“So, you and Pine, huh?” He asked.

She froze momentarily then smiled.

“Yeah…” She hesitated. “Is that… weird?”

“No.” Wick rushed but his face said something else. “Yes.”

“I know that you two used to work together but-”

“It’s not that.” Wick interrupted her. “It’s the… similarity in names.”

She chuckled and thought Wick was just joking but then he grabbed her wrist, preventing her from fixing him, and he stared into her eyes in silence for a long time and leaned in closer until her heart was racing and she gulped.

“Is it his or my name you moan in bed?”

Her lips parted and all air left her. Suddenly every memory she shared with John, the most explicit ones, flooded her brain, and she remembered how John Wick was a man of few words but with her, it was a completely different story. She wasn’t thinking anymore, her body acted on impulse and ended the distance between them before brushing her lips against his for the first time in years. John deepened the kiss and it was clear that he had missed her as much as she had missed him but the guilt crept in and she pulled away.

“I-I can’t do this. I can’t do this to Jonathan…” But then the name conundrum was present again so she just left the room.

Pine was hiding in the nearest bathroom. He had heard everything. He had seen them sharing that kiss and it made his stomach clench but he also knew that before him there was Wick, and while she never went into detail about their past, Pine was sure that whatever happened between them had meant the world to her, and it scared him. He wanted to be much more but wasn’t sure he could ever be. And this frustration he would take out on Wick, so he walked into the guest room.

“So, the whole city wants you dead and this is where you decide to hide?” he asked while leaning against the wall next to the door and folding his arms. “You do know you’re putting her in danger, don’t you?”

“No one followed me here. I made sure of it.” John said dryly.

“You were covered in blood, John. I would’ve stopped underestimating them a long time ago if I were you. You just had to go and defy Winston, didn’t you?” He accused. “Listen, I know that you two have history… and so do we, so you’re only staying here for old times’ sake but don’t get it twisted. She’s my whole life now and I will do whatever I have to do to protect her. If anything happens to her because of you, I will personally hunt you down and make your life a living hell before I put a bullet between your eyes. Understood?”

“I’m leaving in the morning.” Wick stated.

“Good.” Pine nodded coldly and turned to leave but stopped and faced Wick again, and spoke while pointing at him with his right index finger. “And don’t you fucking dare stay for breakfast.”

[lazer-cannon-deth-sentence]

More John Wick character as vines

Berrada: Aaahh, get your fucking dog, bitch!

Sofia: It don't bite

Berrada, getting mauled: Yes it do, get the-

***

John Wick: Back at it again at the Continental! *jumps* *smashes the neon sign*

***

Viggo: There is only one thing worse than a killer... *removes the paper so that the board says DOG KILLER*

Joseph: A dog.

Viggo: No.

***

Viggo: Are you ready to fucking die?!

John: I am a bad bitch, you can't kill me.

***

John, retiring: 🎶fuck this shit I'm out🎶

***

Winston: Johnny has nineteen guns, and he-

Santino: Wait, why does Johnny has so many guns?

John, polishing one of his nineteen guns: Mind your business.

***

John Wick: *in the park*

Someone: *does a backflip*

All of the assassins in the area: *start Naruto running towards him*

(this vine is kinda hard to describe via text)

[lixin428]

Chapter2

"Banana Fish...What an unique name."

Sienna flipped through the pages as she sat down thinking. War is a scary thing, isn't it? It could even cause a man to be so disconnected from the world around him, even his dear wife. She then turned around to look at the man in the wheelchair whose pair of jade green eyes that was just like Ash's, just that they were staring emptily on the ground. Did this thing did it to you? For what purpose?

"Are you hungry, Griffin? I will make you something." She got up and made her way towards the kitchen, ( it was barely a kitchen because there was only a stove and some other basic cooking stuff). She started by chopping the onions, sauteing them before cooking the bacon and adding some more other ingredients. She ensured that extra cheese was added since Skip, the young boy who was also involved with Ash's gang, love it when extra cheese was served. While waiting for the soup to be cooked, Sienna took the last remaining pills and began crushing them for Griffin to swallow better. She must make sure to tell Ash to to replenish the medicine.

Ash had gone to see Dino Golzine, the mafia don that 'owns' them and at the same time, a fat greedy creature who was good-for-nothing.Honestly speaking, why was he even alive? Sienna hoped that the meeting went well, after all, this thing called Banana Fish might be the key to her and Ash's freedom; a way to escape from Dino for good.

Suddenly, the unlocking of the door could be heard. Sienna took out her gun and hid right behind the door, ready to strike. To her relief, it was Skip.

"You are back, Skip. Food's ready I think." Sienna smiled as she kept her gun.

" Hi Sienna! Are you making potato soup? It smells great!" Skip said excitedly as he hung his jacket, "your cooking always taste good."

Sienna looked at Skip fondly, " thanks, Skip...can you help me get some bowls?"

"Sure thing! Anything for you, Sienna." Skip replied with a bright grin before going away with quicken steps.

Sienna was always happy to see the kid due to the fact that he was adding some innocence to the gang which was why Sienna treated him like one of her little brothers back home.

Home... She paused at the thought as she stirred the soup.

The memory of her home was vague but Sienna did remember her siblings. Her bestie older brother Angelo, her younger reliable sister Gina, the jokester fraternal twins Luca and Lucia and lastly, her youngest brother Santino. How are they? She wondered. Maybe Angelo got a nice girlfriend? With his looks, a lot of girls must have been swooned by him. Had Gina finally got the puppy she wanted? She used to cry for a puppy back then. Did the twins manage to invent the toffee yet? They once mentioned that they wanted to invent some sort of toffee that could cause people to fart immediately when consumed. I wonder if Santino is playing baseball? He had a strong grip so he must have a talent...

Memories flooded her mind one by one. Back then, she was very innocent and happy, probably a bit rough on occasions like Skip. Sienna chuckled, " I do hope that they forget about me though..."

" I will definitely not forget about you, Sienna!"

Snapped back to reality, Sienna jumped back in shock as she caught the ladle just in time before it fell on the floor. "Fucking hell, Skip! You scared the hell out of me!" Sienna yelped while Skip reacted by looking at her weirdly. He then took a breath before speaking, " There is no way in hell I will forget about you, Sienna. Without you, I would have starved to death!" Skip emphasised by exclaiming at the 'death' part. In return, Sienna gave a faint smile as she pinched his cheeks, " silly, don't talk about death while you are in the gang. You will jinx yourself."

Skip just pouted in reply, "I am already twelve years old, mom..."

Hearing this, Sienna slapped Skip's head in pretended anger. "Dude, I am too young to be a mom of a twelve year old so don't 'mom' me!"

"Yeah yeah, sis. I am hungry."

Sienna shrugged her shoulders, " go and get the portion you want. I will be feeding Griffin."

Happiness swelled in her heart as Sienna saw Skip's eyes brightening while scooping some soup into his bowl. She just needs to live in the moment...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Putting down the half empty bowl, Sienna sighed in dismay. Griffin's condition was not getting better and was eating less and less. If this go like this...

"Sienna?"

With her train of thoughts coming to a halt, Sienna turned around, seeing Ash who just came back.

"How is Griff?" He asked with a concerning tone as he took off his jacket before walking towards her.

"Same as always, nothing new...where is Skip?"

"He left just now." Ash replied. " Are you alright? You seem troubled."

Surprised, Sienna gave Ash a look with him smiling in return. " I known you for a long time, I can feel it when you are troubled with something."

"Nothing much, just about Arthur. He has been causing quite a stir." Sienna emphasised, remembering  the scene when Arthur was in the room with Dino, together with the fact that Arthur was till on about his grudge with Ash about both his territory and fingers."We should do something it. He is power hungry and vindictive."

Ash hummed in return while taking out something from his pocket, "Yup. I heard from Skip. I need to settle with him one of these days."

Sienna nodded as her eyes landed on the pendant Ash was holding. It was what the man had given them before he died.

" Want to have a look?"

Sensing a nod, Ash gave the pendant to Sienna whom the later began to analyse it. Sienna thought, it looks like an ordinary pendant...wait, there seems to be something inside! She started to fiddle with it with her fingers and soon realised that she was able to open it.

"Found anything?" Ash moved nearer to Sienna to have a better view of the unknown object. " A locket..." He straightened and reached out, earning a nod from Sienna as she returned the locket back to the blonde.

" What type of powder is that? " Sienna questioned, her mind racing around. It is clearly not heroin.

"I wonder..." Ash murmured before moving towards Griffin and knelt down. Sienna watched silently as he put his hands on his knees and begged, " did this banana fish did this to you? Please tell us Griffin."

It was hopeless. Both of them knew. Ash stood up and sighed, " I need to go to Dr Meredith to get some more meds." Just as Ash was about to leave, Sienna grabbed his arms to stop him.

"We need to send Skip to school, Ash." Her eyes wavered. "He needs a proper education...not getting involve with all the fightings...not getting involve with Golzine...but getting a degree and mix with boys his age. Just doing what normal kids do. I don't want him to end up like us." She finished nervously as silence enveloped the room. While waiting for Ash's reaction, she held her trembling hand. It was her job to take care of Skip since he was a runaway orphan so she needed to take in great consideration of the boy's future. Skip was a brave and bright boy, it would be a waste for him to mix with thugs. Though both Sienna and Ash were properly educated in basic academics, nothing beats school where it can provide a better future for Skip.

To her relief, Ash nodded his head and a smile flickered across his handsome face as he put his hand on Sienna's which was a bit too intimate to be that of friends. " That's a good idea, Sienna.  He needs to have a better childhood which we were not provided with."

Sienna's smiled back, her smile was like a sudden beam of light illuminating the darkest corners of the room. " Then how does St Andrew's Elementary School sound? It is within the area. Skip would like it there."

"There should do, he would like it there." Ash commented, excitement were hinted in his words." I will make some arrangements."

Happy with the outcome, Sienna waved, " have a safe trip!"

"I will, bye." Ash waved back and the door was shut.

A/N: Sienna found Skip in the streets when she was 15 years old while Skip was about 9 or 10. Apparently, Skip's father was an abusive man and his mother was very timid so he ran away from home. Sienna took him in out of pity to help her care for Griffin in case something happen to her and Ash.

Note: The St Andrew's school thing was made up after a high school in my country so it does not exist unless due to some coincidences. Plus credits go to Akemi Yoshida.

[elpida]

Cade could take a hit, he'd taken plenty before but these were relentless. He threw his own but it was hard to get a really good hit in when you were trying to get someone's grip from around your shirt. He'd drawn some blood to his face, he could taste the iron in his mouth and he spat it in at Angelo. All there was between them was fury. "What the fuck are you talking about?! I'd never want to kill her but you being near her is fucking death wish enough- you getting fucking close with her? That's the danger you psychopath." he growled, genuinely growled and smacked his hand across Angelo's jaw, his hand twisting back what gripped his shirt. " She's nearly half your goddamn age, you sick fuck."

When released he kneeled, holding the part of his head that'd bled and trying to regain his focus. Fuck that'd really jolted him but it was a dirty move, he'd barely had a chance to find his footing. By the time he looked up he'd already got hold of Agatha and you could see every muscle in Cade's body tense, even the way his jaw clenched. He looked ready to pound, to attack well and truly. "Get your fucking hands off of her before I cut them from your damn fucking body." his threat was laced with every ounce of intent. "Point that fucking thing at me, what kind of man points a gun at a woman? You're a fucking coward Santino, I know it and you bet your ass Eden fucking knows it, she's gonna end up hating you." he wanted to have his anger directed at him, not at Agatha. He scoffed. "Oh you bet she'll end up fucking hating you, she'll see you for who you really are and you reckon she's going to be impressed by the piece of shit you are?" Now get, your filthy piece of shit hands, off of her." The one thing he didn't do was lunge, he didn't move, he couldn't.. he couldn't risk Angelo pulling the trigger as reaction to his own movements.

-

She knew that nurse was scared of Angelo, she kept insisting Eden rest up, just lay back down but no.. no she knew his anger was spiralling and she was scared of what he might do. The nurse did help her get dressed at her persistence, talk off Eden not being up on her feet that she ignored and continued on her path. She spent too long waiting for the elevator that she just ended up taking the stairs up. She felt so easily exhausted but she was adamant on making sure that Agatha was fine, that the baby was fine. "Excuse me? I need to know what room- Sorry, never mind." she heard the shouting and saw the way the nurses looked at each other, a questioning on whether they call security, given the people under their roof right now.

Eden pushed the door to the room open and her heart plummeted. All she could see was Cade bleeding and clearly having taken a punch or two, and Agatha- Angelo, his hands pinning her, holding a gun to her. A gun. Air felt stolen from her, echoes of a gun ringing through her mind. "What are you doing?!" she'd never lost her own temper at him quite like that, enough to raise her voice. "Angelo get off of her!" she shrieked the words at him, moving quickly to pull at his arm "Get off of her, she's pregnant!" Eden spoke with so much intensity, she actually sounded breathless. She had never, god never been like that with him but she was pushing him away from her pregnant friend. "Back away from her- back away from her." her hands turning to Agatha and what at first seemed like her adrenaline in play, the rushed breath, the way her hands came to want to hold her friends shoulders, to protect her... to just protect someone if for once, she could. Eden hadn't been able to protect Ben, that was a guilt that always tortured her silently.

"Are- Are you okay? The baby? Is? Please tell me..." she tried to breath out but it was increasingly shaky, wispy.. like she couldn't quite catch her breath and the hands that held at her arms? They were starting to tremble, to shake. No, she thought. No no no, it'd been so long since she'd had one of these but she felt it, that fluttering of her heart in her chest. "I had to- you're okay?" Cade lifted his head, slowly rising and looking at Agatha, then Eden.. her shoulder. It was all bandaged up and god, was Angelo right? That was on him. That was his fault... they were both in here because of him.

Agatha's concern grew as Cade mentioned the involvement of other people, leaving her uncertain about whether she could trust them, particularly Cade himself. However, his straightforwardness reassured her somewhat, easing her worries. When he mentioned a man, her curiosity piqued, and she squinted slightly, trying to recall whom he might be referring to. All she could remember was ending up in his arms before her consciousness faded. "A family," She repeated softly, pushing thoughts away. The knock on the door made her focus on the sound, her brows furrowing at who might be standing behind the door. She hoped it was Eden. Deep in her mind, she was worried about her own condition. She'd suffered the most, after all.

As soon as the door swung open, Angelo lunged forward, seizing Cade by the collar of his shirt and slamming him against the nearest wall. A guttural grunt escaped him as he felt the fabric of his own shirt pull taut against his chest and his hair being gripped. "You fucking asshole!" he spat out, his anger boiling over as he disregarded any questions Cade might have had, focusing solely on the surge of adrenaline coursing through him. In response, he felt how Cade pushed back, his grip tightening on Angelo's shirt, the tension between them palpable. His hands clenched into tight fists, each blow aimed squarely at Cade's face with a surge of force behind them. "You wanted Eden killed over your stupid actions, Sabelle? Huh?" Angelo's voice rang out, thick with fury and accusation. "You fucking idiot, I won't let anyone touch her ever again, but you're also paying for this!" The punches landed with a resounding thud, fueled by a mixture of rage, each strike carrying the weight of Angelo's pent-up anger.

