#which speaks to It Is There To Represent Blood which you know. i think has been a safe bet

[unproduciblesmackdown]

actually look at those pieces of seeming red confetti on the floor off the stage platforms (that area of the floor is clear in other pictures i.e. not like a permanent venue design) like maybe bloodsong of love Does throw blood at the audience in the celebratory everybody gathers together in a rush of Song like the christmas extravaganza doing that throwing handfuls of snow at the peak of Baby Please Come Home

[rosepinks-world]

DUDE! SHE LIKES YOU BACK

spencer reid x fem! reader

synopsis: in which reader has returned from a field injury and Spencer surprises her.

Being shot wasn’t the badass experience all those cop shows made it out to be. It hurt, like a bitch and the recovery made you feel weak and useless. You werent allowed to work and were limited to doing paperwork from home.

However, today was the first day Hotch had allowed you to come into the office and work. Everything remained the same, the vending machine in the hall still required a good kick for it to actually give up the food inside, the ladies bathroom still had that one out of order stall and all your employees hadn’t changed one bit.

The thing that did catch you by surprise was the sight of beautiful spasms of colour put into a glass full of water.

Flowers.

They looked way too particular to be the generic $5 bouquet that had been bought from a supermarket. There were pink tulips, a few stems of lavender, peonies and a delicate sunflower in the middle of them all and the stems were wrapped in a white bow which was now drenched into the water but was further proof for its individuality.

You took a seat at your desk picking up the flowers and inspecting them closely, an attempt to see if anyone had left a note- a clear sign as to who sent them but your question was soon answered when a familiar voice sounded behind you.

“Oh! Do you like them?”

Spencer.

Before you could even say anything to him he started rambling

“I read up about botany and found out many believe that pink tulips symbolise affection and care, lavender represents healing and that peonies present good luck.” He paused his explanation by pulling his lips into one of his straight lined smile and nodding his head nervously.

“Oh! And the sunflower was just because I thought it looked pretty and you have Van Goughs portrait in your apartment.”

You smiled laughing at the clear thought he put into them. He looked like he want to say something else but you interrupted him by pulling him into a hug pressing your head into his neck. He seemed surprised at the hug but willingly reciprocated and wrapped his arms around your lower back. You both ignored the wolf whistle clearly made by Derek.

“Thank you, Spence, they’re beautiful.”

He blushed at the gratitude, “It’s the least I could do after your injury. Speaking of can I help you with anything?”

You laughed sitting down, ”God no. Thank you. But seriously, everyone is making this way big of a deal than it actually is. I’m not running a marathon I’m just writing files.”

He laughed again the blush still evident on his cheeks. You stood up and announced you would be right back - fleeing to grab more files from Hotch. The coworkers who saw all began heckling Spencer at what just happened.

“My man! Who knew pretty boy had this much game?” Derek hollered slapping Spencer’s back. Whilst Penelope almost jumped up and down in delight. “Oh my god they’re gonna have baby geniuses.”

“Garcia I gave her flowers not an engagement ring.” Spencer stated.

“Who’s getting an engagement ring?” Emily asked finally arriving for work.

“Nobody…yet” Penelope answered wiggling her eyebrows and walking back to her lair.

Spencer was so pleased with himself but a question Emily asked made his blood run cold.

“Yikes! Who got L/N flowers?”

“Me. Why? Is that a problem? Oh god is she allergic? I should have known!”

“No it’s just she hates flowers. I offered to get her some after she told me her had cat passed but she told me not to and that although she was grateful she couldn’t imagine a worse gift.”

Spencer’s eyes were practically gouging out of his head with anxiety and Derek couldn’t help but laugh as he joined the two.

Spencer looked between them rapidly and stuttered out, “What? But she gave me a hug and said they were beautiful? Do, do you think she lied?”

Emily raised her eyebrows mouth opening as she let out a knowing laugh. Derek looked at her and soon reacted similarly.

“What?” Spencer asked growing annoyed feeling like a child being left out of a game by their peers.

Derek offered an explanation. “You know how you’re a germaphobe but had no problem making out with Lila Archer that one time in the pool?”

Spencer blushed with embarrassment, “Why do you always bring that up?”

Emily rolled her eyes brushing him off and added to the point. “Spencer I think this is one of those situations.”

He furrowed his eyebrows confused. And Emily leaned in waiting for him to get it. His brows remained furrowed as he spoke again.“I don’t get it. Is this supposed to mean something?”

Derek rolled his eyes all concepts of being subtle gone out of the window.

“Dude! She likes you back.”

[cl-0v3r]

Mel is alive, but at what cost

Mel was nearly killed TWICE, her mother began being a struggle, she'd been thrown aside and trying her best to stop her, her boyfriend is not doing well, neither is anyone else (can't blame them) and the fact that she hadn't cried or spoke much about this situation to anyone a single time?? She IS upset about every single thing, yet she stays strong and enduring every bit of torture. The most she did was tell Jayce that Ambessa put her palm on the table, and let him know that she is going to push for hextech. That's it, nothing remotely related to her feelings.

The fact that she was constantly looking at Caitlyn, being able to understand her grief and knew she was in pain?? Mel knows this feeling. She'd went through it.

And in the end SHE has to pay the price of her mothers incompetence.

The intro is very much foreshadowing, we know the hands represent black rose/LeBlanc.

This is what happens in act one, she gets kidnapped by them. The lyrics do correspond to the characters as well (not just Mel, everyone.)

"Tell you you're the greatest" plays as a petal of the black rose floats down the screen, I think it adds significance to the power this organization holds, possibly the Medardas greatest foe.

"But once you turn, they hate us" both Ambessa and Mel were present in this line, I think its foreshadowing for when Ambessa switches up for whatever reason and goes against both Piltover AND Zaun. And Mel WILL go through change as well, a change that could hurt her relationship with others, and receive interest from others too.

"They hate us" could be read individually too, I feel like its a sort of "realization" ?? Perhaps Ambessa WASN'T the one that switched up, maybe Piltover switched up on them, and maybe Mel JUST got out of wherever she's taken to, and saw the mess Ambessa had done to her city??

I think this represents ACT TWO.

The hands pull away and it sort of looks like Mel is fighting back, a "get away from me" type of scream. you know what this reminds me of??

Don't mind me just pushing my Jinx/powder-Mel parallel agenda

Here is when i think Mel truly learns about LeBlanc/BR, she curiously and slowly goes to grab the rose, she learns about the history between her Mother and them, Kinos death, and most of all, learns about HERSELF. The lyrics speak otherwise.

"Pray away, I swear

I'll never be a saint, no way"

This feels like a parallel to caitlyn of sorts if that makes sense. Caitlyn had done everything to try and stop the council from attacking the Undercity, she kept her mouth shut when Jayce asked about Jinxs grenade, she was willing to protect Vi and the undercity, but how many times has she been tossed around? She'd been burned, exploded, kidnapped (god knows what happened during that time) and hit in the face by the same person, her MOTHER died because of the same person. She has every right to go insane. And she is hunting ONE person, which is Jinx. Although she is harming the people around her along the way.

What if Mel goes through a similar situation? Her mother pushed for war in her city, she dragged the enemy along with her even if she didn't mean to, she manipulated everyone around her INCLUDING Jayce, she LITERALLY got Mel hurt from the chembarons attack and killed so many people during a MEMORIAL to get her hextech weapons, Elora is most likely DEAD, not to mention whatever happened in the past between them. And the thing is, this will NEVER end throughout the entire season.

And what if she learns what she is? That she's 'blessed' by Kindred? The fact that the wolf is quite literally in her blood?

I feel like the "ill never be a saint, no way" also sort of indicates Mel will realize she'll never be able to push for peace and mercy like she always hoped for no matter what, and she comes to accept that as much as it hurts. But not like how ambessa accepted the wolf, but she sort of realizes she needs to push a little violence, towards nobody but the one and only, Ambessa "fine, if you want me to be like you, I guess I'll be like you towards YOU." Type of acceptance.

I think its also related to Mels new outfit too, she's dressed like her mother, in red and all of that. I will still stand by the idea that she has plans to decieve, but she will do something she doesn't want to do.

Mel was left with no choice, that lyric sounds like realization, acceptance, but also like a plea at the same time, an "I'll never be who I wanted to be" because in the end, she's still a Medarda, she's still her mothers daughter, she still has violence in her veins, she will never not suffer from the weight her name holds, and she will never escape it either, its like a shadow.

The Characters won't be themselves at their core this season. And those vital parts of their characters that represent them are no longer there in the intro, they all have given up what makes them, THEM design wise. (e.g.) Vi without her tattoo, Viktor hiding his identity with the mask. And the thing is, they did that to themselves because they do self-harm, they're changing themselves because THEY want to, they're forcing themselves to do that, they think they're undeserving and they're erasing their past selves.

But Mel? Mel doesn't have her gold accessories, Jewelry, or her Armor, she'd been stripped bare and hidden away because of the brutality of her name. She pays the price her mother brought to HER city. She's forced to change herself against her will, because nobody is giving her a chance to push for her ideals.

This entire theory never ends, and with all of this? I kinda do see Mel actually committing Matricide, it lifts the "Ambessa will die" theory further.

[moonastro]

Astrology notes pt.3

Autumn edition (spiritual)🍂

🥀 12th house ruler in 1st house can make an individual see ghosts/spirits. If ruler is in 3rd house, this can even go as far as being able to communicate with them.

🥀IC in Scorpio and especially if ruler of ic is in Scorpio, it can mean that that person has a long line of witches in their family, Pluto also needs to have significance in the placement.

🥀Jupiter in Scorpio/8th house individuals please keep your goals and manifestations to yourself and don’t be spreading them to people. As luck follows you if you keep accomplishments and your plans to your self.

🥀7th house ruler in 0 degrees, your have met your future spouse in a past life/lives and this can be a very spiritual and fulfilling connection. can feel out of this world and its literally your soul just trying to find this person to meet again.

🥀 suns ruler in 6th house can make an individual more prone to colds/ being cold all the time (since the 6th house is the house of ill health and the ruler in the 6th house or having connections to the 6th house reverses the hot represented by the sun into cold). also the sun rules over the heart and blood and so this tends to make a person have weak blood/cold blood.

