#neutral reader although there is a mention of risotto and s/o possibly being

[wri0thesley]

an angsty/sad fic of risotto and his s/o sleeping in bed together, the last night before his squad carries out their mission to rebel against their boss and fight buccellati's team?

tw for character death, guns mention, violence mention!!! it’s canon compliant, so: oof. oof, anon.

There’s something off about Risotto from the moment he walks into the house.

He’d just called you to tell you he was on his way home, and you’d been in panic mode; it’s been a few days since Risotto has been back, and your house is in a bit of a bad way. You’re not always the perfect housewife that Risotto deserves, but he’s always been the kind to raise an eyebrow and smirk at you before bending down to help you pick up the trash that seems to breed on the floor. He’s not houseproud; he’s much happier to get home and see you, he says.

When he’d come through the door, you’d shoved the last of the plates into the sink and ran to greet him. Even though he’s been gone for far longer than a week before, you can’t help but miss him - without Risotto’s bulk in bed beside you or the comforting scent of his aftershave on the air or the heat of his arms wrapping around your waist whilst you cook, you feel empty.

“I’m sorry for being gone so long,” he usually says, and though he doesn’t give smiles often he looks at you with his eyes softened with adoration. You have grown used to reading his expressions; some people might think him rude or frightening. You know him simply to be … quiet. Stoic. Perfect. “Let me make it up to you.”

He usually dips you down into a kiss. He usually wraps his arms around you and holds you against him, his cheek resting on the top of your head. He normally throws his bag down onto the sofa and sits, beckoning you to him so he can pull you onto his lap and tell you he missed you.

But today, he does none of that.

Today, you wrap your arms around him and get onto your tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and although his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, there’s no enthusiasm in the movement. There’s no return of your kisses. There’s no Risotto murmuring sweet things into your hair so you can close your eyes and revel in having the person you love most in the world back with you.

There’s just Risotto, hard as stone, the door closed behind him, his face unmoving.

“Riz?” You ask, peering up at your boyfriend. “Is everything … okay?”

It’s not like him to be distant - at least, it’s not like him to be distant in this way. Sometimes, when you probe a little too much about his work, he smiles at you and sidesteps the question and his eyes take on a softer cast. “I don’t want to talk about work while I’m with you, tesoro,” he says. “I’d much rather concentrate on us being together.”

He blinks once, slowly, and looks down at you as if it’s the first time he’s really noticed you’re there. His hands, hovering over your hips, move and fall from your skin. You feel a frown pull at your mouth, your brows furrowing.

“Have I done something wrong?” You ask him. “I’ve kept it cleaner than usual, I promise–”

“You’ve done fine,” he says, his voice still distant. “It’s fine.” He looks around the room as if searching for something, and your eyes follow his. The loveseat with a deep dent in it from where Risotto sits. The shelf of books - mainly Risotto’s. The photograph of the two of you over the fireplace.

It’s one of very few photographs of Risotto in the house. You have this one, of the two of you, and one taken with a disposable camera on vacation last year. Risotto is looking out at the sea with the corner of his mouth curling up, his pale hair tousled, a sunburn obvious on the tip of his nose.

He’s usually behind the camera. You’ve made jokes that at your wedding, it will be a photograph of you alone at the altar - and Risotto has smiled at you, saying he’d much prefer that anyway. The photo of you over the fireplace was taken by one of Risotto’s associates at a fancy dinner party he’d brought you to - you don’t remember the particular associate’s name, and you and Risotto had left early. That had turned out to be a blessing when the newspapers had been published the next morning and a prominent politican had been found shot dead in his office, just above the dining room.

“We should have taken more,” he says, motioning to the frame, and your heart skips a beat and your mouth goes dry. Is he going to– “No,” he says, shaking his head as if dispelling the thought. His eyes meet yours. “Remind me to take more photos of us, tesoro.”

“Riz,” you say, again, as Risotto begins to move forward, still looking around the room like it’s the first time he’s seen it. “Is everything okay? You seem kind of … off. Did you have a bad day at work?”

He reaches the doorway to the kitchen, one hand coming up to lean on the wall above the light switch. There’s a bright blue pencil mark up there from where you’d jokingly marked Risotto’s height, after fetching a kitchen chair because you weren’t tall enough to reach over his massive frame. His finger traces the line, and you find yourself smiling at the memory - Risotto’s face, though, doesn’t shift.