Agatha's eyes widened in recognition as she watched Angelo's violent outburst. This was the man she had been investigating, the one accused of torturing innocent people over debts. Determination welled up inside her as she slowly rose from the bed, her mind racing to find a way to intervene before Angelo could inflict further harm on Cade. She had enough of violence and wouldn't bear the thought of seeing Cade on a hospital bed because of this man. Spotting an empty syringe left on the bedside table by the nurses, she seized it tightly in her fingers, preparing herself to step in and stop the violence. With a burst of adrenaline, Agatha lunged toward Angelo's back, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck to support herself as she drove the needle of the syringe into his shoulder with all the force she could muster. "Get off of him!"

Angelo grunted as the needle pierced his skin, feeling the weight of Agatha on his back. Reacting instinctively, he pushed himself backward, trying to drive Agatha against the wall to incapacitate her and free himself from her grip. He pushed twice against it so it could harm her. Agatha groaned as her back hit the wall harshly and her arms left him, a hand instantly reaching for her lower back. "You fucking bitch!" He lashed out in anger, turning to grip her hair tightly and pull her up before him. With his free hand, he reached for the gun tucked in his jacket and pressed the muzzle against the side of her face, aiming at her skull. "Should've thought twice about your fucking move. Now, Sabelle, you dare to try something, and I'm blowing her pretty brains out," He threatened, pulling her hair back with his grip, so Agatha's head was leaned back. Her hand snaked around her frame to wrap her fingers around his hand, attempting to free herself off him, but his strength was hard to fight against. "It'd be a shame, don't you think? She's pretty." Angelo's smirk was mischief and dark, a devilish look in his eyes. He had no mercy for anything nor anyone, only Eden.

[kavalyera]

On the Marquis de Gramont’s backstory(personal theory and own opinions)

“He[Bill Skarsgård] came to be, he goes, ‘I want to do a little bit like fucked up French like Cajun accent.’ I’m like, ‘I have no idea what that sounds like.’ Some people gave us shit a little bit because it’s not a good French accent. I’m like, ‘Guys, it’s not supposed to be French.’ Like, he wasn’t trying to be French, he’s a guy that speaks French.”

— Chad Stahelski on the Josh Horowitz Happy, Sad, Confused podcast

(“Marquis(de Gramont)” and “Vincent” used interchangeably)

I know that the Marquis has like the most fucked up accent out of all John Wick characters seen so far but this line from the director himself, Chad “would beat us up for all the shit we say on Wickblr” Stahelski is just giving me a whole lot of ideas on his backstory.

Unlike the characters seen before, Vincent [the Marquis] is one of the characters whose backstories are not explained or even touched on upon like the Adjudicator and the Harbinger. Santino for example, and I’m gonna use Santino as an example because he and Vincent share parallels— What do we know about Santino? Santino was there to help John on the night of his impossible task, establishing a connection between antagonist and protagonist in writing, Santino has a sister named Gianna, Santino’s father dies and bestows his seat to his sister instead rather than her. And then, Santino also owns a museum in New York.

But what do we know about the Marquis? Other than how he came into the Table there is literally nothing else about him. Just like the Adjudicator, there’s nothing much else to know about him or his backstory.

“Although claiming to enforce the will of the High Table, the Marquis' primary ambition is to further his own power and he only cares about the Table's rules in as much as they advantage him. When they work against him, he is happy to bend or even fully disregard them.”

— John Wicki

John Wick is like a world of high people, it’s larger than life and it’s practically a near fantasy world filled with neon fight scenes and showy places and characters.

There’s no reason as to why the High Table chose him specifically to take down John but seeing as how brutal his character is, and how much remorse he lacks towards other people underneath him shows what kind of person the High Table is looking for. And Vincent manages to cloak his violent tendencies underneath a layer of sophistication.

“The Marquis is a young man of unknown origin who has quickly climbed the ladder within the High Table doing god knows what. I always saw him as someone from the gutter that now savors the glittery suits he’s wearing. He functions as the new sheriff set out to rid the world of John Wick once and for all. John’s getting old and tired, the Marquis is offering him a way out. To be the one who finally kills the Baba Yaga would secure his status and power within the High Table.”

— Bill Skarsgård on an on-set interview

I’ve always thought of Vincent as a sort of actor knowing the movies. He’s amazing at networking, it’s one of his only skills according to the Wiki other than multilingualism. This is a personal theory of mine, so you can disagree: but I go with Bill Skarsgård’s interpretation of his character’s backstory. Well, kind of. I agree with the fact that the Marquis climbed the ladder of the ranks, but I do not think he was struggling as a child considering the House of Gramont.

Since this is my own personal opinion and theory on his backstory, I personally believe that the Marquis may have just been another person in the criminal underworld/not even considering to be an agent.

I’ve always been a fan of the idea of characters starting from the bottom and then using non-violent measures to get to the top. And to me, Vincent is a very good example of this(in this theory). But he doesn’t agree to the rules, we see this in the very last scene where Vincent takes Caine’s gun to finish John off himself— but that proves horribly for him.

Like every other antagonist against John before him, the Marquis is arrogant and prideful— probably the wealthiest character we’ve seen so far(considering we haven’t seen the High Table).

And I can see where that arrogance and pride may come from. Now with Bill’s interview, I think he did climb the ranks however I don’t think he was struggling from poverty. In my opinion, he looks to have the mindset of a guy from the upper class/upper-middle class and coming back to Santino who Vincent shares a lot of traits with, I sort of believe Vincent to mirror Santino’s a lot more than just being from poverty or just a civilian.

So, to sum it up: he’s adopted by the House of Gramont. And in the middle of it all, he may have went through something that got him interested into getting more power.

In my own headcanon, I think he has a sort of trauma that leads him into getting desperate for power. We see it on the screen, Vincent gets upset and frustrated when he’s not being seen with respect or if his ego feels threatened.

have a nice day folks!! :33

[melis-writes]

best prompt idea ready?

michael: tom i need a favour

tom: sure mike what is it?

michael dig a hole in the backyard for my wife and a matching one for my brother

tom: 👁️👄👁️

I was gonna say “AU where Michael raises all hell after finding out about Victoria and Sonny’s affair and becomes a monster about it” but then that wouldn’t be an AU, that would just be spot on Michael Corleone as we know it. SHEESH, THIS PROMPT WAS INTENSE… Major warnings for guns, blood, violence, death, gravedigging... Michael killing people... 😥

Michael slams the back door of the central family estate behind him, causing an unexpecting Tom to flinch and drop his fresh cigarette to the ground.

“Mikey,” Tom clears his throat, stepping on the cigarette.

Fuming with anger and his eyes filled with malice and seething hate, Michael faces his brother. “Tom, you’ll be doing me a favour now, no questions asked.”

“Yes, of course.” Tom smoothens out the front of his suit, hiding back just how terrified he is of his younger brother in this moment. “What can I do?”

Michael points to the garden shovel resting against a nearby bench. “Take the shovel and dig a hole right here in the middle of the garden. One for Victoria and a matching one for her lover.”

Tom swallows hard, but he knows even a second’s worth of hesitation will result in a third grave belonging to him.

Stunned by the ghastly request but knowing Michael is serious, Tom moves over to pick up the shovel knowing if he’s to dig two graves for actual bodies, he’ll have to get Al Neri to assist him on getting both dug up immediately.

Michael doesn’t bother to watch Tom pick up the shovel but rather turns back on his heel and enters the estate again without another word.

Tom, just like every other business partner, colleague, security and private guard that Michael has is well aware of the consequences of going against Michael or refusing a direct command from the Don.

Although Tom wants to vomit from how sick he feels at the outburst and aftermath the revelation of your year long affair with Sonny has been, he knows nothing will change Michael’s mind or stop him now from what he’s going to do.

“M-Michael, please,” you sob, sitting shakily on the edge of the couch as Sonny attempts to kneel up from the floor, clutching his bleeding nose.

“Shut the fuck up.” Michael scowls at you, standing in the middle of the living room. “You had your chance to speak, I don’t want to hear anything more from either one of you.”

Sonny grunts, raising his head up to look at Michael through one swelling eye. “Listen, just… Listen. It’s all me, just me. Kick me outta here with Sandra and the kids too. D-disown me or somethin’, I don’t know. I-I’ll change my last name, I’ll leave the state—”

“Those are all things you should have done so a year ago, Santino.” Michael takes a step forward, staring down at his eldest brother with no pity or remorse. “You should have done those things when you realized you had feelings for my wife.”

“Michael—” You begin, but the look of pure hate in Michael’s eyes towards you immediately shuts you up.

“Thought you two covered your tracks so well, didn’t you?” Michael eyes the both of you, pacing around the room slowly. “That nobody suspected a thing; nobody had any questions or followed you?”

Michael turns his head to face you, seeing you sob into your hands. “Stop crying, Victoria. Nobody’s here to give you their sympathy. You will never feel the luxury of being pitied. Had this not happened today, the two of you lovebirds would be continuing this affair of yours onward without delay or regret. Now that everything’s right in front of me, you both ask for my mercy?”

“It’s all me, Mike. All me.” Sonny moans in pain, clutching the side of his face.

Michael’s expression fills with rage again at the sound of Sonny’s voice as he delivers another kick to his brother, causing Sonny to crumple up on the floor with pain.

“Michael, stop it!” You cry out, “you’re going to kill him.”

“Yes, I am, Victoria. Truly, I love how much you care about Santino.” Michael raises his voice, confirming to you. “And I’m going to kill you too.”

“W-what?” You whimper, eyes widening in shock.

Michael approaches you, causing you to immediately simper back into the corner of the couch from fear. Michael leans down, forcefully grabbing your face and looking you in the eye before he speaks. “I loved you, Victoria. I trusted you. I had four children with you. I slept next to you every night. I came home to you everyday. I worked for you and the family we made together. I was in love with you from the start—only you. I gave you the bare minimum—my loyalty, and you did what? Hmm? Returned it all to me by fucking my brother?!”

You sob as Michael abdruptly lets go of your face, stepping back. “Now you want me to grant you your biggest wish yet? Let you and Sonny leave Tahoe together, run off and get married in some other state or country? Give you that happily ever after when mine is fucking ruined? When I have to tell our children their mother whored around with their uncle?”

“Don Corleone.” Al Neri’s voice interrupts as the back door opens again. Michael turns back to face Neri to see him nod, “they’re ready.”

“What’s ready?” You hiccup through your tears but Neri ignores you outright.

As soon as Michael takes another step towards you, Rocco and Neri do the same towards Sonny—hauling him up like a bag of trash carelessly.

“No, wait—” You struggle hopelessly through Michael’s grasp as he grabs your arms, forcing you to stumble up. “Michael, stop!”

“I’d expect only the same response from you had I done this to you, Victoria.” Michael speaks coldly, ignoring your thrashing as he exerts complete force and control over you to take you outside.

“Oh, Jesus.” Tom turns away from the hollow graves, rubbing over his temples gingerly. “I can’t watch this happen.”

Sonny grunts out as Al Neri and Rocco throw him into the first hollow grave. After having Michael absolutely pummel him into a pulp, Sonny has no energy left to even wiggle around in what remains to  be his literal grave.

“NO!” You shriek at the sight of the graves alone, let alone seeing Sonny thrown in one.

“Yes, and you’re next you cheating little slut.” Michael grits his teeth, tossing you into the second one.

You cough as your back hits hard, cold soil—instantly feeling weakened by the impact of being thrown into the grave. “N-no!”

“You did this to us. There’s nobody else to blame but yourself.” Michael looks down at you in the grave as you hear one pistol firing off next to you. “I kissed you, held you and slept with you knowing my brother fucked you until he physically couldn’t anymore right before. You make me sick, Victoria.” Michael reaches behind him, pulling out his pistol.

As your world bleed out dry before you and your vision began to blur as the life slipped out of you, the last thing you could hear besides your own shallow breathing was the fate for your two children with Sonny.

"And their children, Don Corleone?" Rocco asks.

"I'm not a monster, Rocco." Michael speaks in a calmer voice. "I thought those were my own flesh and blood until today. They're children nonetheless, and they deserve better parenting then two adulterers. We'll send them to Sicily–put them up for adoption. Last names will be changed immediately. An Italian family will adopt them. They'll be fine, they'll grow up under the belief their adoptive family is their own and nothing more."

"What will the surname be, sir? For the identification papers on the children's behalf."

"Vitelli." Michael answers.

[bluelolblue]

AYYY QUOTING TIME :33

AWWWE he wasn't sure who he was reassuring 😞

"It's alright now." He wasn't sure which of them he was reassuring. Clement could hear himself talking, and he wished it sounded like it was coming from somewhere very far away but it didn't.

Omg poor Clement, really looks like he was struggling 😭

For a second, Clement had to close his eyes and turn his head away and just shake. He swore faintly, trying to spur himself on with adrenaline. He managed to open his eyes again, trying to just focus on Santino's face for a second.

THIS WHOLE PART I LOVE IT! Innocent kitten Santino wanting a hug ommggg babyyy T_T

"You're passing out too? Why?" He sounded so innocent, just a kitten right now. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead. He was pawing at Clement's free arm, trying to pull him into a hug. Such a sweet man, in spite of everything. Hold onto that. Get vicious for that. He must already be going into a bullet wound fever, and Clement had to be there to hold him.

AHAH PLEASE well that's the only option they would have if that happened, for Santino having to do all that LMAO

"No. No l'm not gonna pass out, but if I do, you put pressure where I tied this. And keep shaking me till I wake up." But he couldn't let that happen.

HOLY SHIT?? DAMN

"I have to do something a little drastic, okay? I have to push vitae into you. Blood.I-I have to push blood into you..." Clement pulled out his pocket knife and felt his vision swim as he held it over his own wrist.

EHEH NOW THIS PART it made me laugh but also THAT'S LITERALLY SANTINO AHAH, baby got a bullet wound fever but still talked about this. And gun fucking mentioned YAAA 🤭

Santino managed a sly smile even at a time like this. "You can push anything you like into me. Like that gun last week. Or the tip of your boot after l'm done humping it. Or your cock."

AHAH yeah the best kind of distraction >:] and this whole part AAA I love it ^ ^

It broke the tension long enough for Clement to laugh. "Good, you're doing so good, distracting me. Lord almighty, I am holding onto consciousness by a fuckin' thread...okay, three, two, one -" Blade into flesh. The feeling of his own body pouring out of him, unfathomably wrong Somehow, he got his wrist to Santino's lips and felt him latch on.

OH NO CLEMENT AHAH 😭

"Good.."' he mumbled, slipping sideways onto Santino's chest. "You're doing you're good - you're..." and his vision went black as Clement tumbled into the blissful nothingness of giving himself away.

These two are so silly omg, they go well together EHEH, and I love Clement the silly cowboy! Thank you so much for writing this!! <333

So if, for example, Santino was hurt and was bleeding, does Clement faint AHAH? Or he really tries to keep himself awake ehhehehe :]

He really tries, and he succeeds for a while, but then he has to give Santino blood because that's how vampires do healing in VTM...you'll see hehe!

Just a short snippet, not even a ficlet really, but it was fun.

TW: graphic blood descriptions, passing out, nsfw mentions from Santino flirting, Clement makes a cut on his own arm to feed blood to Santino (not exactly self harm but adjacent so please read with caution)

It wasn't all blood that bothered Clement. If he could brace himself (before a surgery or a blood draw, for instance)...well let's be honest, it was still pretty bad. But seeing blood gushing out of a fresh gunshot wound was on another level. There was no time to freeze his muscles in place and force them to perform and tell himself that none of this was really happening. That was Santino's body in front of him, going pale and ice cold and trembling all over with the horror of that hole clean through his bicep, and it was making his own body do the exact same thing.