🥀another observation to do with being ill, the scariest can be not knowing that you are ill which can be depicted from having uranus in the 6th house. the individuals with this placement can seriously suffer from unknown illnesses and may experience difficulty with health but not be diagnosed as it may not even exist. especially, can experience unknown symptoms and their body can seriously act almost foreign when it comes to illness.

🥀mars in cancer people, i dont know if people talk about this or not but i have noticed that his placement irritates people unknowingly and they may not even do anything wrong. but i think its because this placement goes with the flow and are unbothered by things and people pick up on that and may recognised how they cant be controlled and hence the anger towards them. also this placement can trigger people unconsciously.

🥀11th house ruler in 8th house can attract a lot of people with paranormal experiences. they may also connect with those with paranormal interests,

🥀 moon trine venus individuals value and experience heavy nostalgia. they can tend to associate smells, noise, scenery etc with memories that they had with certain people.

🥀 in vedic astrology, if 7th house ruler is in pisces, this can indicate dreaming of your future spouse before even meeting them. so you literally can predict your meeting, their appearance etc with your dreams.

🥀 having venus in 12th house synastry with someone can indicate dreaming of them constantly. the house person especially can feel the severity of the spiritual connection between them romantic or not.

🥀 people dont actually talk about ketu in the 1st house as often. in my opinion it is one of the most spiritual placements you can have. this placement allows the individual to have unique experiences in life that usually indicates an intense connection to themselves and the spiritual realm. another thing i have noticed with this placement is that they feel like the odd one out which strengthens their relationship with themselves in a very spiritual level.

🥀mars in gemini people should work with a form of smoke- incense, wind etc. especially to relieve from stress or negativity. this can also be used while decluttering your space, meditating etc.

🥀 rahu in 7th house in your chart can indicate lessons being repeated in your life and this is especially related to one to one interactions with people. you can experience a lot of deja vu also with this placement.

🥀 speaking of deja vu, jupiter trine uranus can indicate experiencing deja vu also. but this placement can give a predicting sense to it so you can dream of something and it happens in real life but can happen multiple times also as jupiter is expanding the possibilities of the occurrence.

🥀 venus in pisces/trine jupiter individuals can have a soul deep connection with music.

🥀 pluto in 4th house can have an almost forbidden connection to their ancestors. this can translate in many ways such as not knowing much about them or literally not being in contact with any of them but craving the need to. on the other hand, you may not know it but your ancestors may quietly and subtly be by your side but may not want to be in contact with you.

🥀 continuing with the pluto talk, pluto in the 12th house can attract a lot of unknown and hidden obsessive people. you may not even know the people but they know you. its creepy but this can indicate having stalkers.

🥀 in vedic astrology, if you have your sun as your atmakaraka (highest degree) in your chart, you may enjoy summers-the sun a lot. sunny weather or during the hotter months, you can experience more memorable occurrences. the hotter months are almost like a recharge for your soul.

🥀 okay, i have found no blogs talk about dashas in vedic astrology. BUTTTT i find them to be very accurate and useful. as for me when i was going through a spiritual breakthrough i was in a jupiter mahadasha which is no surprise since jupiter rules spiritualism, wisdom, knowledge. (there is so much more depth in it but i think I'm going to do a post about it seperately because it is soo accurate).

once again, appreciate everyone who reads this and if you do know that you are loved and have a lovey day🤍😊

[weirdero]

I’ve seen a lot of people speculating that Gemma’s storyline will lead to a cloning reveal, which like, it’s a decent theory and wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But god, this show is so specific and detail oriented Ben Stiller himself has even said nothing in the show is a coincidence. The cloning theory has also been shut down a couple times by some producers and writes from what I understand and idk I feel like a cloning reveal would just be so boring. And honestly, I don’t know if this is insane, but I’m fully leaning towards the idea that when it comes to Ms. Casey/Gemma, it’s more of a resurrection situation.

Okay so hear me out I believe our Ms. Casey is still physically Gemma her original body, her bones, her blood she’s alive baby that’s her but like also it’s not her. It’s like in horror or fantasy stories when a character dies and comes back but comes back wrong YK?. Physically it’s still them but it’s not them. In my opinion, her brain has been completely reset, wiping away whatever kind of person she used to be.

To back this theory I’ve been heavily leaning on the interaction between Ms. Cobel and Helena in the parking lot and just the general existence of the Mammalian Nurturable department.

Now, I might be reading into this too much, but I just love these characters so much and this show so please bear with me, this is a long one.

this season Harmony/Ms. Cobel is a problem. Like there is just no way she isn’t. Lumon is already struggling to keep it together after the scandal the main four caused, and a change in management isn’t helping. People are (probably) starting to pay attention, and they do not need that kind of heat. Ms. Cobel literally crashing tf out making herself homeless and sneaking around in the dark probably isn’t helping.

Helena’s choice of words have always stood out to me. She’s calculated, smart, and precise in how she speak just like Harmony. Both of them are masters at saying exactly what they need to without ever outright saying it yk? So when she she spots Cobel in the parking lot in the middle of the night she clocks her immediately.

Harmony walks out as if she still has a job in that bitch and has the audacity to tell Helena what her needs are and exactly how they should be met. And in my opinion, Helena is appalled but not surprised. She calls her out on her behavior.

“I hear ego, hubris, and arrogance. Kier teaches us they only cause pain.”

To me, this isn’t just a read it’s a warning. Harmony doesn’t take it. She bites back, calling Helena a NEPOTISM BABY. wild.

And I mean look at Helena’s face.

So Helena lays it out for her as plainly as possible

“We didn’t have to ask you back.”

No translation even needed, she just said it flat out Baby, we don’t need you here. You do not, no matter what you think, represent us. You are not Lumon.

And Harmony, being just as cunty clocks her shit right back

“You didn’t have a choice.”

At this point, Ms. Cobel isn’t just skating on thin ice she’s walking across a frozen lake in metal combat boots, her ass skipping around as if the ice won’t break. And that’s her mistake.

Helena, after giving Harmony multiple chances to walk away. Multiple chances to come back in on lumons terms. Multiple chances to stop playing in her fucking face, finally pulls back with a kind smile and offers her a chance to “restart”.

As they walk towards the car, Ms. Cobel locks eyes with Helena’s bodyguard and the instant terror is actually insane. Full deer in headlights.

A lot of people saw that shot and took it as a straight-up Sopranos esque death threat like, if she gets in that car, she’s not gonna survive the drive (RIP Audriana). And sure, it could be as simple as that, but this show is just way too good for it to be that simple.

I think Cobel recognizes the bodyguard. She knows him and I mean like fr knows him.

I saw a theory on Reddit suggesting that the bodyguard might be someone she knew maybe a former coworker, someone from her personal life (they suggested it could’ve been someone she was super close with before she even became the woman we know today) idk just somebody she knows knows and out of nowhere suddenly, he’s here, presented as Helena’s bodyguard. But it’s not him. It’s his skin, his bones, his blood but it’s not HIM.

And the way it plays out, it doesn’t seem like the bodyguard recognizes her at least not in the same way she knows him. That stare man that stare. I didn’t even know Harmony could experience fear. Who knows, maybe in that moment she’s reflecting on everything that’s happened. She bitched out the boss’s daughter in this empty ass parking lot on the brink of a mental break down, and suddenly there’s a chance to start over. All she has to do is get in that car, with that man, talk to the higher-ups, and hit the “reset” button.

Basically my theory is that Lumon are essentially grave robbing the fuck out of that town. Taking people who have been in serious accidents car crashes, house fires, construction site falls, factory explosion, hell even a drive by. I also think they’re also taking drug addicts, the homeless people who have no loved ones looking out for them, or even looking for them at all, the ones who are confirmed to be gone in every way, physically or emotionally. They’re taking these people and giving them a full system reset rebooting the computer.

By doing this, Lumon gets to create a free labor force that works 24/7 without question or resistance, exploiting people who have no emotional ties or support systems. Blank slate baby! They’re also using these individuals as test subjects for whatever weird shit they wanna launch out as a new product.

This helps explain a lot of the weird shit going on with the employees at Mammalian Nurturable. They look so rough and are also really off-putting towards outsiders. Which is understandable but I genuinely believe they haven’t even “clocked out” in days, if not ever.

Even though this theory makes the most sense to me, It still has its plot holes like if Gemma isn’t a clone and it’s her “resurrected” where does she go when she’s not her innie. In Season 1, she tells Mark she’s only conscious as her innie for a couple of minutes at a time, and the longest she’s ever stayed “alive” was the 8 hours she spent with his department. So where tf is she if not there as Ms Casey i don’t know man I do not know.

Anyways I have some other general curiosities about the town itself and why Lumon decided to build their main building there. I saw a TikTok video of someone saying it reminded them of company-built towns like Hershey Pennsylvania or Kodak Town, and I agree. Anywho I love this show so much it hurts I hope it never dies I literally missed having an obsession this intense I hope it gets all the love and awards it deserves!!

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 2) • iamquaintrelle

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

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

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

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Your father's study was prepared for the occasion, the good whiskey displayed on the sideboard, legal documents arranged with careful precision on his desk. Uncle Paolo stood by the window, while your mother sat in one of the leather chairs, her posture perfect as always.

Hamilton—Lewis—crossed the threshold with the confidence of a man entering territory that was already half his. The shift in power dynamics was subtle but unmistakable. This was no longer an audition but a partnership being formalized.

"Mr. Hamilton," your father greeted him, extending his hand. "I trust my daughter has addressed her... concerns?"

"She has," Lewis replied, his tone revealing nothing of your private conversation. "We've reached an understanding."

Your father's eyes flickered to you for confirmation. You nodded once, maintaining the composed expression expected of a Ricci daughter in business situations.

"Excellent," your father said, gesturing to the seats arranged before his desk. "Then we can proceed with finalizing the arrangements."

As Lewis sat beside you, you noticed the careful distance he maintained—close enough to indicate unity but not so close as to suggest possession. Every movement calculated for the message it would send.

"Before we begin," Lewis said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room, "I'd like to clarify something."