“A bad day?” He repeats, sounding faraway. “Oh. You could … you could say that. You could say it’s been a … bad week.”

(You’re not to know a bad week for him is the bodies of his teammates in encased glass. You’re not to know a bad day for him is agreeing to go against the most powerful man in the country. You’re not to know that he’s not the only man in La Squadra who’s gone home tonight and doesn’t know the next time they’ll see their lover. If he told you– If he told you, he thinks, they’d use you against him. And you do not deserve that.)

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask him, and Risotto has to will himself to not break down as he turns to look at you.

“Not really,” he says, and then; “I’m … tired. Do you want to come up to bed with me?”

It’s not unusual for him to come home from work and want to sleep, though he usually doesn’t ask you to come with him. It’s often the early morning when he stumbles in from work, and you two don’t see one another properly until the evening. But now, it’s nearly nine at night, and you’ve already had dinner, not anticipating Risotto’s return. So you smile at him.

“I’ll cuddle the bad day out of you?” You suggest, but it does not even make Risotto crack a smile. Something passes over his face - something that moves too fast for you to see, but seems sad. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he makes his way up the stairs, leaving you to trail behind him with your mind going at a hundred miles a minute.

Risotto isn’t overtly affectionate, of course. He doesn’t call you his cuddlebug and grab you and squeeze you so you can’t move. He doesn’t cling to your hand and pull you into PDA when he takes you out to restaurants. His intimacy is far more practised, far softer - holding you whilst you cook. A hand laying over yours whilst you watch a movie. His legs tangled up with yours in blankets whilst the two of you sleep. A kiss on the top of your head as he breathes in your scent.

But this isn’t like him, and you can’t help but fret as you both get ready for bed. Whilst you brush your teeth side by side in the mirror, one of Risotto’s big hands comes up and rests on your hip as he looks at you in the mirror.

(You’re not to know he’s preserving the image in his mind. You and he in quiet domesticity. You’re not to know it will be one of his last thoughts before he dies - you next to him, expecting to spend the rest of your lives together.)

“Amore,” he says, as you turn off the main light in the bedroom and approach the bed in soft lamplight. “I do have something to tell you.”

“I thought so,” you say, and the smile that Risotto forces is tired as he watches you crawl into the nest of blankets beside him. This close, in fainter light, you can see hollows in his cheeks you’ve never noticed and dark shadows beneath his eyes as if he hasn’t slept properly since he went away. “You look like shit.”

“You look beautiful,” he counters, and a smile splits your face despite yourself, though it’s quickly chased away by the exhaustion in Risotto’s sigh. “I’m leaving for work again in the morning,” he continues, and you see him steel his shoulders for your response. He knows you well. Your voice is hurt when you say;

“Again? I’ve only had a few hours with you this time…”

“I know,” he says. “I know it’s been barely any time. But once I get back from this trip, I promise we’ll be together a lot more. I’m hoping I’ll get more time off, maybe even an increase in pay …”

“I just want you,” you say, your voice very small.

You know that Risotto is involved in shady business. You know that he works harder than anyone you’ve ever met; he has never outright said to you that it is the Mafia that pays your bills, but you know that there’s a handgun tucked into your underwear drawer in case you ever need it, and that Risotto always knows where to avoid when the two of you go out. You’ve washed blood off of his clothes and never mentioned it.

So every time he mentions going away again, a little bit of your heart feels like it’s withering away.

“I know,” he says, trying to soothe, though for once his voice does nothing to ease the ache. “I know you do. There’s nothing I’d rather do than be with you, you know that.”

“When are you coming back?” You ask him, and he visibly winces.

“I don’t know,” he says, and that feels like a punch in the gut. You’re not stupid. Your voice is flat.

“You don’t know if you’re coming back, then.”

“Of course I’m coming back,” he says, his voice sharp. “I would never leave you alone.”

(Fears rise sour in the back of Risotto’s mind. He imagines the boss finding you. He imagines a gun pressed against your head. He imagines a Polaroid photograph, somehow slipped through the letterbox of a safehouse La Squadra are staying in - you, tears running down your face, your wrists bound by coarse rope and a warning scribbled in red pen. He would never leave you alone. Not on purpose.“

"You don’t know that, do you?” You ask, timidly, and Risotto reaches forward and grabs your chin in his big hand, tipping your face up to look at him. His eyes, crimson and jet, look down at you with sincerity writ across them.