"It's alright now." He wasn't sure which of them he was reassuring. Clement could hear himself talking, and he wished it sounded like it was coming from somewhere very far away but it didn't. He was definitely wrapping a tourniquet around Santino's arm, feeling Santino's muscles slide against each other and a fresh wave of blood pour over his flesh at the pressure.

For a second, Clement had to close his eyes and turn his head away and just shake. He swore faintly, trying to spur himself on with adrenaline. He managed to open his eyes again, trying to just focus on Santino's face for a second. His charge, his responsibility, his wellspring of strength. Santino's head was leaned back against the wall and it kept lolling sideways. "No," said Clement firmly. 'Do not pass out, okay? We can't both pass out."

"You're passing out too? Why?" He sounded so innocent, just a kitten right now. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead. He was pawing at Clement's free arm, trying to pull him into a hug. Such a sweet man, in spite of everything. Hold onto that. Get vicious for that. He must already be going into a bullet wound fever, and Clement had to be there to hold him.

"No. No I'm not gonna pass out, but if I do, you put pressure where I tied this. And keep shaking me till I wake up." But he couldn't let that happen. It went against everything he needed to do, everything he needed to be. This damn body...he felt like he had been dipped in ice water. There was no feeling in his legs. He punched at his own thigh, trying to stay alert.

"Okay," Santino said weakly. He'd lost too much. It was drenching his whole arm in rivers, an external set of veins trailing down to his limp palm. God this was horrific. With sinking dread, Clement realized he had no choice.

"I have to do something a little drastic, okay? I have to push vitae into you. Blood. I - I have to push blood into you..." Clement pulled out his pocket knife and felt his vision swim as he held it over his own wrist.

Santino managed a sly smile even at a time like this. "You can push anything you like into me. Like that gun last week. Or the tip of your boot after I'm done humping it. Or your cock."

It broke the tension long enough for Clement to laugh. "Good, you're doing so good, distracting me. Lord almighty, I am holding onto consciousness by a fuckin' thread...okay, three, two, one - " Blade into flesh. The feeling of his own body pouring out of him, unfathomably wrong. Somehow, he got his wrist to Santino's lips and felt him latch on. There was his own vital energy pouring out of him, and the void rushing in. Every bit of strength lost was given to Santino, and that made this sickening weakness into something glorious. "Good..." he mumbled, slipping sideways onto Santino's chest. "You're doing - you're good - you're..." and his vision went black as Clement tumbled into the blissful nothingness of giving himself away.

[peppermintquartz]

minific, crossover. Playroom + John Wick

Set after John Wick 3. Continuation of this.

*

Joe sees the man coming down the street from the surveillance camera placed at the top of his building. After grabbing his favorite Glock and tucking it in the back of his pants, he heads out to the bar from the office and announces, "We're closed. Everyone out."

"What? Bruh, we just got here," someone near the dartboard complains. He's shushed by his companions before Joe can go over and toss him out personally.

As the room empties, Paige comes out from behind the bar, wiping her hands. "Boss, what's going on?"

A man clad entirely in black waits by the door until the last of the clientele has exited, before he walks in. He’s tall, with chin-length dark hair and a trimmed beard, and soulful eyes. His hands are in his pockets. John Wick is back in LA. "Good evening, Joe."

Joe breathes out. Guess we’re playing nice first. "The girls have nothing to do with it. I'd like it to stay that way."

“Me too,” says Wick, and nods politely at Paige and Becky, who’s emerging from the storeroom, a box of beer in her arms.

Paige is perplexed. "What's up? Who's this guy?"

Becky joins them, having put down the beer. "Boss man. Wanna enlighten us or something?"

"No. Take the night off, both of you." He grabs Paige by the elbow and murmurs, "If I'm not around tomorrow, go to my lawyer. Get the contact from Finn." He pauses, glancing at Wick, and tells Becky, "Keep watch over Stafa's gym and make sure he doesn't get special visitors."

"Boss, you're scaring us," says Paige.

"I don't have time to explain," Joe hisses. "I'm entrusting Stafa to you two."

"Joe." The man by the entrance smiles faintly. "I'm not here to kill you."

Joe tilts his head. "No offense, John, but it's not you I'm worried about." He glares at the two young women, who share a glance between them before they head out the back way. Joe and Wick neither speak nor move a muscle until Joe hears the back door click shut.

Then Joe pulls out the gun and aims it at Wick. “You’re bad news right now, John. The High Table is hunting you. The heads of the Continentals have declared you excommunicado. Why are you here?”

Slowly, deliberately, Wick removes his left hand from his pockets. The ring finger is missing. “If I recall, I lost a bet.” His smile grows ironic. “You told me I’d never be able to stop being Baba Yaga. You were right.” The smile disappears, like mist in sunlight. “You’re also among the best assassins I know who isn’t beholden to the High Table and doesn’t play by their rules.”

“And I am retired,” Joe points out. “I’m happily settled down with a good man. My enemies are few, and none of them thinks that me being dead will do them any good. I’m living a free life, John.”

“As long as the High Table exists, no one in the Business can be free,” Wick says. “The One Above the Table is looking to expand their authority. They will prune the Grapevine, and anyone who doesn’t knuckle to them will be cut down.” He tilts his head and scrutinizes Joe. “They offered you the LA Continental once. They know how good you were. They’re not going to let you stay retired.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Santino D’Antonio blew up my house to push me out of retirement. Now that they’re hunting me because of what I know, what do you think they’ll do to you?” Wick’s jaw tenses. “You mentioned there is a good man you’ve settled down with. What are his chances? What are the chances of your favorite middleman, the one they called the Prince?”

Joe glowers. “You’re a fucking plague, John. You coming here brings all of that on me and mine.”

“They will come for you whether I came or not. The only way out is through.” John Wick slides his right hand out of his pocket, and between his index finger and middle finger is a bottle cap. “You said that if I ever un-retire, I owe you a favor. And I’m here to repay it, by giving you advance warning.”

That bottle cap will be from a bottle of Vailima. On the inside will be Joe’s own insignia, a hand-etched SJ, with a number. Wick’s is number five. Joe’s favor, from six years ago.

Joe lowers his gun. “If Mustafa gets hurt, I will kill you myself.”

Wick inclines his head. “Fair enough. Anyway, rest assured. The Bowery King has already got his people protecting your man. Winston should have taken control of the LA Continental by now.” There is the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “I look forward to working with you again.” ”

They share a brief smile. Joe motions for Wick to follow him upstairs, for Joe to get his supplies. “You’re chatty tonight.”

“I’m a great conversationalist,” Wick says dryly.

[johnwickcaretaker]

Why hello @bluelolblue, yes I do have headcanons

NSFW under cut!

Okay I picture it happening like this: John and Santino never broke up. They are just living their best life (by which I mean worst life, they’re suffering under the High Table) in New York when they run into Helen at a restaurant one day and she kinda takes them under her wing. Gets them both out of the business instead of just John.

They’re all wine drunk together one day with Santino being overly flirty as usual when he mentions how good John and Helen would look together and HELEN TAKES IT COMPLETELY SERIOUSLY and that’s how it all starts

Santino likes to say he’s jealous and that John needs to give him more attention, but usually he’s just making an excuse to get more affection. “You kissed Helen three times and you only kissed me twice!! Kiss me again :3”

She and Santino have more of a friends-with-benefits relationship, but John falls in love with her of course. He loves Helen and Santino equally, in completely different ways.

Santino and Helen do bond as friends though. She listens to him and always tries to understand his problems and she’s good at giving him advice if he and John have a fight. He respects her a lot and tries to do the same even if it doesn’t come naturally to him. And of course she’s the only person who can truly match his freak in bed

Caine and Sofia thinks the whole thing is very funny. Can’t believe John is getting so much action when he’s so shy and quiet.

So what do they do? Well obviously she’s pegging them both.

Or pegging Santino while John gives her head.

Or pegging John while he pegs Santino.

She’s into the gun fucking for sure, so that becomes a three person activity

She comes up with creative enough ideas to surprise Santino

They have cuddle piles while watching TV and playing with Daisy

They go on long road trips together

They’re the dream team honestly!

If any man tries to own me, I swear on my John x Helen x Santino headcanons that I will wriggle free from that shit by tooth or by nail

[ladyreapermc]

Fic: My Boy Builds Coffins (John Wick x Unamed OFC)

Summary: Follow up to this drabble. You and John get some unwanted visitors during sex.

Author’s Notes: This one was requested by @keandrews​ who wanted something like the sex scene from Shoot’em up. Hope I did justice to your prompt, dear. Feedback is always appreciated.

Wordcount: 1822

Warnings: mild violence; smut (rough sex)

The last thing you expected to see when you pulled the door of your bedroom open was Wick lounging on you couch, in only his trousers, checking his guns. You thought he had left after the night activities and at the memory of it, you felt a sweet ache between your legs.

It had been quite a while since you had been fucked that hard. You didn’t allow many men to have that power over you. You were born into the High Table, that seat was your legacy. You were the boss, but last night you were nothing but a plaything for Wick to use and fuck and you had loved every single second of it. Even now as you watched his back, the dark ink of his tattoos, the muscles rippling under the skin as he moved his hands over the dark metal of his weapons, you felt that ache become something more. A throbbing of need.

“You’re still here,” you commented, walking into your kitchen, surprised by the warm aroma of coffee.

“I’m your protective detail, princess,” he said, smooth baritone sending chills down your spine. “I’ll go where you go. I stay if you stay.”

“And if I don’t want you?” You challenged, sipping your coffee. It was perfect. Better than you could ever manage. “If I told you to leave?”

“I answer to your father, not you.” Wick replied simply, getting to his feet and giving you a nice view of all of bites and scratches you left on his skin. “May I use your shower?”

You considered saying no for a moment. Just to be petty, but what you be the point? It wasn’t like Wick would pop out for a bath and come back. So, with a sigh, you nodded watching him disappear into your bedroom before you took a seat at your kitchen isle, browsing your phone.

Your father hated that you insisted in going to college away from home, all the way in New York, but you needed to feel like a normal person every once in a while, and not the heiress of a crime family. You left Mexico to study here despite his protests, getting and MBA in business and administration. If you were gonna run the family one day, might as well learn.

Your life was completely different here in NY and you loved it. No one knew who you were; no one shook at the mention of your last name. You were just you. You had never been your own person before. It was quite strange. So, you grew careless.

Going into Camora’s domain hadn’t been your idea. Just one of your friends who wanted to check out this new club, hang out with this hot Italian guy, who happened to be Santino D’Antonio and the second he laid eyes on you, he knew. He knew you were alone. Vulnerable. And the target was on your back.

Or that was what your father believed. You still thought the near hit and run was a coincidence. After all, Santino wouldn’t risk a war trying to kill you, would he? Surely, he wasn’t that stupid. Or at least his father wouldn’t be.

And since your father had no evidence that it was the Camora, he couldn’t take revenge. Not without causing uproar with the High Table. Instead, he got in touch with Winston, who got in touch with Wick. He might be under Tarasov’s service, but he could still take side jobs and that’s how you ended up with Baba Yaga as your babysitter.

Drumming on the counter top, you set your phone aside again and moved into the bedroom just in time to see Wick stepping out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his dark hair and running in small rivulets down his strong chest. His dark eyes peered at you; one eyebrow cocked in question.

You answered by pulling the sleeping shirt over your head, standing in front of him in only your tiny sleeping shorts. If you’re gonna have a fucking bodyguard, then you’re gonna take advantage of it.

“Didn’t you get enough, last night?” He asked, stepping closer to you.

“Why? Tired?” You challenged, pressing your body against his, the warmth of his recent shower a nice contrast with your cool skin. “Was that all you got, Wick?”

“You like to toe the line, huh?” Wick asked, one large hand coming to your nape, burying into your hair and tugging back with enough force to have you whining and pressing your legs together against the throbbing in your center.

You liked that he could do that to you. You liked that Wick was tall and broad and huge against your tiny frame and he could do whatever he wanted to you.

“Tell me what you want, princess,” he asked, his mouth hovering over yours and you gasped, the smell of him heady and intoxicating.

“Fuck me, John,” you replied, looking at him from under your lashes. “Make me your dirty little slut.”

The kiss was anything but soft. John claimed your mouth, all teeth and tongue as he picked you up and all but threw on the bed, climbing on top of you, towel falling away and revealing him in all his glory. The toned body, pale scars and the hard cock that had made you see stars last night.

His mouth was on yours again, his hands grabbing and squeezing, touches harsh and at the edge of painful, lighting up your body with need. Your cunt drenched; mewling sounds muffled by his tongue plundering your mouth.

John bit and sucked down your neck, making you arch and moan, fingers digging into his back, nails sinking in his flesh but he barely seemed to notice as he licked at your lower belly, making your quiver and gasp, arms coming up your head and pressing against metal beneath your pillow.

You didn’t have time to wonder what it was, before John’s mouth descended on your pussy, sucking and licking and kissing, making your buck and keen, pleasure washing through your body as your thighs quaked and he had to keep them spread apart with his hands.

As your climax built, you were completely unaware of anything aside from the ecstasy you felt. Your eyes closed; your hearing overtaken by the blood rushing through your ears. Your skin overheated and tingly, slick with sweat and when John crawled back on top of you, your sense of touch was reduced to the pressure of his strong body covering yours, the feel of his large cock piercing through your folds, making you scream in bliss. The only thing you tasted was him. The only thing you smelled was him.

And then burned gunpowder.

When you were 10, your parents took you to an amusement park. It was your first time in a rollercoaster and even though you were terrified, that feeling when your stomach dropped right as the cart took a plunge, was terrifying and exhilarating and not all that different from what you felt when John rolled over, pulling you roughly with him.

Your eyes flew open with loud thud of John’s body hitting the ground, he let out a pained grunt, his right arm pushing your head down on his chest before the noise of gunshots deafened you to anything else. Your ears were still echoing when John pushed you off him, his face drawn into a deep, murderous scowl as he surveyed the room.

“Bathroom. Now.” He ordered and you scrambled inside it without even knowing what was happening, locking the door behind yourself.

You were shaking and sobbing, your eyes wide and haunted staring back at you in the mirror as you tried to hear anything that was happening outside. There was crashing and more shots. You thought you heard a yell of pain. Then everything fell silent.

You waited on bated breath, searching around for something, anything to protect yourself. What if John lost? What if the heavy steps coming towards the door wasn’t his?

“Princess,” he called softly, and you let out a relieved exhale, hurrying to open the door and throwing yourself in John’s arms. He huffed, holding you tight.

You could smell blood on his skin and burned gunpowder, mixed with his unique scent and when you looked into his eyes, there was this feral, almost predatory expression in his face. The look of a gladiator that just won his battle and now had come to claim his prize. Letting go of John, you took a staggering step, back hitting against the dresser as he stalked forward, lips drawn into a smile that looked more like a snarl.

Shouldn’t you be terrified? He just killed God knows how many men a few seconds ago. But he did it to protect you and the thrill spoke louder, igniting your body once again as John kissed you, hard and bruising.

The hand still holding his pistol pushed between your thighs, the hot metal making your hiss and quiver as you spread your legs for him. John pressed two fingers inside you quickly and you moaned as he explored your tender flesh.