Your father's eyebrow raised slightly. "Yes?"

"In our preliminary discussions, we covered the business aspects of this alliance thoroughly," Lewis began, his tone measured. "But I want to be clear that my marriage to your daughter represents more than just a merger of operations. It's a commitment I take seriously, beyond the strategic advantages."

The statement caught everyone by surprise—most of all you. This hadn't been part of your conversation in the garden.

"Of course," your father replied, clearly unsure where this was heading. "Family is... important."

"Precisely," Lewis agreed. "Which is why I'd like to properly acknowledge the personal aspect of this arrangement, not just the business side."

Before anyone could respond, he turned to face you directly, reaching into his jacket pocket to withdraw a small velvet box. Your breath caught as he rose from his chair and, in a move that seemed completely at odds with his controlled persona, lowered himself to one knee before you.

The room went absolutely silent. This was wildly off-script for a mafia arrangement marriage.

"What the fuck," Uncle Paolo muttered under his breath, voicing what everyone was thinking.

Lewis ignored him completely, his dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made the rest of the room seem to fade away.

"I know this arrangement began as strategy," he said, his voice pitched for your ears despite the audience. "But I believe in doing things properly. So..." He opened the box, revealing a ring that made your mother gasp audibly.

The diamond was enormous—emerald cut, flanked by smaller stones set in what appeared to be platinum. Not gaudy despite its size, but undeniably spectacular and obviously worth a small fortune.

"Will you marry me?" Lewis asked, the formality of the question almost absurd given the circumstances, yet somehow perfect in its traditionalism.

For a moment, you couldn't speak, caught off guard by this unexpected adherence to normal courtship rituals. This man who dealt in guns and laundered money was following a script from an entirely different world—one where proposals meant choices and rings symbolized love rather than ownership.

"Yes," you finally managed, aware of your family watching this performance with varying degrees of shock and approval.

Lewis's expression remained controlled, but something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, or something warmer. He removed the ring from its velvet nest and took your left hand, sliding the diamond onto your finger with careful precision. It was slightly loose, but not enough to fall off.

"We'll have it sized properly," he murmured as he rose to his feet, still holding your hand.

Your father cleared his throat loudly, clearly thrown by the deviation from protocol but unwilling to object to something that, while unconventional, only strengthened the alliance.

"Well," he said, reaching for the whiskey. "I believe a toast is in order."

As your father poured drinks, you studied the ring on your finger—the weight of it, the way it caught the light. No one had expected this gesture, least of all you. Mafia arrangements were usually handled with legal documents and handshakes, not proposals and engagement rings.

"To family," your father offered once everyone held a glass. "And new alliances."

"To family," the room echoed, though your mother's eyes remained fixed on you, a question in their depths that you couldn't quite decipher.

Lewis's glass touched yours with a delicate clink. "To new beginnings," he added quietly, for your ears only.

The formal discussion that followed was almost anticlimactic after the surprise proposal. Details of the wedding were confirmed—three weeks from now, a small ceremony at the family's private chapel followed by a reception that would serve as both celebration and strategic networking opportunity. You would leave for London the following day, with most of your belongings shipped ahead.

Throughout the discussion, you remained acutely aware of the ring on your finger, its unfamiliar weight a constant reminder of the bargain you'd struck. Lewis occasionally glanced at your hand, something like satisfaction crossing his features when he noted you adjusting to the feel of it.

"There's one more thing," your father said as the meeting concluded. "A small dinner tomorrow night. Family only, to formally introduce you and officially announce the engagement."

You'd almost forgotten about your sisters in the whirlwind of negotiations. Sophia would be thrilled—she'd been fascinated by the mysterious British suitor from the start. Maria and Gabriella, at twenty-two and nineteen respectively, would have their own opinions, no doubt.

"Of course," Lewis agreed smoothly. "I look forward to meeting the rest of the family."

As if on cue, there was a commotion outside the study door—hushed giggles and shushing sounds that could only be your sisters attempting to eavesdrop. Your father's expression darkened.

"Girls!" he called sharply. "Either come in properly or go to your rooms!"

After a moment of whispered debate, the door opened to reveal all three of your sisters, attempting and failing to look innocent.

"We just wanted to meet him," Sophia explained, her eyes immediately going to Lewis with undisguised curiosity. "Since he's going to be our brother-in-law and everything."

Your father sighed deeply, but your mother smiled indulgently. "Come in then, but behave yourselves."

Lewis rose as they entered, that perfect British politeness on display. "Lewis Hamilton," he introduced himself, extending his hand to each sister in turn.

"I'm Sophia," your youngest sister said, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. "Did you really just propose? With a ring and everything? That's so not how these things usually go."

"Sophia," your father warned, but Lewis just smiled—a real one that transformed his severe features.

"Some traditions are worth maintaining," he replied, "even in unconventional circumstances."

"It's beautiful," Maria said, eyeing your ring with clear envy. "Harry Winston?"

"Custom design," Lewis corrected. "Though they did source the center stone."

Gabriella, always the most reserved of your sisters, studied Lewis with careful assessment. "You're better looking than the others," she noted.

"Gabriella!" your mother admonished, though you caught the hint of amusement in her tone.

"Just stating facts," Gabriella shrugged. "Though the tattoos are unexpected."

Lewis's lips twitched slightly. "I find that unexpected can be advantageous in my line of work."

"What exactly is your line of work?" Sophia asked bluntly. "Besides the obvious."

"Sophia!" your father snapped. "That's enough."

"It's alright," Lewis assured him. "Curiosity is natural." He turned to your sister. "Import-export, primarily. Specialized logistics. Investment in emerging technologies. Various legitimate enterprises that support other... interests."

"Guns and money," Sophia translated with a grin. "Got it."

Despite the tension, you found yourself fighting a smile. Trust Sophia to cut through the euphemisms directly to the point.

"Among other things," Lewis agreed, unbothered by her directness. "Your sister and I were just discussing her interest in digital currencies and their applications."

The easy way he included you in the conversation, referencing your ideas rather than talking around you, didn't go unnoticed by your sisters. Maria's eyebrows rose slightly, while Gabriella's assessment shifted from skeptical to cautiously approving.

"Well, we just wanted to say congratulations," Maria said, her eyes moving between you and Lewis as if trying to make sense of the pairing. "And to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss?" Lewis inquired.

"Papa's been locked in meetings for days," Sophia explained. "Uncle Paolo kept saying the British guy was trouble, but Mama said you were exactly what the family needed."

You shot your mother a questioning look. She hadn't shared that particular opinion with you.

"Perhaps we can continue this conversation tomorrow at dinner," your father interjected, his patience clearly wearing thin. "When everyone has had time to prepare appropriate topics of discussion."

The dismissal was clear. Your sisters offered final congratulations—Sophia hugging you impulsively while whispering "Holy shit, he's hot" in your ear—before filing out of the study, already whispering among themselves.

"You'll have to forgive their enthusiasm," your mother said once they'd gone. "This is the first engagement in the family."

"No forgiveness necessary," Lewis assured her. "Family dynamics are important to understand."

The meeting concluded shortly after, with handshakes for the men and a formal kiss on each cheek for your mother. When Lewis turned to you, there was a moment of uncertainty—what was the appropriate farewell for a newly engaged couple in this bizarre circumstance?

He solved the dilemma by taking your hand and raising it to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles just above the ring. "Until tomorrow," he said, his eyes holding yours with that same intense focus that made everything else seem to recede.

"Tomorrow," you echoed, finding your voice less steady than you'd like.

As Marco escorted Lewis out, your family turned to you with varying expressions—your father's satisfaction, your mother's cautious approval, Uncle Paolo's lingering skepticism.

"Well," your father said, returning to his desk. "That's settled then."

But nothing felt settled. If anything, Lewis Hamilton's unexpected proposal and the weight of the ring on your finger only underscored how uncharted this territory was. You'd agreed to marry a man who remained largely a mystery, whose calculated control occasionally revealed glimpses of something more complicated beneath.

"May I be excused?" you asked, suddenly needing space to process everything that had happened.

Your father waved his permission, already turning to other business now that your future was secured. Your mother squeezed your hand as you passed, her eyes communicating a mixture of sympathy and encouragement.

"We'll talk later," she promised quietly. "There's more to prepare than just a wedding."

You nodded, grateful for her understanding, and made your way upstairs to the sanctuary of your room. As soon as the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, finally allowing the mask of composure to drop.

"Holy fuck," you whispered to the empty room, staring at the diamond glittering on your finger.

Three weeks. In three weeks you would be Mrs. Lewis Hamilton, relocating to London and beginning a life bound to a man you barely knew beyond his business reputation and the careful image he projected.

A soft knock interrupted your thoughts. You opened the door to find all three of your sisters crowded in the hallway, barely containing their excitement.

"Spill everything," Sophia demanded, pushing past you into the room. "And I mean everything."

Maria and Gabriella followed, closing the door behind them. All pretense of decorum vanished as they gathered on your bed like you were teenagers again, sharing secrets after lights out.

"Is he always that intense?" Maria asked, her eyes wide. "The way he looks at you is... a lot."

"And that ring," Gabriella added. "Let me see it properly."

You extended your hand, allowing them to examine the diamond that now marked you as claimed. "It's a bit loose," you said, trying to sound nonchalant about the small fortune on your finger.

"We can fix that tomorrow," Maria said dismissively. "But seriously, what's he like when Papa's not around? Is he always so... controlled?"

You thought about your dinner conversation, the brief glimpses of genuine personality beneath his disciplined exterior. "Mostly," you admitted. "But there's more to him than just the business façade."

"Obviously," Sophia grinned. "Those tattoos aren't exactly old-school mafia style. And did you see his hands? Those are not just paper-pushing hands."

"Sophia!" Gabriella scolded, though she looked equally curious. "But really, are you okay with all this? It's happening so fast."

The question was surprisingly sincere. Despite the teasing and excitement, your sisters were genuinely concerned about your feelings. It was touching, though you weren't sure how to answer.

"I'm... adjusting," you said finally. "He's not what I expected."

"Better or worse?" Maria pressed.