“Of course I’m coming back to you,” he says. “I promise. And I’ve never broken a promise to you, have I?”

(Risotto will crawl back to you on broken bones, he tells himself. If he cannot speak or he cannot walk or he cannot breathe, he will force himself back to you so as not to break the promise. And if he doesn’t - Prosciutto has your address. Ghiaccio has your name and where you work. Illuso knows where the mirrors in the house are. One of them will make it. La Squadra are too powerful for all of them to fall apart.)

“No,” you say, softly, though your throat feels like it’s on fire. “You never have.”

“I’m not going to start now,” he replies, and you feel arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his firm, hard body.

You can’t help but think of the scars underneath Risotto’s soft grey sleep shirt. You’ve caressed them with your fingers and kissed them and drawn patterns on them. You’ve seen new ones come and go and fade; too many of them like stab wounds. Too many of them like bullet holes. Your heart aches as you wonder how many of them he got through his line of work.

“You promise?” You say, voice cracking. Risotto’s arms are strong around you as they squeeze, as he maneuvers your body to lay on top of his and he smooths your hair down so your head rests on his chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of his heart. He drops a kiss on the top of your head and you feel safe and warm and protected, and the feeling intensifies as he reassures you, though there’s a low ache in your stomach that you know is fear.

“I promise,” Risotto says. “I’ll be back. As soon as I can.”

(Risotto makes himself believe the promise. He breathes in the scent of your hair and lets his hands rest on your bare skin, remembering the feel of you beneath his calloused hands.)

Your eyes drift closed as you let the rise and fall of Risotto’s chest lull you to sleep. Risotto’s eyes stay open for far longer, staring down at you.

When they find Formaggio’s body, burnt and ruined, Risotto remembers how you’d smiled at him sleepily and resolves that will not be his fate. When they find Illuso’s mess - it is not in a fit state to be called a body - he thinks of that photograph of you both and tells himself that he will make it back to take more. When Melone calls about Prosciutto’s mangled form and Pesci’s body, Risotto’s fingers twitch in desire to call you and tell you he loves you.

When it is Melone’s turn, Risotto’s hands shake and he thinks about the picture that Melone took of the two of you again, but he thinks, too, of Melone’s pronouncement a few days later that you’ll be wonderful parents when the time comes.

And when it is Ghiaccio, and Risotto is alone - he swallows, and he sets his shoulders, and he tells himself over and over and over again that he made you a promise. You will not be alone. He won’t leave you.

In the morning, when you wake up, Risotto is already gone. On your bedside table is a bank card and a front door key and a scribbled note with an address and a PIN. “Please leave the house,” Risotto says in his note, as you lean over his side of the bed to see that he’s mentioned that he has put another handgun in his bedside drawer. “Take it with you. Go to this place. Take this money. I’ll call you when I’m coming home.”

Risotto’s side of the bed smells like him. Iron and musk and wood and leather. You look at the divot in the pillow and think about Risotto’s tousled hair. You pad downstairs on bare feet, seeing that his coat and shoes are gone, and look at the photograph of him and you and the knick knacks he’s brought you from other missions and a little part of you says;

“Stay. Don’t go. If he doesn’t come back … if he doesn’t come back, you’ll need the reminder.”

And five days later, when the knock on the door comes, you think nothing of answering it. You think; perhaps Risotto has not had time to call me. Perhaps he’s called someone to check in on me. A part of you that you do not want to admit is there whispers that perhaps it is bad news, but - but even if it is bad news, surely you would still want to know?

So you open the door.

(When Risotto is facing his death, when he is looking up at the sky, his heart aches that he broke his promise to you, but is soothed that you’re safe in the house he bought for you. Maybe one day you’ll love someone else, he thinks. He will die at twenty eight wishing for the taste of your lips on his, but you’ll live long and full and perhaps you’ll think of him fondly.)

(He does not know that you’re buried in a shallow grave. He does not know there is a video tape labelled for him in an fancy house in a basement that has seen depravities greater than he can think about. He’d be glad to know, of course, that the people who enacted that upon you have had their comeuppance - but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know that you are not safe. He doesn’t know that his vision of you living ten, twenty, thirty years more will never come to fruition.)

(He dies thinking about you, and though there is not a smile on his face, there’s peace in his heart that you’re still out there.)

(It’s better he does not know the truth.)