You shouldn’t be this aroused, but the rush of surviving plus John’s ferocity at protecting you had you weak and soaked and when he pulled his fingers off you and licked it clean, you moaned, hands searching for something to hold onto as John hoisted your up and thrust into your welcoming heat with one smooth stroke, making your mewl and arch against him, heels digging on his back.

He took you in a furious pace, your back knocking against the drawers at each violent thrust, his hand leaving finger shaped bruises all over your hips, his mouth sucking hickeys down your neck, biting the soft skin and he growled against you.

“Say it!” He hissed through his teeth. “Now.”

“I’m your fuck-doll,” you gasped, oblivion approaching quick as pleasure rushed through you. “Fuck, John! I’m anything you want me to to be, just don’t fucking stop!”

“My pretty little slut,” he grinned smugly, kissing you harshly. “Rub your clit. I want you squeezing around me, milking my cock.”

You didn’t have to be told twice to snake a hand between your bodies, swirling your clit in tandem with John’s salvage thrusts and soon enough you were engulfed in pleasure, shouting his name, cunt throbbing and quivering and you could feel John’s cock pulsing as he came deep inside you. For a moment, the two of you rested, breaths mingling together, sweat cooling in each other’s skin.

“We should leave,” John whispered, kissing you softly before letting your legs slide back to the ground. “He’ll send more men.”

“D’Antonio?” You asked, wincing a little at the delicious pain between your legs.

“Your brother,” John answered, his scowl deepening and you cursed under your breath. And really, you should have known.

xxx

Permanent Tag List (check my bio to add yourself)

@toomanystoriessolittletime​ @meetmeinthematinee​ @theolsdalova​ @krazycags01​ @beyond-antares​ @cumberbatchbaps​ @sgt-morgan​ @futuristic-imbecile​ @howtoruin-someones-perfect-day​ @a-really-bi-girl​ @fanficsrusz​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @poisonedjoinery​ @soarocks​ @penwieldingdreamer​​ @alwaydreamingofu​ @partypoison00​ @hnryycvll​ @keiva1000​ @reid-187​ @shellbilee​ @ivvitm1109​ @eevee-of-rivia​ @mis-lil-red @wonderlandfandomkingdom​ @babayagakeanu​

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 14

AO3 LINK

The moment John reaches the city line, he turns on his phone. Yet again, he is met with a cacophony of vibrations as his phone loads with the unread messages that have accumulated over the past twelve or so hours.

He waits until the barrage has ended before hitting the speed dial option that will bring him directly to the Continental. He orders a day room to set up shop, as well as a request for the technician to start researching DeLuca’s mother.

He’s transferred to Winston long enough to find out the name of Mateo’s mother. Winston barely gets a sentence out before John has said a goodbye.

When he is done, he dials Sofia.

It’s already evening in Morocco and he can hear loud music in the background when she answers.

“You’re lucky I’m picking up considering you don’t answer any of your texts.” She says loudly, over the pulsing rhythm.

John feels his lips twitch at the annoyance in her tone. “Been busy.”

“So I’ve heard.” The background noise gets quieter and he hears the sound of a door closing. “Rumor has it, you’re killing anybody even considering taking the Kingston contract.”

Good. While he doesn’t have the time to actually go ahead and kill every person seeking out Helen, he wants anybody considering her contract to think twice.

“Hearing many rumors in Casablanca?”

“Oh, you went global , John. Everybody everywhere is talking about it.”

John sighs at that and shakes his head, “Is there really nothing more interesting happening anywhere?”

“I’ll break it down for you because I know you’ve had a lot of head injuries: everybody looks at you like a monk. You don’t date. You don’t fuck around. Everybody just kind of assumed you were celibate. I've even heard rumors that you made a deal with the devil to be powerful at the cost of giving up sex.”

“Then, a contract goes wide. Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Never set foot in the Underworld yet seems to have a connection to John Wick. Everybody waits for a response. Only you disappear off the map for twenty-four hours. And nobody can actually find Helen Kingston.”

“Then, you resurface and start killing anyone who’s even looked at the Kingston contract. So, no, John. There really isn’t anything more interesting happening anywhere.”

John lets out a breath.

This, he realizes, is quickly becoming his newest fear. That even if, somehow, he can get them both out alive, he’s going to have to face the rest of the Underworld.

He’d warned Helen before he left that he still had enemies. Ones far worse than DeLuca. The Syndicate heir was ambitious, but DeLuca truly didn’t care whether Helen lived or died. Others would. Others would make it their mission to make her suffer just to see how John would react.

She was already trapped in ways she couldn’t possibly understand and that terrified him.

“But I take it you’re not calling to find out what the rumor mill is pelting in Casablanca.”

“No, I’m not.” John says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the pedestrians to cross in front of him. “I need a favor. There’s a bottle of Romanee-Conti ’72 in it for you. Plus expenses.” He’s more than willing to give her a marker if that’s what this takes, but he has a feeling that the rare vintage plus the intrigue of it all will be enough to capture her attention.

“Color me intrigued. What’s the job?”

“The man who’s hired the hit on Helen is Mateo DeLuca of Syndicate. I have reason to believe his mother, Isabella DeLuca, is the one who is actually calling the shots. Only problem, she’s in Rome.”

Sofia hums, “Is she well-guarded?”

“I don’t know.” John answers honestly, “But I need her in New York yesterday.”

“An exchange. His mother for your girl?”

John drives on, inclining his head at the question, “I’m certain it won’t be that simple. But yes.”

Sofia hums and, again, he can hear her moving. The background noise increases slightly, “I can be to Rome in five hours.”

“Perfect. If you can get her when she’s going to bed—”

“No one will be the wiser until morning. This isn’t my first extraction, John.”

He nods to himself because of course it isn’t .

He isn’t a micromanager. He never has been, but the stakes have never been quite like this before.

“You care if she’s bruised?”

John considers it.

He typically liked to keep things as clean as possible. He didn’t do extractions or espionage or anything else that called for more tact and forethought than a bullet to the head.

But Isabella DeLuca was the force behind Mateo. Arguably, the force behind Helen’s abduction.

“Not in the slightest.” He says finally, “Although I don’t expect she’ll put up much of a fight. She’s a bureaucrat.”

Sofia groans, “I prefer it when they fight. Bureaucrats just whine.”

“I get it. I’ve spent more time dealing with politics the past few days than I have in my entire life.”

“Never thought I’d see the day where John Wick had to talk nice to people. Then again, never thought you were going to get your v-card punched, either.”

John rolls his eyes at Sofia’s ongoing joke. There wasn’t much else she could get on him but his decision to be largely celibate fascinated his friend. Truthfully, John didn’t think too much about sex or carnal pleasures. He didn’t prioritize fleeting experiences.

But then, the assassin’s voice softens, “How is she? Your girl. Does she understand what’s going on?”

John nods before remembering that Sofia can’t see him. “Yeah, she gets it. And she’s…” unbelievable. Ridiculous. Brave and clever and tougher than he ever gave her credit for, “In the past week, she’s been kidnapped, held hostage, and forced to go into hiding because half of New York is out to kill her. And despite all that, her biggest concern is that something could happen to me .”

It still boggles his mind.

“How long have you been together?”

He isn’t entirely sure how to answer that and there’s far too much to explain over the phone. He decides on, “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” She asks and John is glad that she isn’t going to chastise him for not knowing better. “Hang on.” He hears her switch languages to Arabic. While John isn’t fluent in that particular language, he knows enough to hear the word ‘airplane’. After a minute of back and forth, she is back on the phone, “I’m headed to the airport now. The concierge is finding a pilot as we speak.”

“Perfect.” John says with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Where am I taking her once I have her?”

He thinks, quickly. There were too many eyes in New York for him to chance it getting back to DeLuca. Likewise, he was certain his house was being watched. Even though it technically wasn’t under his name, enough people knew about his residence in Jersey for it to get around. And there was no way in hell he was bringing Isabella anywhere near Helen.

“There’s a private airstrip just outside of Newark with an adjacent motel. Keep her there. If I don’t talk to you before then, I’ll plan on meeting you there tomorrow, at noon. I’ll probably be offline when you land.”

“I’ll get her there.”

“Thank you, Sof.”

He hangs up and concentrates on the road ahead, even as his thoughts spin. He hates having to depend on anybody. That said, he does trust Sofia to get the job done. To take care of it and troubleshoot any unforeseen problems on her own. That knowledge helps with the distaste he feels for needing help. It was easier to accept the help, too, knowing it would benefit Helen.

John makes it to the Continental and leaves his car with the valet. Walking into the lobby, he spots Verdugo sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading the newspaper. He imagines the assassin is likely still the number one contender targeting Helen, considering John hadn’t been able to touch him the day before.

He feels his hand already itching for his gun but he knows the rule.

He recites the rule, to himself, again and again as he passes by.

No business conducted on Continental grounds.

He can’t falter on that, not here. The moment Verdugo sets foot outside the hotel, he’s fair game. But not here.

Charon already has a key card placed on the counter when John reaches the counter. John places a coin down and they make a quick exchange.

“Mister Dexter sent you a fax and the Technician has compiled the information you asked for. I’ve taken the liberty of sending it all to your room.”

“Thank you.” John says, thinking back over the past few days. For everything that the Continental staff had helped him with. “For everything, this week.”

“Of course.” The Concierge replies with ease. John takes his key and starts to walk off when Charon calls to him, “And Mister Wick?” He waits until John turns, “I wish you the best of luck with your… task.”

John nods his thanks and proceeds down the hall and up the stairs. The day room was almost identical to the one he had stayed in while waiting for news of Helen just days ago. Two folders layfolders lay on the table when John walks in.

The first is much smaller. John flips it open and finds only two sheets of paper, reporting the updated odds. In large capital letters, it advertises Kingston Contract Odds .

John forces himself to swallow as he reads through it.

Verdugo remains the top contender, but the rest of the list is very different than the one he had seen yesterday morning.

Fuck, he thinks, was it really only yesterday?

He sighs, reviewing the changes. While he had eliminated a great deal of the assassins targeting Helen, even more had dropped out of their own accord, it would seem.

Good.

But more would always come, as evidenced by the papers in his hands.

More names he didn’t recognize. Junior assassins and street kids looking to make a name for themselves.

He’d try to make time to eliminate more. Keep reminding people exactly who they were messing with by going after a woman they knew to be his.

John takes out his cell phone, again, ignoring the dozens of text messages that would be left unread until he had the time to deal with them. He finds Santino and drafts a new message.

J: Need to talk. Today.

He reads it over after and sends. Before he can even set it down, it vibrates in his hand.

S: Intriguing. You know where I live.

John turns off the screen, setting the device to the side as he opens the second folder.

Pictures of Isabella DeLuca on the arm of her late husband at scores of different events over the years. A birth announcement of their son. A copy of a marriage certificate. A degree from Sapienza University of Rome in business sciences and another in political science. A transcript, providing proof of excellent marks and scores.

She was bright, it seems, adding to Helen’s theory that Isabella was the true brain behind Syndicate.

He continues going back into her history, but he doesn’t make the connection until he sees her birth certificate.

Isabella Carlotta Giovinco.

Daughter of Stefano Giovinco and Valentina D’Antonio.

He whips out his phone and dials Winston speedily.

“Hello again, Jonathan. Have you—”

“Valentina D’Antonio.” John says quickly, “What’s her relationship to Lorenzo?”

“Valentina?�� Winston repeats, “She was his older sister. The eldest child of Claudia and Enzo D’Antonio.”

“And that would make Isabella DeLuca his niece?”

“Yes.”

John closes his eyes, “And you didn’t think that was pertinent information to share when DeLuca asked me to kill the D’Antonio’s?”

“Killing family is not an unusual practice, Jonathan. But, honestly, it slipped my mind. When Isabella was never, herself, a D’Antonio.”

“But her mother was.” He shakes his head, “And in those days, everything was patrilineal. Heir’s weren’t chosen based on age or conviction; they automatically went to the oldest male.”

“Which, in Valentina’s case was her brother, Lorenzo. She married one of her father’s lieutenants, if I remember correctly. They had several children, one of which being Isabella. It was quite the scandalous thing when Isabella married Dante. She had to renounce the Camorra at her own wedding to be accepted into Syndicate.”

“A lesser gang.”

“But one that quickly rose to prominence. It’s second only behind the Camorra in Italy.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He fucking hates this bullshit.

There’s a knock on the door and a beeping as the door unlocks. Winston enters and John lowers his phone, shutting it off.

“So, before Isabella, Syndicate was just another Italian crime family trying to be great.” John assesses, “Her family probably thought she was crazy for leaving the safety of the Camorra, but there was no advancement there. In the Camorra, she was just the daughter of a soldier and a has-been princess. But in Syndicate, she was a queen.”

“You think Isabella was the driving force behind Syndicate’s rise?” Winston synthesizes, looking unsure.

John nods, “I do. Helen told me that DeLuca wasn’t smart enough to be doing this on his own and I didn’t listen. Fuck .” He exhales, “I almost missed it.”

He’d kick himself if he could. If he had just listened to her from the beginning… no. He can’t focus on should have’s.

This is good.

Any doubt that Lorenzo D’Antonio will turn down his request fades from his mind.

Because it’s personal now. For them, at least.

It’s been personal for John since they started stalking the woman he loved.

“Unbelievable.” He mutters.

“I take it Mateo demanded the same last night as when he first took your beloved.”

John nods again, “Yes. And I’ve spent the last few days trying to figure out how I can get us both out of this alive. I can’t believe I almost missed it.”

John exhales and it feels like a weight is lifted from his shoulders.

It’s far from over but he can feel everything start to come together. There’s a light at the end of a tunnel that once seemed endless.

He breathes easy.

He wishes that Helen weren’t hours away so he could take her into his arms and hug her as the relief courses through him, overwhelming the guilt that he had missed something so crucial.

“It’s unsurprising that you missed it.” Winston says, “You’ve never had a political mind. You prefer the simplicity of being told where to point and shoot.”

True enough, John thinks.

“There’s something else you should know.” Winston adds, his voice softening in a way that tells John that whatever comes next won’t be good. He nods and Winston says, “There’s a missing person’s out for Helen Kingston. I’m not sure if it was someone in the Underworld trying to draw her out of hiding or if it was someone from her work, but the police were at her house this morning.”

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

John shakes his head, “Do you know if Charlie was able to clean the scene before the police got there?”

Winston nods, “Yes. I have someone watching the investigation. The police are under the assumption that she ran away since both her cell phones and her laptop are nowhere to be found but her family is pushing, saying Helen wouldn’t just disappear without telling them.”

“Alright.” John sighs, “Thank you for letting me know.

“Of course.”

“I have to meet with Santino.” John says, closing the folder and handing it to Winston, “Could you pass these along to the Technician? I need them scanned and emailed to Sofia Al-Azwar.”

Winston accepts the folder, inclining his head, “I’d ask what you were planning, Jonathan, except I feel it’s better that I don’t know.”

“You’re probably right.” John agrees.

“That said, I will be watching with complete and utter fascination.” The Manager continues, “Good luck.”

John nods, pocketing the key in case he needs to come back, and leaving the rest behind. Without a goodbye, he hurries back down the hall. He descends the stairs only to meet Verdugo walking up. The other assassin gives him a smile.

“You’re a hard man to find, John Wick.”

John stops and reminds himself again, of the mandate.

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

While John was more than willing to argue that this isn’t business, it was personal , he was certain that argument wouldn’t fly with Winston or the High Table.

“Am I?” He asks, instead.