You considered this carefully. "Different. He sees me as more than just a connection to Papa. He actually listened when I talked about business ideas."

"Wow," Gabriella said, only half-joking. "The bar is literally on the floor."

You couldn't help laughing at that. "True. But compared to Lorenzo Bianchi or Raúl Suarez? Lewis is practically a feminist."

"Sexy accent too," Sophia added with a smirk. "And that mouth... bet he knows how to use it."

"Oh my god, stop," you groaned, shoving her playfully. "I'm still processing the fact that I'll be married in three weeks. I haven't gotten to... that part yet."

But of course you had thought about it. The physical aspects of marriage to Lewis Hamilton were impossible to ignore, especially after your frank discussion in the garden. His preference for control, his emphasis on clear boundaries and communication... it was both intimidating and intriguing in ways you weren't ready to examine too closely.

"Are you scared?" Maria asked more seriously, picking up on your discomfort.

"Not exactly," you replied honestly. "I'm... curious. Cautious. This isn't how I imagined my life would go, but given the options..."

"He seems to actually respect you," Gabriella observed. "That's more than most arrangements offer."

It was a sobering reminder of the reality you all faced as Ricci daughters. Eventually, each of your sisters would likely face a similar negotiation, their futures decided by the family's strategic needs rather than their own desires.

"At least he's hot," Sophia repeated, breaking the tension. "And rich. And not a complete asshole, which is basically winning the mafia husband lottery."

You couldn't help smiling at her determined optimism. "I guess we'll see."

"Promise you'll tell us everything," Maria insisted. "Once you're in London. What it's like, who his people are, what he's like when no one's watching."

"And what he's like in bed," Sophia added with a wicked grin. "I want details."

"Absolutely not," you laughed, throwing a pillow at her. "Some things are going to remain private, thank you very much."

As your sisters continued their teasing interrogation, you found yourself genuinely smiling for the first time since this whole process began. Despite the strangeness of your situation, their normalcy grounded you, reminded you that not everything would change with your marriage.

Later, alone again, you twisted the ring on your finger, watching how the diamond caught the light from different angles. The gesture had been unexpected—performative, certainly, but also strangely genuine in its execution. Lewis continued to defy easy categorization, remaining a puzzle you couldn't quite solve.

In three weeks, you'd be his wife. In three weeks and one day, you'd be in London, beginning a new life far from everything familiar. The thought should have terrified you, but instead you felt a strange, cautious anticipation building beneath the anxiety.

This wasn't the future you'd imagined for yourself, but perhaps it wasn't the prison sentence you'd feared either. Perhaps, just perhaps, Lewis Hamilton represented something you'd never dared hope for in your position: a partnership that might, in time, evolve into something genuine.

It was a dangerous hope, but as you drifted toward sleep, the weight of the ring a constant reminder on your finger, you allowed yourself to indulge in it, just for tonight.

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

The next evening arrived with the heightened security that had become standard at the estate. Additional men patrolled the perimeter, their weapons no longer discreetly concealed but worn openly—a clear message to anyone considering interference. Your father wasn't taking chances with tonight's family dinner, not with the official announcement of your engagement making its way through the appropriate channels.

"The Bianchis have been unusually quiet today," your father commented as you helped your mother review the dinner arrangements. "Paolo's contacts say they're planning something."

"Lorenzo wouldn't be stupid enough to make a move against us directly," your mother replied, her tone calm though her eyes betrayed concern. "Not with our alliances."

"Young men with wounded pride make stupid decisions every day," your father countered. "Double the security at the gates. And make sure the girls stay inside until Hamilton arrives."

You'd been half-listening to this exchange while adjusting a flower arrangement, but the mention of potential danger sharpened your attention. "Has there been a specific threat?"

Your father hesitated, then apparently decided you deserved to know. "Lorenzo Bianchi has been making noise in certain circles. Saying Hamilton stole what was rightfully his. That the engagement is an insult to the Sicilian families."

"I'm not property to be stolen," you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

"Of course not, cara," your father agreed, though his tone suggested this was merely semantics. "But perception matters in our world. The Bianchi family feels slighted. The Cuban cartel has expressed similar... disappointment."

"Raúl Suarez sent another message this morning," your mother added quietly. "Your father thought it best not to show you."

A chill ran through you at the mention of Suarez. While Lorenzo Bianchi was volatile and potentially dangerous, Raúl Suarez's reputation for calculated cruelty made him the more concerning threat.

"What kind of message?" you pressed.

Your parents exchanged a look before your father sighed. "A photograph. Of you. From yesterday, in the garden with Hamilton."

The implication settled heavily in your stomach. Someone had been watching your private conversation with Lewis, close enough to photograph it despite the estate's security measures.

"Have you told Hamilton?" you asked, wondering how your fiancé—the word still felt strange even in your thoughts—would respond to this surveillance.

"His people have been informed," your father confirmed. "They're coordinating with our security team."

The doorbell interrupted further discussion. Marco's voice came through on the intercom: "Mr. Hamilton has arrived, sir."

"Perfect timing," your mother said, her social mask sliding seamlessly back into place. "Let's not allow these concerns to overshadow tonight's celebration."

You followed your parents to the foyer, where Lewis was handing his coat to a waiting staff member. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with a deep burgundy tie that somehow complemented the subtle geometric patterns of the tattoos visible at his wrists and neck. His hair was freshly done, the braids impeccable, the faded sides precisely lined.

His eyes found yours immediately, that focused intensity now familiar though no less powerful. "Ms. Ricci," he greeted you formally, then added with the ghost of a smile, "Or should I say fiancée?"

"Either works for now," you replied, extending your hand.

Instead of the expected handshake, he drew you slightly closer, leaning in to brush a kiss against your cheek—a calculated gesture for your parents' benefit, establishing the appearance of growing intimacy without overstepping bounds. The brief contact sent an unexpected warmth through you.

"You look lovely," he said, his eyes making a quick but appreciative assessment of your burgundy dress—a coincidental match to his tie that wouldn't go unnoticed by your observant family.

"Thank you," you replied, suddenly aware of the diamond still glittering on your finger. You'd had it adjusted that morning, a jeweler summoned to the house to ensure it wouldn't slip off. "Shall we join the others? My sisters have been talking about nothing else all day."

As if on cue, Sophia appeared at the top of the stairs, having clearly been waiting for Lewis's arrival. She descended with Maria and Gabriella following more sedately, all three dressed with careful attention to detail.

"Mr. Hamilton," Sophia greeted him with barely contained excitement. "Welcome to family dinner."

"Please, call me Lewis," he replied smoothly. "We're to be family, after all."

The simple statement seemed to delight your sisters, who exchanged meaningful glances as you all moved toward the formal dining room. Your mother had arranged the seating strategically—you and Lewis side by side, with your parents at the ends of the table and your sisters across from you.

Dinner began with the expected formalities, staff serving the first course while your father made pointed small talk about neutral topics. Only when the main course arrived and the servants had withdrawn did the conversation shift to more relevant matters.

"We've received confirmation from Father Donato," your father announced. "The chapel is prepared for three weeks from Saturday. Your mother has arranged for the necessary adjustments to the timeline."

You nodded, aware that "necessary adjustments" meant significant strings pulled and substantial donations made to ensure the church would accommodate a wedding on such short notice.

"I've taken the liberty of making certain arrangements as well," Lewis added, his attention moving smoothly between your parents. "Security protocols for the event itself, transportation details for our departure, preparations at the London residence."

"Our departure?" you questioned, noting the possessive pronoun.

Lewis turned to you, something almost apologetic crossing his features. "I should have mentioned—I've had to adjust the timeline slightly. Business in Geneva requires my attention immediately after the wedding. I thought we might combine necessity with pleasure. Switzerland in autumn is quite beautiful."

The casual revelation that your honeymoon destination had been decided without your input shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. Perhaps Lewis had noticed your reaction, because he added, "Unless you have other preferences? This is certainly negotiable."

The qualification—that simple acknowledgment of your right to an opinion—was so unexpected that it momentarily disarmed your irritation.

"Switzerland is fine," you conceded. "Though I would appreciate being included in these decisions going forward."

A flash of something that might have been approval crossed his face. "Of course. My apologies for the oversight."

Your father looked vaguely surprised at this exchange—at both your boldness in questioning the arrangement and Lewis's easy acceptance of your point. Traditional men in your world rarely bothered with such consultations.

"Speaking of arrangements," your mother interjected smoothly, "have you given thought to where you'll ultimately settle? London initially, you mentioned, but longer term?"

"I maintain residences in several locations," Lewis replied. "London serves as primary base for now, but I've recently acquired property in New York as well. I thought perhaps splitting time between the two might be ideal, given family connections."

This was news to you—another detail decided without your input, though the consideration for your family ties was unexpected and not unwelcome.

"New York would be perfect," Sophia chimed in. "Then we could visit all the time!"

"That's rather the point," Lewis agreed, his tone warming slightly when addressing your youngest sister. "Family connections should be maintained."

The conversation continued in this vein, discussing logistics and plans with occasional input from your sisters, who seemed determined to extract as many details as possible about their future brother-in-law. Lewis answered their questions with surprising patience, revealing carefully selected personal details that gave the impression of openness while actually disclosing very little of substance.

It was a masterful performance, you realized—giving everyone exactly what they needed to feel comfortable with the arrangement while maintaining the essential privacy that seemed central to his nature.

The sound of your father's phone interrupted dessert. He frowned at the screen before excusing himself abruptly. Uncle Paolo, who had been largely silent throughout dinner, followed him out, a significant look passing between them.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table until your mother stepped in with practiced grace. "Perhaps we should move to the sitting room for coffee."

As you all stood to relocate, Lewis placed a light hand at the small of your back, leaning close to murmur, "Something's happening. Your father's security detail just doubled outside."

The observation confirmed what you'd already suspected—Lewis missed nothing, not even the subtle shift in the guards visible through the dining room windows.

In the sitting room, the pretense of normal family dinner continued, though tension had crept into the atmosphere. Your mother directed conversation with determined brightness, while your sisters picked up on the change but followed her lead.