“Very. But every now and then, you pop up. Seemingly out of nowhere. If only Helen Kingston was privy to doing the same.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“It would be in your best interest,” John manages to bite out, “To forget her name.”

“But it is such a pretty name. Fitting, really. There was a war over her namesake as well.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“One where thousands died,” John agrees, aware that they’ve caught the attention of several onlookers just off the lobby, “Yet another reason it would be wise of you to drop the contract.”

Verdugo inclines his head, “You can’t keep her hidden forever. You do know that, don’t you? If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“It won’t be you.”

“Why are you making this so much harder on yourself?” There is genuine curiosity dripping from Verdugo’s words. A confusion, of sorts, as if he can’t understand why John Wick is putting off the inevitable.

Kate had been similarly curious, although hers had been riddled with amusement. Now she was dead.

But every assassin thought themselves invincible, to a degree. Yes, they were far more aware of mortality than the average person having watched the life drain from countless eyes. But the older assassins in particular, who had brushed with death regularly, often seemed to forget that.

John, himself, was guilty of that. He thinks to the tie that does not hang from his neck, which instead, he had left with Helen. He might never wear one again in his promise to her to not let anyone have a chance at defeating him.

“Make it easier on yourself and let her go.” The other assassin pauses, “I’ll make sure it’s quick. Painless.”

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .

“Would you like to take this outside?” John asks, hoping against hope that Verdugo is stupid or confident enough to make a mistake.

Verdugo inclines his head, “You forget, Mister Wick. You’re not the one with the multi-million-dollar bounty… Consider my offer. Others’ targeting the Boogeyman’s woman will be far more malicious.” He starts to ascend back up the stairs, “Be seeing you, Mister Wick.”

John repeats the rule one last time before forcing himself to turn away. Until Verdugo leaves the Continental, John can’t do shit.

That said, he’d be extra wary of tails on his way home. Just in case.

He’s almost tempted to let the assassin tail him. Take him to the middle of nowhere and pummel him to death.

His focus has never been so chaotic. He’s typically good at ignoring the smack talk. At walking away from those seeking to push him or make him lose his resolve.

John needs to stick to the plan.

Helen is safe. Protected.

Marcus won’t let anything happen to her.

He needs to do his part.

He nods to Charon as he leaves, ignoring the countless sets of eyes watching him as he strides through the lobby with purpose. The valet is gone when he reaches the stairs and John takes a moment to breathe. To go over the plan.

Santino will still be his point of contact. The easiest of the D’Antonio’s to convince to go along with his plan. But now he has leverage to use with Lorenzo, which makes it significantly easier to breathe.

He just needs to get the bounty removed. Then he can deal with the rest—the other enemies who might target Helen, the missing persons’ case being explored, and the countless unresolved feelings that had been flowing between them.

In a way, he’s relieved that the deadline is only two days away because he’s not sure how much more he can take.

The valet pulls up to the curb with his car and John hands him a tip as he walks by. Santino’s penthouse condo wasn’t too far away, just over the bridge and into Manhattan.

John is waved into the garage by security and he parks next to one of Santino’s many, but mostly unused, sports cars, before heading to the elevator.

When he arrives, a few members of Santino’s entourage were relaxing around his penthouse.

Ares plays a video game with a few of her co-bodyguards. She throws him a smirk as John is wanded down by another member of Santino’s protection.

Her hands move in a blur as she signs you still alive, old man?

John rolls his eyes and signs back Respect your elders.

Ares only grins wider I’d rather respect your girlfriend. I’ve seen the pictures. She has a nice ass .

Not knowing how to respond to that, John just shakes his head and moves further into the penthouse suite. Santino appears at the balcony, always one to make an entrance, and descends down the stairs.

“John! Always a pleasure. Café?”

John nods, “Si. Gratzi.”

Santino motions with a hand and leads John to a kitchen where two more of his men were sitting. Both regard John with interest but he ignores their stares. Santino barks an order in Italian and one of them stands to make the espresso.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Santino says, although John has noticed no mess to speak of, “My father and sister are visiting.”

John hums, “Are they here?”

“No, no. Gianna doesn’t travel often and prefers to use the advantages of the Continental whenever she does. My father is staying with a business associate.”

John didn’t understand much of politics, but he was well aware that business associate meant mistress in this case. He says nothing as Santino’s henchman hands them each a small cup.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Santino asks.

John glances around not so subtly and Santino gives another order. The men vacate the room and John can hear them passing on to others outside the kitchen that it is time to leave.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors going around.”

“Ah, but I never believe such fickle things.”

That was a lie, but John let it slide. He didn’t come here to argue with the Italian mafiaso after all. He can hear the swing of the door and he glances back. Ares has come in.

“I hope you don’t mind, John, but I do prefer to keep my head of security close at all times.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes but nods, signing as he speaks, for Ares benefit, “Of course.”

Santino offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and John finds himself doubting that this is a good idea.

Remember your promise , he thinks. He will come home.

“Now, please,” Santino says, “Enlighten me with the truth.”

“The rumors,” John admits, “are largely true.”

“But not entirely?” Santino leans forward.

“Is anything entirely true?” John evades with a practiced ease.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“We’ve never technically put such a label on our relationship.” Not technically a lie, John thinks. “But for all intents and purposes, she is mine .”

Santino grins broadly, already rapt by the drama of it all. John will never understand the Mafioso’s fascination with such things. Truthfully, John isn’t certain why anybody gives a damn about the lives of people they don’t care about but that’s another matter entirely.

“Mio Dio, John. I did not think you had it in you.”

He barely withholds another eyeroll.

“And now what? You destroy New York piece by piece, until there’s no one left to harm her?”

“That’s plan B.”

“And plan A?”

John swallows down the espresso, keeping an eye on Ares as he prepares to explain.

“Mateo DeLuca holds the hit over Helen. I’m sure you’re familiar with him.”

“We’ve never actually met.” Santino says, “But he is my cousin.”

John nods once, “And of his mother?”

“Isabella. My dear aunt Valentina’s daughter. Until she disowned and dishonored her family to marry that scoundrel, Dante. Quite the tragic affair, although I was too young to remember.”

“She remembers you.” John says, “She’s ordered your death, along with that of your father and sister, in exchange for the release of Helen’s contract.”

Ares moves fast but John is faster. He grabs a cutting board from the island and uses it to catch the two knives she throws at him before he discards it, throwing it to the floor.

“Relax!” He says as he signs, before turning back to Santino, “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have offered you an explanation. I’d have killed you the moment you walked in.”

Santino looks to his guard, quietly ordering her to stand down, before looking back at John. “Go on.”

“They want the Camorra.” John says before taunting, “And it would be easy enough to give them. Except I don’t trust them. Nor do I like the idea of the High Table coming after me while DeLuca takes Rome, free of consequence.”

“I take it you have a plan?”

“It would require your cooperation, as well as that of your father and sister.”

“How so?” There is a glint of excitement in Santino’s eyes that John really doesn’t understand but he isn’t going to complain if it means the mafiaso is willing to help.

John glances to Ares, who has her arms crossed and is still watching him with suspicion. “We’ll need to stage your death. I’ll take photographic evidence to give to DeLuca. Once he exchanges his end of the bargain, you can present the DeLuca’s to the High Table to be tried for treason.”

“And you walk away with the girl.” Santino hums, shaking his shoulders as he considers it, “How exciting! How would you like to fake my death? Strangle me? Pretend to cut me open, hmm?”

Unbelievable. It takes him a moment to even remember to speak, “I was thinking fake a bullet to the head. It doesn’t leave much room for questioning.”

“Are we to do this now?” Santino is practically bouncing.

Again, John is tempted to just yell what the fuck but withholds with a shake of his head.

“I was hoping to speak with your father, first. But yes, it would be today. If I’m seen coming and going while you are obviously alive, DeLuca might suspect that I’ve tipped you off.”

“Wonderful!”

“You’d have to stay in hiding for two days.” John says, “And no one can know. Not even your entourage or security. Save Ares.”

“Yes, yes!” Santino nods, “They will mourn their loss only for me to rise, like Christo.”

He swears he catches Ares rolling her eyes while Santino considers how to best spin faking his death. Not that she’d ever admit it. She was too loyal. A rare quality in the Underworld, but one John respected nonetheless.

“Can you get a hold of your father remotely?” John asks, “Over video call?”

“Of course!” Santino gives instructions to Ares. She nods and leaves the room, “New video conferencing on top-of-the-line laptop. Just released from Geneva. It’s untraceable, unhackable.”

The other assassin returns with the laptop and sets it up for Santino. The heir calls his father while John closes his eyes. The youngest D’Antonio had been an easy sell—willing to play dead for the shock value and entertainment factors alone. And while John was certain Lorenzo would be swayed by Isabella’s involvement, he was aware that Lorenzo might take a bit more pushing.

The call is picked up by one of Lorenzo’s bodyguards.

John is aware that high-ranking members of the Underworld kept hired guns, and particularly members of the High Table required guarding, but it still throws him.

John, who can barely stand the presence of friends, cannot understand the appeal of such things. Or the inability to take care of one’s self.

After a few minutes, Lorenzo is brought to the computer. He settles down in front of it, peering at the camera. A rush of Italian parts from his lips and John finds himself code-switching quickly, trying to change the language his brain would accept.

“I told you, I would see you Friday before I left—” Lorenzo was saying, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Yes, father, but I have John Wick here to speak with you.”

Santino turns the camera towards John.

“John!” Lorenzo says in surprise, “I was hoping to see you on my visit. When I heard about your… conundrum, I assumed you would be too busy.”

“Lorenzo,” John steps closer to the camera, “It’s about that matter I wish to speak with you.”

And it all comes out.

The involvement of the DeLuca’s. Isabella’s slow, careful takeover of the Syndicate. Playing kingmaker to her son and murdering her husband, all in quest of taking back the Camorra.

The contract on Helen’s life.

How, despite the contract, John doesn’t trust the Syndicate crime family.

“That whore .” Lorenzo spits out, when John has finished, “She gets that from her mother. Being a princess in the Camorra was not enough.” The old man shakes his head, “Her ambition is her downfall.”

“You can have them tried at the High Table for their treason.” John nudges.

Lorenzo certainly perks up at that. What a display that could be. The Camorra annihilating its number one competitor, publicly.

“I’ll testify for the High Table.” He continues, “All I ask is a few hours of your time. And that of your children.”

“I don’t like the idea of playing a dead man.” Lorenzo replies uncertainly, “It would look weak.”

“Only for you to rise from the grave, seizing what has fallen in DeLuca’s absence. Syndicate could be yours.”

Lorenzo considers it, a smile breaking upon his face. “Alright, John. Tell me your plan.”

....

thanks to @meetmeinthematinee​ for reviewing it before I posted this :)

[kashimos-hajime]

tests of adaptability | d.w.t.d. 01

summary: something about hector, who tastes like iron and sea salt, tobacco smoke and sweat, makes you want to break.

WARNINGS: gun violence, swearing, nasty injury stuff, blood, mentions of child abuse/prostitution pairing: hector x fem!reader word count: 11k

a/n: hello and welcome to (technically chapter 2) chapter 1 of the side-story @the-darklings​ has graciously allowed me to write for her series, Children of Ares. lots of dynamic building and other stuff here. hope you enjoy!!

00 | ... | 02 | 03 | 04 

A destroyed USB and charred hair is what Lisbon got you. Storming into the Continental, you hold back a grimace when Charon greets you, and you swipe away what’s left of your chopped hair from your face.

Fucking D’Antonio.

“Good evening, Miss Persephone,” Charon says with a slight dip of his head and you manage a grimace-like smile. Your whole body is aching from the explosion, and your hearing is still muffled as you drag yourself to the elevators. Pulling out your phone, you squint at the bright screen and brush your thumb over the cracked screen before calling a saved number with no name.

You’ve debated calling him over a text for a while when your anger was boiling hot and your body was still burning, but now… you’re just pissed.

It takes two rings before the line clicks.

“Yes?” Disinterested, aloof D’Antonio on the other side of the world. He’s put you in a lot of trouble for a lie. You scowl at your own reflection when the elevator dings, revealing the hotel’s halls.

“Santino,” you begin, voice twisted in something dangerously sweet.

“Ah, bella mia. I did not expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Hm. Did you expect to hear from me at all?”

The walk to your door is slow. Your feet are still pulsing within your boots, and all you want to do is fall asleep as you trudge across the carpet. The plane ride back to New York was no better than the actual task of espionage through the American embassy in Lisbon.

“Of course. I knew you were capable.”

“Adorable. Well, next time you want me to do your father’s dirty work, let me know before I meet the informant that it was a data extraction rather than a sanction.” Unlocking your door, you slam it behind you and bend down to unlace your dusty boots. They’re peeling from fire damage, crisp to the touch and flaking. Yanking them off, you pull out the smashed USB from your pocket.

“It was a test of adaptability.”

“It was an ass move, idiot. You want me to prove myself, I will, but don’t pull that shit on me or I’ll skin you.”

“An idle threat.”

“One I plan to act on the next time you try to get me killed. If you want to fuck me over next time, I’d rather you keep it to the bedroom.”

“Is that an invitation, bella mia?” How wonderfully arrogant. You suppress a roll of your eyes, tossing the USB onto your desk, before pulling off your jacket. “Hm. And what of the extraction?”

“What do you think happens when something explodes, Santino? It’s destroyed.” Collapsing on the bed, you lay down flat against the mattress. Your muscles are begging for a bath, but you’re spent. You close your eyes. It has been a nonstop twenty four hours. “If you want to see if you can salvage it, you’re welcome to meet me at the Continental.”

“So you can skin me alive, yes?”

“And we can talk about the arrangement regarding your father and Tarasov. I didn’t do this for free either. I expect seven-hundred and fifty million in my account by morning.”

“Already done. Do make time between our meeting and my departure. I have missed you so.”

“We haven’t seen each other in five days and already you’re getting attached, hm?” you mutter, and Santino laughs brightly. The morning must do him well. “Fine. It’s done.”

“Good. I will see you in two days. Wear red. I adore the colour on you.”

.

Folding the newspaper over at the presence, you eye Jardani as he stands before you. In an immaculate three-piece suit, he doesn’t look a hair out of place as you tilt your head just so to invite him to sit down.

“Breakfast?” you ask cordially but he merely shakes his head as one of the waiters bring him a cup of steaming hot coffee. “What are you doing here, Jardani?” His name falls softly from your lips and you set the newspaper down, sitting up straighter to take a sip of your own cup of tea.

“How did the job in Lisbon go?”

“Like shit. You?”

“Smooth.”

You expected as much. Tokyo must’ve been a breeze compared to your stint in Portugal. Flexing your fingers, you watch as Jardani’s eyes run over the bruises and marks still left over from the contract. Concern is etched faintly into his features but you shift, pulling down the sleeves of your blazer to cover the marred skin of your arms.

“Did D’Antonio pay you?” he asks after a moment and you raise your gaze from your peaches and yogurt.

“Yes. More than what he offered.” There’s a moment where there’s a contest you don’t understand between you and Jardani, and you swallow at the intensity of his gaze. Eyes like obsidian chips and just as unrevealing, you find yourself drowning in the warnings lingering behind his irises before you blink and look away.

For some odd reason, shame fills you now at the thought of sleeping with Santino knowing that Jardani disapproves whereas before, it’d given you glee.

Maybe because it’s harder to lie to his face.

Probably why the instant you got back from Sicily, you had called Jardani and told him what you did. He, of course, wasn’t pleased but what could he do? A normal childhood was never an option for you. Jardani never held it against your throat for chasing your desires, even if it meant sleeping with men he didn’t particularly like. You were no longer that little orphan girl put in his care in the Ruska Roma. You were grown up, and dangerous, and you had choices.

Still, that doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like you had to defend them.

“It isn’t like that.”

“Then, what is it like?”

Staring, again, like he’s waiting for an answer you don’t have. You fucking hate having this man as the only man who has ever given a shit about you, who makes you feel as insecure as you’re sure other twenty-two year olds feel. He makes you feel normal in a world full of criminals, and you hate it.

“It’s just sex, and it’s just a means to an end. I want to leave, Jardani.” You lean forward, over your bowl, and meet his gaze head on, defiant. “I’m not afraid to take what I want, and if Santino can offer me a chance to leave that fucker’s grip, I’m taking it.”

There are moments, between you and Jardani, where you think you might’ve won, and you’re always wrong.

When he pulls out a card, sets it on the table, and slides it across to you, you know you’ve lost. There’s a reason he came to you on such a quiet morning. Chin tucking into your chest, you jerk back as if cold water has been thrown into your face and you blink, staring at the white cardstock.

A simple letter carved into it by a pen nib you know all too well.

Viggo Tarasov has probably killed men with that pen nib and used their blood for ink.

“Whatever your move is, you make it fast,” Jardani whispers under his breath, leaning forward so you can hear it, and your hand is trembling but just barely as you grab the card and flip it over.

Your name is the only word printed in that lovely, dangerous cursive on the back and you know what it is.

“When I asked you what it was like, I was hoping it was more than just sex.” The last word comes out bitter from his mouth, and you clench your jaw, looking from the card to him. “If D’Antonio manages to secure your position in Camorra, it’ll be impossible for Tarasov to reach you.”

“Jardani—” His name comes out choked and hazardous, and you fold the card in your palm, eyes skirting along the lounge. How many of Tarasov’s men would stab you in the back if they had the chance? In your heart, you know the answer.

All of them.

A shiver runs down your legs and twists in your gut as you try to think of what to do next. You’re broke, you’ve got nowhere to run, and Jardani—

“Are you going to come for me?” The words are quiet but devastating. It’s a futile question. You know no matter what, the man will do what Tarasov asks.

“You have twenty-four hours before Tarasov puts out the call. That’s all I know,” Jardani says instead, and your eyes flutter shut, your head bowing in defeat. Twenty-four hours to pack up your bags and run because as long as you’re in New York, you’re not safe. Twenty-four hours to say goodbye to this home, to Jardani, to Winston…

Italy doesn’t sound welcoming when bloodhounds are at your heels.

.

“Goodbye, Miss Persephone. I hope to see you again soon.” Charon’s voice catches you off-guard and you pause. Jardani stops a few steps ahead of you, turning back and you swallow as you look at the man. Dipping your head, you smile.

“Goodbye, Charon.” You feel like you’re saying goodbye to a part of yourself as the concierge dips his head to you, the faintest smile upon his lips. “Send my regards to Winston.”

“I will. I’m sure Sir regrets not being here but he did have an important conference to attend.”

“It’s no skin off my back, Charon. I’ll tell Julius he says hello.”

“I’m sure Sir would like that. Thank you, Miss Persephone, and good luck.” Nodding, you turn back to Jardani who holds your bag and you pull your shoulders back, tip your chin up. You’re not leaving slouched and without the dignity beaten into you. Jardan’s gaze burns through the air, boiling as he pushes open the door and you jump off the steps, turning to your oldest friend with a slight smile.

Sticking out your hand, you expect him to give you your bag but instead, his hand envelopes yours in a warm hold and your eyes flicker from his knuckles to those eyes. A knot in your throat, you smile.

“I’m going to be okay, Jardani,” you tell him quietly as his thumb brushes over your knuckle. A tender farewell in a world where loyalties cannot be split. Your heart aches in your chest as you swallow. “I’ll be safe in Italy.” Lies, lies, lies.

No one is safe anywhere in your world of killers and liars.

The broken USB is still in your pocket along with your phone that you had used to texted Santino, and you hear Jardani sigh, a slight disturbance in the breeze.

“I know you’re going to be fine, Y/N. You’re the most resourceful girl I know.”

You laugh uneasily, and he lets go of your hand, slipping the handle of your bag over your fingers. “Well, you know, there’s gonna be another girl who’ll be better than I am. More cutthroat, more likely to bother you until you go deaf. Another student, because that’s how Tarasov works.”

You think you can hear Jardani scoff. “Unlikely. He wanted you to be me.”

Clutching onto the handle of your bag, you tilt your head, narrow your eyes, and take out your phone. Opening your texts, you open it to the Continental and sigh, typing out the amount and the account name you want to transfer your goods to. It’s the only money truly in your name, and that’s because Jardani always wanted to give you something for Christmas. Trying to ignore the swelling of your throat, you shake your head.

“And I failed.” You tap along the keys, ignoring Santino’s text inquiring you’ve been picked up yet as you glance at the clock. Only one hour until the contract opens. You might as well have some fun before you can’t until who knows how long.

This is your safe space, with your only family, and you’re leaving him.

If you smile, you can pretend the splitting in your heart doesn’t exist.

“Two hundred dollars says you’re wrong,” you bargain, and Jardani’s lip twitches into what you think could’ve been a smile. “Deal?”

“No, that’s yours—”

“It’s really yours. I would’ve been dead without you,” you whisper and his eyes soften. Lips pressed together, he lets go of your hand and brushes hair back falling into your face from your ponytail. A small, illegal gesture but one that means more than you can voice.

“Deal,” he finally says.

You hit Send. “Don’t spend it before someone proves I’m right.”

“I won’t.”

“I hope we can see each other again someday,” you add quietly, slipping the phone back into your pocket, “and it won’t be on opposite sides of the field.”

“Me too.”

Your phone vibrates in your hand and you sigh, taking it out again with a slight fumble to your movements. You don’t know if it’s because you’re tired from a sleepless night in your room or if it’s because the idea of never seeing Jardani again frightens you, but don’t care.

You’re going either way.

“So, this is goodbye,” you finally announce after reading Santino’s text regarding a car around the corner that reported that it hasn’t been in contact with you yet. With every passing second, you feel yourself drain away and Jardani nods, hand reaching for his breast pocket. He pulls out his pocket square and offers it to you

“A parting gift. The Seamstress wanted to wish you good luck and… I thought you might like it.” With a simple flick of his wrist, it becomes a handkerchief of startling beauty. Silver grey silk weaves between his fingers as you reach for it, fingers running over the black stitching and this time, you know he smiles because of the subtle changes of his face. You’ve known him your whole life—you think you can read him well enough, now. 

On one side, Persephone stitched in the corner and you smile, running a thumb over the ridges.

“I love it.” And you do, you really do. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s Jardani to his very essence and you hold it tight in your fist, hold it close to your chest. If you do, perhaps it is as if you’re holding a piece of him close to you, always. You won’t lose this no matter what. “Goodbye… John.”

He blinks, eyebrows inching up his face at the name you’ve chosen as your last words, but then he nods, offering you your bag and accepting it so easily you wonder if he thought this day would come. The day a bird is chased from its nest.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he says, the words trailing after you even after you turn away, backpack hanging from your fingers. Pocketing the handkerchief, you lift your chin resolutely, reaffirm you grip on your bag, and move on.

But you feel his stare on your back as you walk to the curb, and you wonder if the next time you see him, it’ll be staring up the barrel of his gun.

You don’t give the thought much food to feed itself, because the mere thought of facing him is a nightmare too close to reality. Instead, you continue walking until you reach the meeting spot, and you spot nothing but a single car, a man leaning against it smoking out a cigarette. Your eyes rake over his figure for a moment, before you deem him disinterested and you pull out your phone.

Your finger hovers above Santino’s name.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Head snapping in the direction of the voice, you spot the man leaning against a black car looking at you up and down. He smiles crookedly like he recognizes you when you narrow your eyes, and you think you know him by the tattoos alone. “You Santino's flavour of the week?”

“You his roadkill?” you reply sweet, picking up your bag and approaching him. He drops his cigarette, stomping out the butt but you can still smell the smoke clinging to his skin as he pushes off the car. He doesn’t reach out a hand. Good. Neither do you. “Persephone.”

“Hector.” Your eyebrows rise. The Devil of Camorra. “Get inside.” He opens the door to the passenger seat and you spare it not a second thought, ducking inside and reaching to slam it closed behind you while he slides into shotgun. You’re surprised with how barren the car inside is. Only a black rectangular bag shoved beneath the driver’s seat occupies the back row with you as you slide your luggage down.

‘Where’s Santino?”

“In Italy. Don’t hold your breath,” he adds with a glance at the rearview mirror as the driver pulls a stop at the red light. “His daddy’s not too happy with the extra money he’s spent on you.”

“Not my problem.”

“Yeah, it’s everyone’s fucking problem except yours.” You roll your eyes, taking out Jardani’s handkerchief and unzipping your bag, slipping the folded silk into a side-pocket as the car rolls into motion again. “What’d you do to make him spend that much money on a fucking nobody?” His tone scathing, he doesn’t turn around to give you his attention but you merely laugh quietly. You’ve dealt with dogs with worse tempers than this one, and you merely examine the healing burns and bruises from Lisbon.

Healing in its own time, your skin is a myriad of yellow and green as you ponder your answer.

“I fucked him like four times in one night, I guess,” you say, a hint of a smirk creeping onto your face as you spot him arching an eyebrow in surprise.

“Four times in one night? Finally someone who has a chance to keep up with me,” he muses aloud, his voice running between your ears and you suppress the roll of your eyes as the click of a gun being checked fills the car. “Might have to go a few rounds once we hit home, huh, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Digging through your bag, you pull out your own handgun. An FN Five-seveN rests easily in your hands as you check the mag, and you clear your throat, eyes flashing up to catch him staring back in the rearview mirror. “What? Insulted?”

“Why would I be? You’re the one settling.”

“How does anyone put up with you?” you retort dryly, letting the slide snap back into place. “And I didn’t try to kill him when I could’ve at every turn, but I suppose that doesn’t matter to you.”

“You’re right. I couldn’t care less.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Silence.

You hold your semi-automatic in your hand, eyes scanning through the tinted windows as your internal clock counts down the minutes until you’re a wanted woman.

45 minutes.

New York streets are busy even at the brisk morning, and you eye every car that slows down beside you at the reds, your thumb flicking over the safety.

“Recognize any of them?” Hector’s hushed voice brushes over you as you relax into your seat, trying to act as normal as you can. You catch a glimpse of the side of his face when he pretends to adjust his seatbelt just as the car begins to accelerate again.

“Not yet. John said an hour.”

“Baba Yaga. Of course, because we know he’s on your side.”

“Shut up for one second and trust me.”

“I don’t. And you’re the one who won’t fuck me because I’m not some little princeling so forgive me for not trusting your instincts.”

“Not the time for a dick measuring contest.”

You glance over your shoulder and spot one of Aurelio’s beauties purring as it tailgates them before glancing at the side streets. Two sleek grey cars, tracking them through the alleyways. One turns to join them on the main street, cutting across three lanes and right in front of them and you turn to glance at the other car.

Gone.

“We’re about to get rammed like a motherfucker,” Hector comments idly as the car behind them shoves itself against the bumper. Jerking forward, you grimace and unclasp your seatbelt. You grab your bag, slipping it onto your back with a quick swing of your arms. Catching a glimpse of the road ahead, you spot the intersection quickly approaching and twist to unlock the doors. “Can’t one thing go fucking right with you, sweetheart?” You nearly laugh, reaching for the black case. A strap slips by your hand and you tug it up, trying to determine what’s inside. “Pass me that.”

Without question, you pass it towards him and he takes off his own seatbelt, shrugging it onto his back.

“How soon do you think we can get out of this?”

“What, scared?”

His patronizing tone makes you want to gouge his eyes out.

“I wanna go for a breakfast burrito,” you correct and Hector smirks, glancing at you as he opens the glove compartment and takes out a smooth metal canister.

“I’m fucking hungry, too.” He rolls the canister between his hands. “But we haven’t got the time. We can eat on the plane.” The intersection growing nearer, you see the light flicker from yellow back to green, and your lips twist into a sneer. This is not going to feel good on the bones. “On three, we jump.” You push open the door just as Hector does and you feel the fresh wind bite at your face.

“One.” Hector’s voice is lost in the wind as a bullet whizzes past your face. Jerking back, you glare at the car behind you to see a man leaning out of the window. Gritting your teeth, you brace yourself against the car seat and stick your arm out. Aiming through the rear windshield, you calculate and twist your wrist slightly.

It takes two shots to pin the guy in the head. The first slams into the metal car with a small dent. The second, you torque your hand just so and it gets him in the eye. Withdrawing your hand back into the car, you meet eyes with Hector. He nods.

“Two.”

You place your hand against the car seat and suck in one last breath. Holstering your pistol, you tell yourself it won’t be so bad.

“Three.”

The ground comes at you hard and fast just as a cloud of smoke bursts from the canister and you tumble, your arms blooming in pain as you struggle to plant your palms into the asphalt. Slamming your boots into the ground, you crash into a pole and let out a painful wheeze. Your vision explodes into black stars and you roll onto your stomach, a cough pushing itself up your chest. Your ears ringing, you hear someone shout before a gunshot goes off.

CRACK.

The sound is deafening and there’s the crash of someone collapsing with a harsh groan. You blink, trying to ignore the ache between your eyes as another shot pierces the air.

CRACK.

You stumble to your feet as you search for Hector but you don’t catch any sight of him as you fall back to your knees, your back giving out on you. Pain blossoms from your spine and your hands grate against the asphalt, feeling the vibrations of the cars stuttering to a stop. Ahead, you hear the sound of brakes screeching as wheels burn against the road and there’s the sound of a satisfying metal crash just as more bullets begin to whiz through the air. Ducking, you search for Hector in the plume of grey, crawling past figures who barely see you through the dense fog.

It’s thick and heavy in your lungs, enough to make you gasp with a single breath and you press yourself lower to the ground, trying to see through the thin layer of clean air. A muddy figure huddled against the ground shifts in front of you and you squint, instinctively moving towards it as an eerie silence fills the streets.

You can hear nothing but your pounding heart in your ears and your panting breaths. A rumbling begins to quake the earth beneath your palms as you reach the edge of the cloud and you think you can see the dark ink of Hector’s tattoos. Swatting the air in front of you, you try desperately to claw yourself forward as the figure rises and sinks again, a restrained grunt falling from its lips. The rumbling grows louder and you feel the sound of gravel crunching in your lungs before you dig the balls of your feet into the asphalt and lunge forward, knocking you and the figure out of the way of a truck barreling down the road.

Hands wrapping around the person’s waist, you feel blood slick beneath your palms and you roll over, pulling a tattooed arm up until he’s on his feet and pulling him into an alleyway a few feet behind them, another shot cracking the concrete by your feet. Pressing against the wall, you scan Hector’s face for a moment, eyes flickering to his parted, petal lips before you turn around and glance at a bullet that had dug itself deep into the sidewalk.

Unholstering your pistol, you edge closer to the corner of the wall, eyes tracing the trajectory of the bullet.

The sniper sits atop the McDonald’s just by the intersection, in between the legs of the yellow M and you pull back just as another bullet—CRACK—splits the brick. Dust and rock splashes against your cheek and your jerk back as the back of the truck that tried its best to run over Hector busts open to reveal more men, armed to the teeth.