When your father finally returned twenty minutes later, his expression was carefully neutral, but the tightness around his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

"Apologies for the interruption," he said smoothly. "Business matters."

"Anything that concerns our arrangements?" Lewis asked directly, cutting through the pretense.

Your father assessed him for a moment before apparently deciding transparency was the better approach. "The Bianchi family has made their position clear regarding our alliance. Lorenzo is particularly... vocal about his disappointment."

"Vocal how?" you pressed, tired of being shielded from information that directly concerned you.

"He's made certain threats," your father admitted reluctantly. "Nothing we can't handle."

"Specifically?" Lewis's tone had shifted subtly, the polite dinner guest replaced by the calculating strategist.

Your father hesitated, glancing at your sisters. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately."

"If it concerns the safety of this family, everyone should be aware," Lewis countered, surprising you with his inclusion of your sisters in matters your father typically shielded them from. "Informed caution is always preferable to ignorant vulnerability."

It was precisely the right approach to take with your father, appealing to his strategic mind rather than challenging his authority directly. After a moment's consideration, he nodded.

"Lorenzo Bianchi was seen meeting with Raúl Suarez this afternoon," he revealed. "An unusual alliance, given their territories rarely overlap. Their combined resources could present... complications."

"They're working together because they both got rejected," Sophia translated bluntly. "Wounded male ego is a dangerous thing."

"Sophia," your mother warned, though not sharply.

"She's not wrong," Lewis said, earning a surprised look from everyone. "Pride is often more dangerous than practical concerns. Men like Bianchi and Suarez define themselves by what they can acquire and control. Being denied something they wanted—" his eyes flickered briefly to you, "—represents more than just a failed business move. It's a personal slight they feel compelled to address."

"What exactly have they threatened?" you asked, returning to the central issue.

Your father's jaw tightened. "Disruption of the wedding. Potential interference with certain business operations. Vague but pointed references to making Hamilton 'regret' his expansion into their territory."

"Standard intimidation tactics," Lewis assessed, seemingly unconcerned. "Though the alliance between them is worth noting."

"We've increased security accordingly," your father assured him. "Both here and at the chapel. All arrangements will proceed as planned."

Lewis nodded, but something in his posture had changed—a subtle shift from relaxed dinner companion to the dangerous man whose reputation had preceded him. "I appreciate the information. I'll make some adjustments to my own security protocols as well."

The conversation gradually returned to safer topics, but the undercurrent of tension remained. Your sisters, to their credit, adapted quickly, maintaining the appearance of a normal family dinner while processing the potential threat.

As the evening drew to a close, Lewis caught your eye. "Perhaps a moment alone before I leave? There are some details about London I'd like to discuss."

Your father nodded permission without hesitation—a small but significant indicator of how fully he'd accepted Lewis's place in the family hierarchy already. You led the way to the small library off the main hall, a room private enough for conversation but public enough to maintain propriety.

Once the door closed behind you, Lewis's demeanor shifted again, the social mask dropping away to reveal focused intensity. "Your father is downplaying the threat," he said without preamble. "Bianchi and Suarez together represent a significant concern."

"I gathered that," you replied, appreciating his directness. "How worried should I be?"

"Concerned, but not frightened," he assessed carefully. "My security team is... exceptionally thorough. But I'd prefer to take additional precautions where you're concerned."

"What kind of precautions?"

"I'd like to station two of my people here at the estate until the wedding," he said. "Working alongside your father's security but with specific responsibility for your safety."

The request was unusual—essentially asking to place his men inside your father's territory, a level of trust rarely extended even in alliances. "My father won't like that."

"Your father will agree when I explain my reasoning," Lewis countered with quiet confidence. "These aren't ordinary bodyguards. They're specialists in certain types of threats."

Something in his tone made you wonder exactly what kind of "specialists" he employed, but you decided not to press for details you might prefer not to know.

"There's something else," he continued. "The threats against me are to be expected. I've dealt with similar situations before. But I won't allow you to become collateral damage in what is essentially a business conflict."

"I'm hardly helpless," you reminded him. "I've grown up in this world."

"I'm well aware," he acknowledged. "But Bianchi and Suarez are unpredictable together, feeding each other's grievances. The wedding creates a vulnerability they may try to exploit."

"Are you suggesting we change the plans?" The thought of delaying sent an unexpected pang of disappointment through you.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm suggesting we accelerate them."

"Accelerate? How?"

"Move the legal paperwork forward immediately. Complete the civil ceremony this week, quietly. The church wedding can proceed as planned for appearances and family tradition, but the legal binding would already be in place."

The proposal caught you off guard. "You want to marry me twice? Once in secret and once for show?"

"I want to establish the legal framework of our union before Bianchi and Suarez have time to formulate a significant response," Lewis clarified. "A practical precaution, nothing more."

But it wasn't nothing, and you both knew it. Legally binding yourself to Lewis days from now rather than weeks represented a significant acceleration of what was already a rushed timeline.

"This isn't just about security," you observed, studying his expression carefully. "You're staking your claim more firmly. Making it harder for them to interfere."

Something like respect flickered in his eyes at your assessment. "Yes. From a strategic perspective, it's more difficult to prevent a marriage than to dissolve one that's already occurred. Particularly given the families involved."

It was ruthlessly practical, exactly the kind of strategic thinking that had apparently built Lewis's empire from nothing. You considered the proposal from all angles, weighing the protection it offered against the reduced timeline for mental preparation.

"And if I asked for more time instead? If I wanted to slow this down rather than speed it up?"

It was a test, and you both knew it—a direct challenge to his repeated assertions about respecting your choices.

Lewis considered you for a long moment, that intense focus making you feel like the only person in his universe. "Then we would find alternative security solutions," he finally said. "I meant what I said about consent being essential to our arrangement. I won't force an acceleration if you're genuinely opposed."

The sincerity in his voice seemed real, though with a man as controlled as Lewis Hamilton, it was difficult to be certain of anything.

"Let me think about it," you decided. "I'll give you an answer tomorrow."

He nodded, accepting this without argument. "Fair enough." He glanced at his watch. "I should go. I have a video conference with associates in Tokyo in an hour."

As you walked him back to the foyer where Marco waited to escort him out, you were acutely aware of the additional security personnel now visible throughout the house. Your father wasn't taking the Bianchi-Suarez threat lightly, despite his reassurances.

At the door, Lewis surprised you by taking both your hands in his, an unexpectedly intimate gesture for a man who maintained such careful physical boundaries.

"Think carefully about the accelerated timeline," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "But please understand it comes from practical concern, not a desire to rush you into something you're not ready for."

You nodded, oddly touched by his consideration despite the clinical framing. "I understand. I'll call you tomorrow."

He hesitated, then leaned in to brush another kiss against your cheek, closer to the corner of your mouth than before—still appropriate for observers but with a hint of something more personal.

"Goodnight," he murmured against your skin before pulling away, the brief warmth of his breath sending an involuntary shiver through you.

"Goodnight... Lewis," you replied, the use of his first name still feeling strangely intimate.

You watched from the doorway as he walked to his car, the streetlights illuminating his tall figure. Just as he reached the vehicle, another car slowly passed the house—a black sedan with tinted windows that lingered just long enough to make its surveillance obvious.

Lewis noted it without reacting visibly, his posture relaxed despite the clear provocation. Only when the sedan finally moved on did he enter his own car, nodding once in your direction before pulling away from the curb.

Marco closed the door firmly, engaging additional security locks. "Bianchi's men," he confirmed, noticing your questioning look. "They've been driving past every hour since noon."

"Just watching? Or should we be concerned about more?"

Marco's expression was grim. "With the Bianchis, watching is just the beginning. They want us to know they're out there. It's what they're planning that we can't see that worries me."

You nodded, processing this as you headed back toward the family rooms. The weight of the ring on your finger felt heavier now, a symbol not just of your engagement but of the target it potentially placed on your back.

Lewis's suggestion of accelerating the timeline suddenly seemed less like possessiveness and more like practical protection. If Bianchi and Suarez were already making such public displays of their displeasure, what might they attempt as the wedding approached?

In your room, you removed the ring to prepare for bed, placing it carefully in the velvet box Lewis had presented it in. As you closed the lid, you noticed something you'd missed before—a small card tucked into the lid's lining.

Curious, you removed it, finding just three words written in precise handwriting:

Your choice matters.

The simple message struck deeper than any flowery sentiment could have. In your world, choice was rarely offered, particularly to daughters. Yet here was Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and controlling in so many ways, explicitly acknowledging your agency in this arrangement.

As you prepared for sleep, your mind turned over the accelerated timeline he'd proposed. Marriage within days rather than weeks. Becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife in truth before the public ceremony even took place.

The practical advantages were clear. The legal protection would be immediately established. The alliance would be harder to disrupt. Your safety would be more definitively secured.

But beneath those rational calculations, something else nagged at you—a realization that part of you wanted to say yes for reasons that had nothing to do with security protocols or strategic advantages. Part of you was curious about what life with Lewis would actually be like, outside the formal negotiations and family performances.

That curiosity was dangerous, potentially clouding your judgment with emotional considerations when clear-headed assessment was essential. Yet as you drifted toward sleep, the memory of his brief kiss against your cheek lingered.

Tomorrow you would give him your answer about accelerating the timeline. Tomorrow you would take another step toward the future that had been arranged for you, yet somehow still felt like a choice you were actively making.

For better or worse, Lewis Hamilton was becoming more than just a strategic alliance. The question that followed you into dreams was whether that evolution represented an unexpected opportunity or a vulnerability you couldn't afford.

"Pull!"

The clay pigeon arced through the late afternoon sky, a bright orange disk against endless blue. You tracked it with practiced precision, the Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon an extension of your arm more than a separate object. Breath in, focus, slight lead—

The shotgun kicked against your shoulder as you squeezed the trigger. The target shattered, orange fragments raining down over the manicured back lawn of the estate.

"Nice shot," Uncle Paolo commented from where he lounged in a nearby garden chair, nursing a tumbler of scotch despite the early hour. "Though your follow-through needs work."

You lowered the gun, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Uncle Paolo had opinions about everything, especially activities traditionally reserved for the men of the family. That you could consistently outshoot both him and your father was a fact carefully unacknowledged at family gatherings.