The sniper peaks his head out from behind the yellow M and you fire just in time to catch the the man’s cheek. You watch the dark shape of his rifle fall into the street below. Breathing out a sigh of relief, you turn to Hector just as he shoves you behind him, hand stealing the handgun from your grip easily and you blink, mouth open to protest. His whole body looks ransacked, the suit jacket he had worn roguishly torn by the road and the black satin of his shirt slick to his skin as he opens fire on the men from the truck. Your eyes scan for the backpack left behind, but there is nothing amongst the bodies littered in the dissipating smoke.

He empties the clip, and you can tell by the way he pulls the trigger two more times and the displeased twitch in his expression when no more bodies fall as he turns around, shoving the gun back towards you, that he’s fucking pissed. His expression contorts as he takes a step, and you reload your handgun, following after him with knitted eyebrows. Shrieking fills the streets as you follow him quietly, wiping your wet hands on your pants. 

There’s something unhinged in the way he walks now, the way he had fired the gun. Yes, there had been precision and he had been effective, but the strength of his push and the way he lumbers through the alleyway with no finesse you’d think a man like him would possess bites at you.

“What’s wrong?” you finally ask once you’ve reached a gas station. Hector is barely walking and his pace is that of a sluggish crawl, and you resist the urge to grab his arm to keep him standing as he looks at you, pale face splitting into a mocking grin.

“Look, sweetheart, let’s just get you to the hangar and we can talk about it never, alright?” His eyes search yours for a moment before turning back around but you shake your head, reaching out for his bicep. His muscles seem to soften underneath your touch before he rips his arm free, whirling around. His mouth opens to make some scathing remark but your eyes merely drop to his gut where blood seeping from between his fingers. The black satin is sheer, revealing the bulletproof vest he had worn underneath and your eyes dart from the wound to his face before you grab him by the arm.

You don’t care. Your grip is unshaking, fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist and he growls warnings between clenched teeth but you don’t care. Walking straight into the gas station, you turn your head away from the cashier and head straight for the bathroom, shouldering open the door.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’m asking nicely,” Hector murmurs but even his voice has lot its power as you check the stalls for any inhabitants.

None.

Good.

Barring the door behind you with a mop, you drop your backpack to the floor and pull one of the toilet seat lids down. Pushing him into the stall, you glare at him.

“Sit down, now.” The words come out flat in your mouth as you root through your bag for your medical supplies. Bypassing all the clothes you’d stuffed in haste, you grab the small medkit and pray it’ll have some type of thread and needle, but you don’t have high hopes. At most, it’ll have antiseptic, painkillers, maybe some gauze, things you’d need in a pinch to keep you alive until you made it to a safehouse.

But there is no safehouse. You have no damn idea where you’re going.

It’ll have to be enough.

Pulling out the kit, you look to Hector who has yet to sit down and scowl.

“Are you going to stand there, bleeding like an idiot, or are you going to sit down?” With that irritating smirk somehow on his face, Hector sinks onto the toilet seat and you return to unzipping the medkit.

A pair of gloves, antiseptic spray, tape, distilled water, Relispray, tweezers, gauze, bandages, safety pins. No needle. No thread. Fuck, you’ll have to make do.

“Someone’s got their panties in a twist,” Hector drawls, rolling his eyes as you slap on the gloves and begin to unbutton the front of his shirt. The satin slips between your fingers and he plays with a hair tickling your cheek lazily with a bloody finger, legs sprawled apart to welcome you between them. You ignore him, the smell of smoke and blood clinging to your sinuses as you rip apart the velcro of his bulletproof vest. His fingers trail down to your jaw as you expose the wound, getting a good look at it. It’s a wide hole punched through his abdomen, skin split open and peeling on both sides. His navel rising and falling, pulsing beneath your hands, hitches as you gently place pressure on it. The width half your index finger, the wound pulses with dark scarlet that shines in the pale blue lights of the bathroom.

Your heart throbs in your throat, and you glance at Hector through your lashes, startled to see him already staring at you, simply watching to see what you’ll do next.

Feeling around him, you make sure it’s not a through and through before beginning to clean it. Spraying the general area with Relispray, you ease Hector to lean back against the back of the toilet before you continue on. You wipe away as much blood as you can, rinsing the wound with distilled water as his hand gently traces the cord of your throat. You ignore the way it burns, a naggling sensation that makes your spine twinge.

“I’m not going to remove it but I do have to close this wound,” you murmur under your breath, twisting to grab the antiseptic spray. “Small sting.” Spraying it generously over his clenched abdomen, you feel him suck in a harsh breath before pulling the gauze over. “Keep pressure on it.” His hand comes down atop of yours and you slip your fingers out from underneath, turning to your bag to root for some sort of make-shift cover, a second plug over the bleeding wound. Something big enough, strong enough. A scarf, something—

Your fingers brush against your open side pocket, and your heart drops into your throat.

Jardani’s silk handkerchief.

You’ve barely had it for a day and now…

No time to think about it. Resident bodyguard is unfortunately bleeding out before you.

“Fuck,” you mutter underneath your breath, shaking your head. Sucking in your bottom lip, you bite down on the inner flesh of your mouth as you pick up the safety pin, open it, and sterilize it with a healthy spray of antiseptic. Pulling out the grey silk, you place it by the bandages and turn to Hector with half a smile.

“Fuck.” Hector’s smirk turns sharp as you shuffle yourself deeper into the vee of his legs. Knees on the grimy bathroom floor, you grab one of your spare t-shirts and reach to shove it into his mouth but he turns away, teeth bared.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You’ll surprise me if you don’t scream,” you tell him bluntly. “You want everyone in here to think I’m killing you?”

“Could be just getting my dick sucked, but whatever,” he retorts, opening his mouth and your lips twitch into a smile as you shove the balled up shirt further into his mouth, leaning in close to his face.

“Maybe next time, hm?” He bites down before your fingers even leave his mouth and you roll your eyes, the slight smile still present. Sending him a playful glare, you ignore his haughty arch of an eyebrow and the slight wiggle of his hips as you lower yourself back down to eye level with his wound. Gently pushing his hand away, you lift up the gauze and prepare yourself for the inevitable torture that’s going to be fighting to keep Hector still while digging a safety pin through him. “Ready?”

You give Hector one last glance, and his shaking, pale hand reaches to cup the back of your head while his other bleeding hand swings limply off the edge of the toilet. Your eyes never leave his as his hand slowly travels to your cheek, brushes across your parted lips. He almost looks like he wants to say something, but you simply hold his hand to your face and nod. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just trust me. His eyes are narrowed, beginning to fog—he’s losing focus and you’re running out of time.

Trust me in this. Trust me.

He leans back, breaking away to stare at the ceiling. His whole body is limp before you as you slowly sink the pin into his flesh and instantly, you feel him tense. A muffled scream echoes beneath your fingers as the sound sinks into your ears and you take a deep breath, calming your hands as you sink the pin in deeper until it pokes through the other side of his flesh and you don’t expect his hand to tangle in your hair but it does. He grabs fistfuls of it, tugging you away but you don’t let go of the pin as you reach up to his chin with your fingers. The pain digs deep into your skull and although ordinarily you wouldn’t mind a man like Hector tearing at your hair follicles, the situation is bit too dire for your taste.

“Hey, hey, hey,” you whisper, hushing him quietly and his breaths come hard and wet, his chest rising and falling so heavily a great gust escapes his nostrils as he tries to fight the pain surging through his stomach. His eyes, wide and frantic, are wet with unshed tears and you lean down to grab the last clean pad of gauze, wiping the sheen of sweat away from his face and neck. “I know it hurts, but just a bit more. If you pass out, you pass out.” His hand in your hair loosens, catching in the strands as it falls and he nods weakly. Go on. The burn of his eyes never leaving his face as you sink between his legs once again. 

Balancing on the balls of your feet, you twist the safety pin as quickly as you can, weaving it back through the other side of the wound. His shouts reverberate in your skull but his voice dies out into hiccuping breaths soon after, and you silently pray that he’ll pass out before you’re through, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grips your shoulder with an iron fist as you work and you watch the muscles of his abdomen roll and flex, the ink of his tattoos rippling.

The skin pulls together and you clip the safety pin shut, grabbing the silk handkerchief and folding it into a perfect square like a patch over the wound. Blood immediately sinks into the grey silk, and you watch as the stitching of Persephone changes from muted grey to a hungry muted scarlet. Pulling the t-shirt out of his mouth, you smile and tell him it’s over.

As you work to secure the entire site with a bandage around his waist, your eyes keep flickering from your work to his relieved expression. His eyes are at half-mast, almost slipping shut yet focused on your own face as you work, and you smile for him. There is still a knot between his eyebrows, and he winces with every other breath but his grip on your shoulder has laxed. Standing, you carefully run the bandage around his back and he lets out a slight sigh, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your cheek, and your smile softens, pinning the bandage tight. Admiring your work, you finally pull off your gloves and drop them on the opened packages of gauze as his eyes flutter open and he’s still sweating, a fine sheen coating his throat and cheeks. 

You turn back to grab the water bottle from your bag.

“Drink up, yeah?” you murmur, tilting the water into his parched mouth and he drinks greedily, swallowing as it comes and you nearly laugh, full of relief that it worked. You test the wound to check for any leaks and feel a flash of pride when scarlet does not stain the third layer of bandages. “You’re still a bit woozy from blood loss, so I’m going to get you some juice, something sweet, and then we’ll go, alright?”

“Yeah.” His eyes close and his voice is hoarse as he licks his lips. You smile, his hand on your cheek a comforting thing. He’s alive. I did it, you think wondrously. Thank fuck. “Did you, uh, mean it?”

“Mean what?” you ask, confused, screwing the cap back onto your water bottle as he smirks lazily, eyes already open and studying your lips. You smile incredulously, turning away. How this man bounces back is beyond your comprehension but you’re not complaining.

His hand catches you by your hip though, tugs you back and you arch an eyebrow as he sinks his fingers into you. You cross your arms over your chest, well aware that you’re in a bloody bathroom stall in a gas station, and you should not be thinking these thoughts—

“That you’d suck my dick the next time we were in a stall together?” he murmurs, eyes catching the light. They’re an electrifying shade of blue, raw with hunger as you allow him to pull you closer.

“I said maybe,” you remind him and he smirks, the colour just beginning to return to your face as his hand trails down the curve of your thigh, gently pulling you into his lap. “What do you want, Hector?”

“Want one thing right now, Savior,” he hums, teeth running over his bottom lip and you snort, running the new nickname over your head. Savior. Standing with his legs between yours, you feel his knees knock into yours in order to spread your legs and you sink, humouring him. Careful not to disturb his bandages, you adjust them, carefully running your hands over his chest, and his arrogant smile grows. The ink along his neck stretches and a curiosity tugs at your fingers. The tattoos underneath your fingers seems endless. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” You give in to your want even more, fingers tracing along the wings of his neck and his grin is devillish as he squeezes the flesh of your thigh. Encouraging you. “Like I care about you?”

“Yeah, like you fucking care about me.”

There is a silence where you can feel your burning heart in your throat and his pale eyes search your face, still trying to focus on anything more than your eyes but he can’t and he doesn’t and you wish he could rest, but he can’t.

You shake your head. The truth bangs against your teeth and you cup his face, thumbs brushing along sharp cheekbones. You’ve never learned how to close yourself off to life like Jardani has. The face of a vacant, stone-cold killer. You don’t know how to do that, not even when Jardani has asked you time and time again to do so.

It is the one thing you cannot do. You were born with a heart meant to bleed, and it will bleed until it stops beating, until you are bled dry, and even then, you are sure that it will find a way to care even as it withers.

Tarasov always said it made you weak. He’d beat it out of you if he could, but he couldn’t, and he hasn’t, and you will always care for men who don’t deserve it.

It is why you meet him half-way in a kiss that soon grows vicious.

His lips are hungry, seeking and you sigh into his unforgiving kiss. His heat sears through your fatigued muscles, takes the ache inside you and wrenches it apart as his other, bloody, hand reaches for your back and his fingers dig into your skin, pulling and dragging you deeper into his embrace, desperate for more of you against him. His chapped mouth ravages you, takes, and takes, and takes more of you, and you want to tell him I care, I care, I care, but you don’t.

You know he won’t give a shit.

This means nothing to him—nothing—and you shouldn’t be kissing him.

You fucked his boss a mere week ago, but that was nothing, too.

No, but something about Hector is so… inevitably sad.

Something about Hector, who tastes like iron and sea salt, tobacco smoke and sweat, makes you want to break.

.

You can still taste him in your mouth, even after, in between leather chairs and expensive wine. The jet to Italy is small, comfortable, and you watch as Hector lounges across the couch like he owns the place.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask quietly, fingers pinching the cool champagne glass as he glances at you. He looks a lot better than when he kissed you, that’s for sure. He’d been in the small make-shift operating room for a few hours, receiving transfusions as the doctor dug out the bullet and repaired any damage while you packed your bags and threw every sharp object you could find at a scrap piece of wood you found laying about just to pass the time and expunge all that nervous energy.

You hit your mark every single time.

“Whatever the doc did, it's got me cured, sweetheart,” he replies facetiously, eyeing you with curious disinterest. “How ‘bout you? Glad you got your five-star meal?”

Lunch, served hot—fresh, thin-crust pizza with basil leaves and oozing mozzarella.

“It was good.”

“Just good? Little Santi’s going to break a chef’s hand if he hears the pizza was just good,” he comments scathingly, that smile growing with every passing second. You glance at him wearily, knowing that moment in the bathroom is all but forgotten. A blip of weakness.

You won’t soon forget it.

“Yes, well, I’m sure he’ll understand,” you reply. You don’t think you have enough energy to play into Hector’s attempts to rile you up. With all that’s happened today, you’re exhausted and you’re sure his blood is still dried beneath your nails.

“So, what’s your story, Persephone?” he asks, sitting up slowly and leaning against the leather, arm spread along the top as if inviting you to come squeeze in next to him. You’ve situated yourself by the window, unwilling to get up and not for lack of trying. You’re quite certain you’ve got no muscles left to work, and you do not want to be anywhere close to Hector after what happened in the bathroom back at the gas station. “What’s a girl like you doing with the Russian Mob?”

“Don’t believe I can handle myself?”

“Don’t think you’re cut out for it, frankly. You’re too soft for this kinda life.” His legs are spread wide open, knees dangling loosely to the side as he watches you, eyes on your every movement. You want to shift in your seat but instead you sit up straighter into the chair, muscles tensing as he grins.

Something inside you twists at how Hector seems to revel in that. Like he wants you weak. You want to smash your champagne flute against his face.

“Just because you’ve let life make you the equivalent of a fucking concrete wall, doesn’t mean I have,” you say, keeping your tone soft. You won’t give him the satisfaction, even if he’s slowly pulling it out of you with those inked fingers of his. He blinks, tilting his head as if truly insulted, but you can’t be bothered to care. You don’t care for this Hector, who’s well enough to insult you however he pleases. No. When he’s bleeding again, and honest, and weak enough to show who he really is, perhaps you’ll have a talk-to-talk with your heart.

“Excuse me, sweetheart—”

“You have no idea what I’ve done to make sure I’ve survived, cazzo,” you cut him off again, slicing whatever protest or jab he was building up in two. “Just as I’ve no idea who the monster is that made you, but I’m sure I’ll be meeting him shortly.”