"Again," you instructed the groundskeeper manning the trap. He nodded, loading another clay pigeon into the machine.

Skeet shooting had been your release valve since your father first taught you at fourteen—ostensibly for self-defense, though you'd recognized even then that it was really his way of bonding with a daughter when he'd expected a son. The rhythm of it calmed you, the focus required pushing all other thoughts temporarily aside.

Today, you needed that mental quiet more than usual. Three days had passed since Lewis had proposed accelerating your marriage timeline. Three days of weighing options, considering implications, delaying the decision he'd requested "tomorrow."

"Pull!"

Another target, another clean shot. Your shoulder was starting to ache pleasantly, the kind of discomfort that grounded you in your physical body when your mind threatened to spiral.

"Your fiancé called again this morning," Uncle Paolo mentioned casually, ice clinking in his glass. "Your father thinks you're being rude, making him wait for an answer."

You broke open the shotgun, ejecting the spent shells with perhaps more force than necessary. "My fiancé can learn a little patience."

"Not a quality men in our world typically cultivate," your uncle observed, a hint of warning in his tone. "Especially not men like Hamilton."

You began reloading, the familiar motions practiced and smooth. "If Lewis wants a docile wife who jumps at his every instruction, he's got the wrong Ricci daughter."

Uncle Paolo smiled thinly, though his eyes remained serious. "Testing boundaries already? The marriage contract isn't even signed."

"Just establishing the framework of the relationship," you replied, using the same clinical language Lewis favored. "Making sure expectations are aligned."

Your uncle's laugh was genuine this time. "You sound like him. All that strategic bullshit disguising what's really a power play."

You raised the shotgun again, settling it against your shoulder. "It's not a power play to want time to consider a major life decision."

"Perhaps not," he conceded. "But three days of silence sends a message of its own. And messages can be misinterpreted."

The warning was clear—you were potentially offending your future husband, a dangerous man to disappoint. The fact that your father had sent Uncle Paolo to deliver this reminder rather than speaking to you himself indicated his growing impatience as well.

"Pull!"

This shot went wide, the clay pigeon continuing its arc unharmed before disappearing into the trees at the edge of the property. You swore under your breath.

"Loss of focus," Uncle Paolo observed unnecessarily. "The very thing shooting is supposed to help with."

You lowered the gun, suddenly tired of both the activity and the conversation. "I'll call him today."

"Good girl," your uncle said, the patronizing praise making your teeth clench. "The sooner this arrangement is formalized, the better. Bianchi's men have expanded their surveillance. Three cars rotating shifts now."

This was news to you. "Has there been any direct contact?"

"Nothing actionable." Uncle Paolo drained his scotch. "Just watching, waiting. Building their nerve, maybe."

"Or gathering intelligence for something more significant," you suggested, breaking down the shotgun and placing it carefully in its case. "Which actually supports taking more time, not less. We don't want to appear reactive."

Your uncle's expression hardened slightly. "This isn't a negotiation strategy. It's a security concern. Hamilton's right to want to accelerate."

"Then let him make that case directly," you replied, snapping the gun case closed with finality. "Instead of sending family members to pressure me."

"He's been trying," Uncle Paolo pointed out. "You're the one dodging his calls."

He had you there. You had been avoiding Lewis—not out of uncertainty about your answer but because of what that answer would mean. Saying yes to the accelerated timeline would eliminate the buffer you'd been counting on, the brief window of remaining independence before your life changed irrevocably.

"I'll call him," you repeated more firmly. "Today."

Uncle Paolo nodded, apparently satisfied with extracting this commitment. "Good. He'll be at Vesuvio tonight. Private room in the back, eight o'clock. Your father thought a neutral location might be preferable for the discussion."

The fact that this meeting had already been arranged without your knowledge or input made your blood boil, but you kept your expression neutral. "How considerate of everyone to plan my schedule."

"This is bigger than your pride," your uncle said, rising from his chair. "The Bianchi situation is escalating. Raúl Suarez has been making inquiries about your daily movements. This isn't a game."

The mention of Suarez sent an involuntary chill through you. While Lorenzo Bianchi was dangerous in the hotheaded way of entitled men accustomed to getting what they wanted, Suarez's particular brand of calculated cruelty was something else entirely.

"Fine. Vesuvio at eight." You signaled to the groundskeeper that you were finished, handing him the gun case to return to the secure room in the east wing. "Is Antonio driving?"

"Hamilton's sending a car," your uncle replied. "His people have better countermeasures for potential trackers."

The implication that you might be followed was sobering. Perhaps everyone's concern wasn't just about rushing you into marriage but genuine worry about your safety.

"I should get ready then," you said, although it was barely past noon. "Apparently I have a date."

Your room had become something of a sanctuary over the past few days—the one place where the weight of expectations temporarily lifted. You'd spent hours here contemplating your rapidly approaching future, turning the engagement ring on your finger as if it might reveal new insights with each rotation.

The decision about accelerating the timeline wasn't really about the timing itself. It was about acknowledging the reality that this was happening. That in a matter of weeks—or perhaps days—you would be bound permanently to Lewis Hamilton. No more theoretical discussions or hypothetical scenarios. The actual, irreversible step of becoming his wife.

You sat at your vanity, staring at your reflection as if it might offer guidance. The woman looking back at you seemed collected, composed, every inch the mafia princess raised to navigate treacherous waters. Only you knew the doubts swirling beneath that carefully maintained exterior.

A knock at your door interrupted this unproductive self-examination. "Come in," you called, expecting one of your sisters.

Instead, your mother entered, closing the door softly behind her. Her expression was reserved, but her eyes held concern.

"Your uncle said you've agreed to meet with Lewis tonight," she began without preamble.

"Was I supposed to refuse?" you asked dryly. "Apparently it's already arranged."

Your mother sighed, coming to sit on the edge of your bed. "The men can be... presumptuous. But in this case, there are legitimate concerns driving their urgency."

"So I've been told. Repeatedly." You swiveled to face her directly. "Is it really that serious? Or is everyone just impatient to seal the deal before I change my mind?"

"It's serious," your mother confirmed, her usual diplomatic filter notably absent. "Lorenzo Bianchi is unstable at the best of times. Combined with Suarez's resources and contacts..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "There have been specific threats. Against both you and Lewis."

This was more detail than anyone had shared previously. "What kind of threats?"

"The kind your father doesn't want you to know about." She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "But which I think you deserve to hear, given that it's your life at stake."

The unusual directness from your normally circumspect mother sent a fresh wave of unease through you. "Tell me."

"Suarez has put out feelers to certain professionals. The kind who specialize in making accidents happen." Her eyes met yours steadily. "And Bianchi has been explicitly vocal about ensuring Hamilton doesn't get to 'claim' you before they can intervene."

The crude implication was clear, sending a surge of both fear and fury through you. The idea that these men viewed you as territory to be claimed, a prize to be stolen before a competitor could secure you, was infuriating—but not surprising.

"Hamilton's security concerns are valid," your mother continued. "The accelerated timeline isn't just a power play. It's a practical response to an immediate threat."

You absorbed this, turning the additional context over in your mind. "Why didn't Lewis just tell me this directly? Why the vague references to 'security concerns' without specifics?"

"Perhaps he was trying to spare you the more disturbing details," your mother suggested. "Or perhaps he assumed your father would share the full picture."

"Men," you muttered in exasperation. "Always deciding what information women can handle."

A small smile touched your mother's lips. "A universal trait, regardless of cultural background or criminal connections."

You couldn't help returning her smile briefly before sobering. "So you think I should agree to the accelerated timeline."

"I think you should have all the relevant information before deciding," she corrected. "Including the fact that these threats are credible and immediate."

You nodded, appreciating her approach even as the reality of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders. "Thank you for telling me."

"There's something else," your mother added, a hint of hesitation in her voice. "Something about Lewis that might influence your decision."

Your attention sharpened. "What about him?"

"I have a friend in London. Someone connected but removed enough from direct operations to speak freely." She paused. "She says Hamilton is feared, certainly, but also respected in a way unusual for our world. He keeps his word. Honors agreements. Protects his people."

"That matches his reputation here," you acknowledged, uncertain of her point.

"The unusual part," your mother continued, "is how he treats women in his organization. They hold actual positions of authority. Make decisions. Control territory." Her eyes held yours meaningfully. "This isn't common, as you well know."

Indeed you did. Most mafia organizations, including your father's, kept women firmly in supportive roles—wives, daughters, sisters who influenced from the shadows but never held official power.

"You're saying he might actually mean it when he talks about partnership," you translated. "Not just as a negotiating tactic."

"I'm saying it's possible," your mother clarified. "Which is more than can be said for most men in his position."

The information settled alongside everything else you knew about Lewis Hamilton—the controlled exterior, the glimpses of genuine consideration, the note hidden in the ring box. Your choice matters.

"I appreciate the insight," you said finally. "It helps."

Your mother rose gracefully, smoothing her skirt. "Vesuvio at eight, then? I'll help you select something appropriate."

You nodded, mind already racing ahead to the conversation with Lewis. "Something that doesn't look like I'm trying too hard, but still makes an impression."

"The forest green Valentino," your mother suggested immediately. "Authority without aggression. And it brings out your eyes."

Trust your mother to have the perfect strategic wardrobe selection already in mind. "Green it is."

As she turned to leave, you called after her: "Mama?"

She paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Are you worried? About all of this?" The question was more vulnerable than you typically allowed yourself to be, even with her.

Your mother considered this carefully before answering. "I worry about the threats, yes. But about your marriage to Lewis?" She shook her head slightly. "No. I think you may have drawn the better hand than any of us expected."

With that cryptic assessment, she left you to prepare for the evening ahead—an evening that would likely determine the exact timeline of your transformation from Ricci daughter to Hamilton wife.

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

Vesuvio sat nestled in the heart of Little Italy, a restaurant that had served as neutral ground for business discussions for three generations. Your father had been bringing you here since childhood, a strategic choice to ensure the owners and staff recognized you as under Ricci protection. Everyone from the valet to the maître d' greeted you by name as Lewis's sleek black car deposited you at the entrance precisely at eight.

The driver—a silent, watchful man who'd introduced himself only as Kai—escorted you inside with the hypervigilance of someone expecting trouble. His eyes continuously scanned your surroundings, one hand always near the slight bulge under his impeccably tailored jacket.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the maître d' informed you, leading the way toward the private rooms in the back. "Security protocols have been observed."

You nodded your understanding. In establishments like Vesuvio, "security protocols" meant the room had been swept for listening devices, the staff vetted, and arrangements made to ensure privacy for whatever business was being conducted.

Kai remained at your side until you reached the private dining room, where he performed a final visual assessment before stepping aside to let you enter. "I'll be right outside, Ms. Ricci," he stated quietly. "Should you need anything."

The formality of the security arrangements added weight to what your mother had shared about the seriousness of the current threats. This wasn't just standard protection; this was the heightened vigilance of people expecting genuine danger.

The private dining room was intimate but not cramped, a single table set for two with the understated elegance Vesuvio was known for. Lewis rose as you entered, his expression revealing nothing of whatever thoughts might be circulating behind those dark, assessing eyes.

"Thank you for coming," he said, his British accent somehow more pronounced in the Italian restaurant setting. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

"I was," you admitted frankly, seeing no point in pretending otherwise. "I needed time to think."

Something like approval flickered across his features at your honesty. "Fair enough. Though a text saying as much would have been appreciated."

You accepted this mild rebuke with a nod as he pulled out your chair. "You're right. That was inconsiderate."

He settled across from you, his tailored charcoal suit emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. The restaurant lighting softened the severe lines of his face, caught the subtle gleam of his nose piercings, highlighted the tattoos visible at his wrists and neck.

"You look lovely," he observed, his eyes taking in the forest green dress with quiet appreciation. "That color suits you."

"Thank you." You placed your napkin in your lap, using the small ritual to gather your thoughts. "I understand the threats have escalated."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly. "Your father shared the details?"

"My mother did." You met his gaze directly. "She thought I deserved to know exactly what we're facing, given that it's my life at risk alongside yours."

He nodded, something like respect crossing his features. "She's right. I should have been more explicit about the nature of the threats rather than couching them in vague security concerns."

The straightforward acknowledgment caught you off guard. Men in your world rarely admitted to miscalculations so directly.

"Bianchi and Suarez make an unusual but potentially dangerous alliance," Lewis continued, signaling to the waiter who had appeared discreetly at the door. "Wine?"

"Please." You welcomed the brief interruption as the waiter approached with a bottle of red already selected and opened for breathing.

Once your glasses were filled and you were alone again, Lewis continued. "Bianchi brings volatility and foot soldiers. Suarez contributes calculation and specific expertise. Together, they present a more significant threat than either would alone."

"My mother mentioned professionals. Specialists in accidents."

Lewis's expression hardened slightly. "Yes. Suarez has connections to certain contractors who specialize in eliminating problems while maintaining plausible deniability." He took a measured sip of wine. "Not particularly creative, but effective when employed correctly."

The clinical assessment of potential assassination methods should have been terrifying, but you'd grown up in this world. Threats were evaluated based on credibility and approach, not emotional impact.

"And Bianchi's explicit threats regarding claiming me before you can?" You kept your tone even despite the fury the concept ignited.

Something dangerous flashed in Lewis's eyes—a glimpse of the capacity for violence that underpinned his controlled exterior. "Bianchi's specific comments don't bear repeating. But they've been noted and will be addressed appropriately."

The quiet certainty in his voice left little doubt about the eventual fate of Lorenzo Bianchi should he continue down his current path.

"So the accelerated timeline..." you began.

"Is a practical response to an immediate threat," Lewis confirmed. "Not an attempt to rush you, though I understand it might feel that way."

You considered this, turning your wine glass slowly between your fingers. "The legal marriage now, church ceremony as planned."

"Yes. The paperwork can be handled quietly, without announcement. The formal wedding proceeds on schedule, maintaining appearances while the legal protections are already in place."

"And those protections matter how, exactly?" you asked, though you had suspicions. "Beyond the symbolic joining of families."

Lewis's gaze was direct, unflinching. "As my wife, you'd fall under certain specific legal and operational protections that fiancée status doesn't provide. International travel becomes simpler. Security protocols more comprehensive. And—" he paused briefly, "—Bianchi and Suarez would be sending a message to the entire underworld by targeting a Hamilton rather than just a Ricci daughter. The calculation changes."

The strategic assessment made perfect sense, fitting with everything you knew about how power worked in your world. Marriage wasn't just about family alliances; it was about territory, protection, claiming.

"There's something else," Lewis added, his tone shifting slightly. "Something I should have emphasized in our initial discussion."

You waited, curious about what additional factor he might introduce.

"This acceleration changes nothing about our other agreements," he stated firmly. "The discussion of boundaries, expectations, your involvement in operations—all of that remains as we discussed. This is purely a security measure, not an attempt to alter the fundamental framework we've established."

The reassurance was unexpectedly important to you, addressing concerns you hadn't fully articulated even to yourself.

"I've been thinking about your request," you said finally. "Considering the implications from multiple angles."

"And your conclusion?" Lewis asked, his composure perfect though you sensed tension beneath the surface.

You met his gaze steadily. "I'll agree to the accelerated timeline, with two conditions."

If he was surprised by the negotiation attempt, he didn't show it. "Go on."

"First, complete transparency going forward. No more filtered information or vague references to security concerns. If there are threats, I want to know exactly what they are and how they're being addressed."

Lewis nodded without hesitation. "Agreed. And the second condition?"

You took a breath, formulating the request that had been taking shape in your mind over the past three days. "I want your commitment that once we're married, I'll have a formal role in the organization. Not just informal input or consulting on specific projects. Actual authority in areas where I can contribute meaningfully."

This request was significantly more substantial than the first, challenging traditional structures in a way that could potentially create complications with both your father and Lewis's existing operation.

Lewis studied you with that intense focus that made everything else seem to recede. "You understand this would represent a significant departure from how things are typically structured."

"I do," you confirmed. "But you've already departed from tradition in multiple ways. This would be consistent with the partnership approach you've referenced in our discussions."

A hint of something that might have been admiration crossed his features. "You've given this considerable thought."

"Three days' worth," you replied with the ghost of a smile. "Since you're getting an accelerated timeline, it seemed fair to accelerate other aspects of our arrangement as well."

Lewis took a deliberate sip of wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "What specific areas of the operation interest you most?"

The question itself was promising—focusing on implementation rather than rejecting the concept outright. "Financial systems initially. Digital currency integration, legitimate business expansion. Areas where my education and skills align with operational needs."

He nodded slowly, considering. "It would need to be implemented carefully. Your father might resist. Some of my people would certainly question it."

"I'm aware," you acknowledged. "But your reputation suggests you make decisions based on strategic value, not tradition or others' expectations."

Lewis set down his glass, his expression thoughtful. "A formal role would need to be earned through demonstrated competence, not simply granted by virtue of our marriage."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," you assured him. "I'm not asking for a ceremonial title. I want meaningful work with real responsibility."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "In that case, I agree to your second condition as well. With the understanding that you'll need to prove yourself just as anyone else would in my organization."

Relief and a strange excitement flooded through you. You'd been prepared for resistance, negotiation, perhaps even refusal. His straightforward acceptance suggested your mother's information about how Lewis structured his organization might indeed be accurate.

"Then we have an agreement," you said, extending your hand across the table in a deliberately business-like gesture. "The accelerated timeline with my conditions."

Lewis took your hand, his grip firm but not dominating. "Agreed. I'll have a private civil ceremony arranged for tomorrow with the necessary paperwork, if that timing works for you."

The sudden reality of it—marriage in just one day—sent a jolt through you that you hoped didn't show on your face. "That's acceptable."

Lewis held your hand a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious. "Thank you for considering the security concerns seriously. I realize this isn't how most women envision their path to marriage."

The unexpected acknowledgment of the strangeness of your situation caught you off guard. "I stopped expecting a conventional path a long time ago," you replied honestly. "The Ricci name comes with certain realities attached."

"As does the Hamilton name," he said, finally releasing your hand. "Though perhaps together we can reshape some of those realities to better serve our interests."

The sentiment was unexpectedly aligned with your own unspoken hopes—not eliminating the underworld elements entirely, but modernizing, adapting, creating something that allowed for more autonomy than the traditional structures your father maintained.

The waiter appeared again, this time to take your dinner orders. The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the meal progressed—Lewis's London residence where you'd be living initially, the security protocols you'd need to adapt to, practical considerations about what belongings to prioritize for the immediate move versus what could follow later.

Throughout the discussion, you found yourself studying Lewis with new attention—the precise way he cut his food, the careful attention he paid when you were speaking, the subtle shift in his expression when topics moved from business to more personal matters. He remained controlled, certainly, but you were beginning to recognize nuances in that control, variations that conveyed more than his words sometimes did.

"You're watching me quite intently," he observed as dessert was served. "Cataloging observations?"

The accuracy of his assessment made you smile slightly. "Professional habit. Understanding people's patterns helps predict their behavior."

"And what patterns have you observed in me?" The question held genuine curiosity rather than challenge.

You considered how to answer honestly without revealing too much of your own analytical process. "Precision. Consistency. A preference for understated quality over flash. Careful attention to detail, especially regarding security. And..." you paused, deciding whether to voice the last observation.

"And?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly.

"And a tendency to reveal more through small physical cues than through words," you finished. "Your control is impressive, but not absolute."

Something like surprise flickered in his eyes before he masked it. "Most people find me difficult to read."

"I'm not most people," you reminded him. "And I've had considerable practice observing men who prefer not to be read too easily."

"A valuable skill in our world," he acknowledged. "Though potentially uncomfortable for the one being observed."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" you asked, curious about his reaction.

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Not uncomfortable, exactly. Unaccustomed, perhaps. I'm usually the one doing the observing."

The admission felt like a small victory—an acknowledgment that the dynamic between you wasn't entirely one-sided despite the obvious power imbalance inherent in your arrangement.