Adjusting the drawstring of your hoodie, you turn your head back to the clouds.

The Devil of Camorra. You’ve spent less than twenty-four hours with him and you’ve gone through too much with him. At least with Santino, it was just sex and business. At least with Santino, you knew where you stood with him. There was nothing to prove besides your name alone, while Hector...

Hector is not so easily impressed.

“I was an orphan. Ruska Roma to Russia Mob,” you tell him suddenly, and you can hear Hector shift on the leather as your eyes follow the clouds drifting by. “I was training with John Wick when he joined, and I followed. I was maybe twelve, thirteen. I wasn’t old enough to be useful like he was, so I trained. I trained and I let Tarasov capitalize on who I was because he promised me that I’d be safe and rich, and to a child who has known nothing like family and money and comfort, I reached for it with open fucking hands.” Nausea tugs at your throat and you swallow, the revulsion coating your skin like oil making you want to shudder.

“What’d he make you do?” Hector’s voice, rough and quiet, makes you turn to him. Upon your face is a blank smile in an effort to hide the scars inflicted on your soul as you shrug.

“I was a girl, and I was young, and I was pretty. John had to work, and I had to survive.” The truth is so simple that just the mere silence that follows makes you sick. “Tarasov owes me more than just money.” He owes you blood.

“He can’t give you a childhood back,” he mutters and you swallow, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Your nails dig into the armrests and if you let yourself go in the darkness for a moment, you can feel claws digging into your hips. “Believe me, it’s not worth fucking reliving anyway.”

“I know that,” you utter quietly, opening your eyes and staring at the wine bar. You want to reach for one of the bottled shots and feel it, cold against burning skin, but you know if you drink something strong now, you won’t be able to stop the craving for that burn. “I’m not suing him for emotional damages, Hector. I want him dead.”

“Could’ve arranged that back in New York, sweetheart. All you had to do was ask,” he remarks snidely, and you chuckle, the tension in your chest easing at his words. The thought of the man before you putting a bullet in your captor’s head brings a pleasure you can’t describe. “I’m sure Giovanni wouldn’t mind me ripping out a thorn in his side.”

“You don’t like the Russian Mob?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips and Hector snorts, disgusted.

“Fucking annoying. Playing at power only old blood can truly control. If they get wiped out, no one’s mourning them. The only thing they’re good for is target practice.” The image of him, brutal efficiency yet somehow unhinged, back in New York, flashes in your head. A shiver crawls down your spine as you face him, feet crossed at the ankles. “Bumbling idiots.”

You’re inclined to agree. Sighing, you shift in your seat. “And what about you? The Devil of Camorra.” The title runs smoothly over your tongue and your smile grows as he arches an eyebrow. “I’ve heard so much about the blood, the death, all of that.” Leaning on your elbow, you tilt your head. “What’s your story?” Your chin resting in your palm, you take a small sip of your champagne.

“Trying to make it a competition?” He sneers and you roll your eyes.

“Nothing’s a competition to me.”

“Then, you’re living life wrong.”

You let those words hang in the silence, eyes fixed on his. Eyebrows drawing together, you ponder over that, run it over in your head. Life itself has always been called a competition, especially in a world full of killers, but you don’t think so.

For you, it’s a long rope to climb, and every knot connecting your rope to the next is a bump in what you want to be a very long life. You’ve clawed your way from the bottom, and you have no intention of losing your life falling back into the pit below you.

“Life’s a game. This whole fucking world is a game. Who can steal this, who’s richest, who has the bigger guns, it’s a whole dick waggling fest,” he drawls, tilting his head. His hair slides into his face and he rakes it back, his smile slithering underneath your skin. “The moment you land in Italy, you’re a pawn on Camorra’s chess board, and you’re trying to make it to the other side.”

“And if you don’t?”

“You die. We don’t tolerate weakness.”

Weakness.

Kill the weakness inside you. Kill that part of you, girl, and you will thrive.

It’s always been impossible and yet, from what Hector is telling you, it seems necessary now more than ever. It’s not news to you—Camorra is rich, powerful, and has a history that stretches too far back to be anything but a sinking pit.  

“And what if I can’t?” you ask quietly, eyes finding his pale ones and you’re surprised by the indifference in his gaze. You would’ve thought hatred would linger—Hector doesn’t strike you as a man who tolerates weakness—but instead, he stares at you as if you’re a mystery. It’s what, you think, makes you ask what you ask next. You think maybe he could be soft—maybe he could be kind. “What if, if anything, this life has made me soft?”

The curiosity hardens and he blinks, disgust morphing his face as he barks out a laugh. It’s a rough sound against your ears and you clench your jaw, swallowing the bitter knot in your throat. Distaste makes his every movement sharp as he kicks his feet up and lies down on the sofa. Grabbing the remote for the TV hanging on the wall, he switches it on and smirks like you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

“Then, you’re a fool.”

You drain your champagne and turn away.

.

The flight is eleven hours long, and with your conversation with Hector five hours ago, you don’t know how you’re going to last six more hours in an uncomfortable silence.

You’ve resorted to half-listening to whatever movie Hector’s watching and reading a book from the assortment the stewardess had shown you, and as you make your way through Pride and Prejudice, you wonder if this is how it’s going to be.

Asshole.

Jardani would’ve heard of what’s happened by now. You wish you could tell him you’re okay, that you managed to get onto the plane, but you can’t. The Russian Mob is your past, a life and part of yourself that you’ll have to shave off the instant you set foot in Italy.

Camorra, no matter how daunting, is your future. You would’ve never had the heart to even look at that grey handkerchief if you wanted to stay where you could be relatively protected. The urge to search for him would be too strong.

It seems only fitting now, poetic justice, that you’ve lost the one reminder of the only man you could ever truly call family saving one who’s part of those meant to be your new family.

Flipping the page, you hear the end credits roll and glance at Hector out of the corner of your eye, waiting for him to put on another movie only to find him asleep. The cabin lights are dimmed and his body is sprawled across leather like a corpse and you pause in reading, lowering your book to soak him in. Even unconscious, his eyebrows are knotted together and his whole body twitches, the arm falling off the couch jerking as if he’s fighting something even in his dream.

You almost call out his name to wake him from what seems to be a nightmare before you remember who he is.

“Dinner, Miss?” the stewardess asks from behind you and you turn your head to look at her.

“What is there?” Sitting upright, you twist in your seat to take the menu extended to you, and you read through the Italian printed into the cardstock. Chewing on your bottom lip, you don’t find anything appealing to your unsettled stomach before looking at Hector. “What does he like to eat?” you ask quietly, turning back to the stewardess who only smiles briefly.

“Whatever Sir or Miss orders.”

The slight, pleasant smile on your face flickers as you hand the menu back to her, and you study the woman before you for a moment. She’s older, near her fifties, and possesses that certain dignity you don’t see often. That and by the easy expression she wears around Camorra’s Devil, you know she’s part of that wretched family. This isn’t some private jet hired to take you away from New York City. This is staffed by Giovanni’s men, and this stewardess is no different. 

“What do you think he likes?” you clarify and she smiles knowingly. “If you know, then that is what I’ll have, and save him some for when he wakes up.”

“Of course, Miss. And wine?”

“Yes, thank you.” Turning back in your seat, you pick up the book again and continue on reading. This new silence in the plane at first distracts you—you’re used to whatever action scene is going on, the sound of gunfire or others speaking, but soon the quiet rumble of the engine fills the quiet.

Ten minutes later and presented with a rich carbonara, you begin to eat, eyes still devouring the pages. You’re nearly done the book by the time Hector jerks awake, and you send him a quick glance before turning the page.

The stewardess immediately sweeps in with cold water and his meal underneath a metal cloche, placing it on the table beside the couch before disappearing once again, and you notice the tablets beside the glass of water. Antibiotics, you assume. Something of the sort.

The lights in the cabin switch on to a soft warm yellow.

Hector sits up and he doesn’t even blink, grabbing the pills and water, downing both in a matter of seconds before setting the glass down again, and you set down your book, eyes flickering from your finished meal to him just beginning. Mushrooms in sauce stick to your plate as you glance outside to see it pitch dark.

“Sleep well?”

No response. Turning back to look at him, you feel something inside you hollow out as he eats, and you sigh silently, resorting to pushing the mushrooms around in your plate. Your leg bouncing, you try to ignore the strange adrenaline in your system. It’s what you get for being awake for nearly twenty-four hours.

A weight suddenly lands on your cheek and you jerk your head to see him staring at you. The warm glow of the cabin lights causes soft shadows in the structure of his face, and you sniff, miffed.

“If you intend to ignore me, go back to watching your movies,” you say. “I’d rather have that than you just staring at me.” He doesn’t respond, as you try to finish off your meal, desperately avoiding the simmering drag of his eyes from your face to your neck and hands, but you can’t. Not when he lingers as a presence bigger than the cabin. You’re suffocating from the memory of his last words to you. “What do you want? Do you want me to apologize for something I’ve done? Or haven’t done?” Letting the fork drop, you sigh and push yourself farther up your chair, adjusting to relieve the tension in your legs. “I know you would’ve left me to die if Giovanni didn’t need me alive. I’m sorry I didn’t do the same. I’m sorry I did something you never would’ve done if the roles were reversed because it involves actually caring about other people.”

“Giovanni doesn’t need you,” Hector says, chuckling and you note that he didn’t disagree. If your paths had crossed any other way, you’re sure Hector would’ve let you rot. “You’ll be an asset, but there’ll always be more. Men and women who can serve Camorra better than you can. You’re already a liability, considering your previous… loyalties.”

“If you think I have loyalty to the Russian Mob—”

“I’m not talking about the Russian Mob.”

Stillness.

You regard Hector with a wariness that comes second nature in this profession as he twists his fork in the linguini. The strands wind around the prongs like vipers.

Jardani. Your lips pressed together, you watch Hector’s smile dig deeper into his cheeks. You know your weak points like that back of your hand. Jardani has always been at the top of your list.

“If you are to be Santino’s newest pet, you’re going to have to do a lot better than what Tarasov accepted from you.”

“As good as you? If the Devil of Camorra is shot on the job, I don’t think there are high expectations for a newcomer like me,” you remark sharply, words twisting into a taunt and Hector’s pleased expression drops. You know it’s a low jab, but you can’t help it.

“I was shot protecting you. You should be thanking me for saving your ungrateful ass.” You snort in response, turning your face away as you try not to smile incredulously, and Hector growls, mouth distorting into a snarl. “If you had just gotten up—”

“If I didn’t get up in time, you would’ve been roadkill,” you cut him off sweetly, looking back at Hector who falters and you stab at a mushroom, mulling the next words over and letting him stew in silence. “And even if you, somehow, miracuously, didn’t turn into a bloody paste, you would’ve bled to death because you lost your backpack, which… what was in it again?” You wait for his answer before shrugging. “I’m guessing food, clothes, supplies if we actually had to go on the run, and thank fuck we didn’t, huh?”

His silence is your reward as you take a bite of garlic bread and wash it down with wine.

“You got lucky, cazzo,” you finish quietly underneath your breath, watching his sour expression twist even further. “I want us to at least tolerate each other and that’s not going to work if you keep doing this. I’m not a child bumbling into a world I don’t understand. I’d appreciate it if you stopped talking to me like one.”

With that, you dismissively turn your gaze back to your finished dinner and you hear him let out a growl before he stands and heads for the bathroom. The door slams shut and you hear the lock click as the stewardess comes to take your meal.

When he returns, you’re already asleep.

.

The landing is what jerks you awake.

The plane is still slowing down as it speeds down the runway, and you blink, stretching your arms up above your head before getting up to grab your bag from the overhead. Hector’s already standing, grabbing the overhead to keep himself upright as he adjusts the new suit jacket he has along his shoulders. Fitted around his shoulders, they come to just below his elbow and your eyes trail lazily over the tattoos running and disappearing into his sleeve as he casts an eye on you.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He says it like you hadn’t argued the last time you talked. Like there’s nothing wrong and he almost sounds relieved.  “We’re home.”

Home.

The word washes into you bitterly, sobering you up immediately as you ignore him and head straight for the bathroom. You hadn’t planned to change so hastily into your business outfit, but the plane ride was a much needed break for your bod. Your muscles no longer ache so painfully and your bruises are nearly gone.

You splash cold water into your face and swipe on some simple makeup: foundation, lipstick, eyeliner and brows, before you tear off your hoodie and sweats and slip into a pantsuit that had been folded neatly into the carry-on. Grabbing your heels, you stuff all of your old airplane clothes into the bag and toe off your shoes, shoving them in along with your makeup bag.

Your feet slip into the heels and you take a deep breath, pulling your shoulders back and staring at your reflection as you comb a hand through your hair.

First impression, first impression, first impression.

A sudden nervousness grapples with your stomach as you comb the knots out of your hair and pull out the nearly-empty pack of gum slipped into your suit pocket when you packed earlier. Popping a stick into your mouth, you take a deep breath again, letting the mint cool your head.

You give yourself three seconds before you pick up your bag, and walk out to where Hector waits, hands shoved into his pockets. He arches an eyebrow as if to ask, Ready? You nod and he extends a hand for the bag. Placing your carry-on in his open palm, you let yourself feel tall.

You escaped Tarasov—your personal perdition for ten years. You should feel proud about that.

So, why does it feel like you’re merely walking into another kind of hell?

Offering Hector your last stick of gum, you brace yourself for him to ignore it. For him to comment derisively on what the hell you’re doing. The spats still burn your skin at the mere thought, and you shake your head to yourself. You have to let it go and just leave this cabin. Leave and feel the sun and try to survive Camorra.

But then, he takes the pack from your hand, and you let your hand drop by your side.

You tell yourself that as long as Santino’s favour falls upon you, maybe it won’t be so bad. It’s Camorra after all. If you make a name for yourself, they won’t get rid of you. Case in point, the man behind you now unfolding the mint gum and popping it into his mouth. He doesn’t say thank you, you don’t say no problem.

You just continue on in the silence.

The door opens, unfolding stairs clanging against the concrete as the warm wind sucks into the cabin and you gasp in the smell of a new life, knees unsteady as you walk into the sun.

A car is waiting for you there—there is no Santino, no Giovanni, and not even the elusive sister you’ve heard about: Gianna.

“Count yourself lucky,” Hector murmurs in your ear as if he’s reading your thoughts. You tilt your head just so to acknowledge his words as they descend down the steps and you suppress the shiver the rough rasp of his voice gives you. Approaching the car, the driver opens the door for you and bows his head, smiling to you.

“Miss.”

“Thank you,” you breathe, ducking into the car while Hector pops the trunk and dumps your bag inside. The sun streams so heavenly down through the windows that you can’t help but roll down the window and feel it yourself. The warm wind caresses your face as Hector loads up the rest of the luggage into the van, and you can’t help but smile. This is nothing like dreary New York.

Here, everything is golden. Perhaps it’s why so many things hide in the shadows.

“How was the flight, Miss Persephone?” the driver asks once he gets into the car with you, and you spot a winding snake tattooed behind his ear. Smiling wider, you shrug.

“It was alright.”

Hector ducks into the seat beside you and you glance at him. His jaw works on that gum and you don’t want your smile to grow but it does. He, of course, merely glances at you as if to say, What the fuck do you want?

You blink. Nothing. And then, you look out the window as the car rolls into motion.

Despite it all, he still took the stick of gum.

Everything is golden.