As the meal concluded and the waiter cleared the last plates, Lewis checked his watch. "We should leave separately. My driver will take you home first, then double back for me once you're safely inside the estate."

The return to security protocols was a stark reminder of the threats hanging over both of you. "The sooner we handle the paperwork, the better," you agreed, your decision now firmly cemented by the evening's discussion.

Lewis nodded, rising to pull out your chair. "I'll call tomorrow with the arrangements. The civil ceremony will be handled discreetly—just the necessary officials, your parents if they wish to attend, my security officer as witness."

The simplicity of the description belied the magnitude of what it represented—your legal binding to Lewis Hamilton, the irrevocable step that would transform you from Ricci daughter to Hamilton wife.

"I'll be ready," you assured him, gathering your clutch as you stood.

In the small space between table and chair, you found yourself closer to Lewis than you'd been before, near enough to catch the subtle scent of his cologne, to notice the precise trimming of his beard, to see the faint scar near his temple partially hidden by his hairline.

His eyes held yours, something shifting in their depths. "May I?" he asked quietly, his intention clear though unspecified.

The request for permission—for a gesture you both knew was largely for appearance's sake—was characteristic of the careful boundaries he maintained. You nodded once, curious despite yourself about what a deliberately initiated touch from Lewis might feel like.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, the contact warm and unexpectedly gentle for someone with his reputation for controlled strength. He leaned in slowly, giving you ample time to pull away if desired, before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that started soft but deepened slightly when you didn't withdraw.

It was brief—just enough to establish the appearance of genuine affection for any watching eyes—but the controlled precision of it sent an unexpected warmth through you. When he pulled back, his expression revealed nothing of whether the contact had affected him similarly.

"For appearances," he said quietly, though something in his tone suggested there might be more to it than mere performance.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steadier than you'd expected given the sudden acceleration of your pulse. "Maintaining the narrative."

His eyes held yours a moment longer, something unspoken passing between you, before he stepped back to a more appropriate distance. "Kai will escort you to the car. I'll follow in fifteen minutes."

You nodded, professional mask sliding back into place despite the lingering sensation of his lips against yours. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Until tomorrow," he echoed, something like anticipation in his voice. "Mrs. Hamilton."

The name—your future identity—sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the irrevocable change now just two days away.

As Kai escorted you from the restaurant, you were acutely aware of the diamond still glittering on your finger and the phantom pressure of Lewis's kiss still lingering on your lips. For better or worse, you had committed to the accelerated timeline, to becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife in truth before the week was out.

The question that followed you into the waiting car was whether the reality of marriage to such a man would align with the carefully negotiated terms you'd established—or whether the controlled, dangerous person you'd glimpsed beneath the business façade would prove to be something else entirely once you were legally bound.

The car ride home was silent save for the occasional crackle of Kai's radio as he communicated with other security personnel in a code you couldn't quite decipher. His vigilance was both reassuring and unsettling—evidence of how seriously Lewis's organization was taking the threats against you both.

Your mind continued to replay the dinner conversation, particularly the moment when Lewis had agreed to your conditions without the extended negotiation you'd expected. The promise of a formal role in his organization represented more opportunity than your father had ever considered offering, despite your education and demonstrated aptitude for the business side of family operations.

When the car pulled through the estate gates, you noted the increased security presence—additional men patrolling the perimeter, new surveillance equipment installed since you'd left for dinner. Your father was clearly taking the Bianchi-Suarez threat as seriously as Lewis was.

"I'll escort you to the door, Ms. Ricci," Kai said, his first words since leaving the restaurant.

"That's not necessary," you replied automatically. "We're inside the gates."

"Mr. Hamilton's instructions were clear," Kai stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Door to door service."

You recognized the futility of arguing with a man who was simply following orders from his boss. "Fine."

As Kai accompanied you to the front entrance, you noticed his eyes continuously scanning the surroundings, one hand always near his concealed weapon. At the door, he waited until Marco had confirmed your identity through the security camera before finally stepping back.

"Mr. Hamilton will be in touch tomorrow regarding the arrangements," he said formally.

"Thank you, Kai," you replied, finding his serious dedication to your safety oddly endearing despite its restrictiveness. "Please drive safely on your return."

A flicker of surprise crossed his stoic features at your personal concern before he nodded once and returned to the car.

Inside, the house was quiet despite the early hour. You found your father in his study, as expected, going through what appeared to be security reports with Uncle Paolo and two of his capos.

"You're back early," your father observed as you appeared in the doorway. "How was dinner?"

"Productive," you replied, deciding direct was best. "We've agreed to accelerate the timeline. The civil ceremony will be tomorrow, with the church wedding proceeding as planned for appearances."

Your father's expression showed clear approval. "Good. That's the sensible choice given the circumstances." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Any conditions to your agreement?"

Of course he would expect you to have negotiated something in return. "Complete transparency regarding security threats going forward, and a formal role in Hamilton's organization after the marriage."

Uncle Paolo's eyebrows shot up. "A formal role? In what capacity?"

"Financial systems initially. Digital currency integration, legitimate business expansion." You kept your tone matter-of-fact, as if this were a standard arrangement rather than a significant departure from tradition.

Your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with new assessment. "Hamilton agreed to this?"

"He did," you confirmed. "With the understanding that I'll need to prove myself through demonstrated competence, not simply by virtue of being his wife."

A complex series of emotions crossed your father's face—surprise, consideration, and something that might have been reluctant respect. "Interesting. Not how I would structure things, but Hamilton's operation has always been... unconventional."

"Progressive, some might say," you suggested mildly.

Your father snorted. "Progressive is just another word for untested. But it's his organization to run as he sees fit." He waved a hand dismissively. "The important thing is that the timeline is accelerated. The legal protections will be in place sooner."

"Hamilton will handle the paperwork," you informed him. "He'll call tomorrow with the details."

Your father nodded, already turning his attention back to the security reports. "Good. Paolo will coordinate with Hamilton's people on arrangements. Your mother can help you prepare whatever you need for the immediate move."

The dismissal was clear—now that you'd made the "right" decision, your father had more pressing matters to attend to. You turned to leave, then paused.

"Has there been any specific activity from Bianchi or Suarez tonight?" you asked, remembering Lewis's agreement to transparency about threats.

Your father's eyes narrowed at your direct question about business matters. "Nothing beyond the usual surveillance. Why?"

"Just implementing my new transparency agreement," you replied evenly. "Goodnight, Papa."

As you headed upstairs, you heard Uncle Paolo's low mutter: "Hamilton's going to have his hands full with that one."

Your father's response was too quiet to catch, but the low chuckle that followed suggested he wasn't entirely displeased by your assertiveness. Perhaps he recognized that the qualities that made you challenging as a daughter might prove valuable as an asset in a strategic alliance.

In your room, you shed the forest green dress and carefully removed your makeup, mind still processing the evening's developments. Legal marriage tomorrow. London shortly after. A completely new life beginning before you'd fully prepared yourself for the current one to end.

Your phone buzzed with a text as you were wrapping your hair:

Home safely? - Lewis.

The simple inquiry was unexpected. You hesitated before typing back:

Yes. Additional security noted at the estate. All quiet otherwise.

His response came quickly:

Good. Civil ceremony will be ready tomorrow, 2pm. Church wedding in two weeks. Acceptable?

The brisk efficiency was pure Lewis—no wasted words, everything arranged with maximum practicality. You found yourself smiling slightly as you replied:

Acceptable. What should I wear to become Mrs. Hamilton?

A longer pause followed, enough that you thought perhaps he wouldn't respond to the slightly teasing question. Finally:

Whatever makes you feel confident. Though I admit a preference for the green from tonight.

The personal admission—small as it was—felt significant from someone as controlled as Lewis. You were still formulating a response when another text appeared:

My security will collect you at 1:00 tomorrow for the paperwork. I'll see you then. Rest well.

Before you could reply, a final message:

And thank you. For agreeing to the timeline adjustment despite the rush. I recognize it's not ideal.

The acknowledgment of the imposition touched you unexpectedly. You wrote back:

Practical solutions to legitimate threats. Very on-brand for both of us. Goodnight, Lewis.

You set the phone aside, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. There was something both disconcerting and exhilarating about the rapid progression of events—from strategic arrangement to accelerated marriage to the subtle shift in your text exchanges. Something that felt dangerously close to genuine connection forming beneath the calculated exterior of your relationship.

Sleep came easier than you'd expected, your mind finally settling after days of deliberation. The decision was made. The path forward clear, even if the destination remained uncertain.

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

The next day passed in a blur of practical arrangements. Your mother, ever efficient, helped you select and pack the essentials for your immediate relocation to London. Clothing, jewelry, personal items that couldn't be easily replaced—all sorted, cataloged, and prepared for transport.

"Lewis's people will handle the shipping," she explained as you deliberated over which books to include in the initial move. "The rest can follow once you're settled."

There was something surreal about packing your life into carefully labeled boxes, deciding which pieces of yourself were essential and which could wait. Like performing the physical manifestation of the mental sorting you'd been doing since Lewis Hamilton first appeared in your father's study.

At precisely 1:00, Marco announced the arrival of Lewis's security team. Kai was there again, accompanied by a woman you hadn't met before—tall, athletic, close-cropped hair, dark skin, and watchful eyes that missed nothing.

"Ms. Ricci," Kai greeted you formally. "This is Naomi. She'll be your primary security detail after the marriage."

The woman nodded once, her assessment of you professional but not cold. "Ms. Ricci. Mr. Hamilton thought you might prefer a female detail for certain situations. I'll be accompanying you to the paperwork signing today as well."

The consideration was unexpected but welcome—another small indication that Lewis gave thought to details many men in his position would overlook.

Your mother appeared with a garment bag containing the outfit you'd selected for the signing—a cream-colored pantsuit that projected both authority and sophistication.

"I'll see you back here afterward?" she asked, a rare hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes," you assured her. "Just signing today."

She nodded, smoothing your collar in a gesture reminiscent of your childhood. "It's happening quickly," she observed. "Are you ready?"

"Does it matter?" you asked with a small smile to soften the words.

"It always matters," she replied seriously. "Even when we don't have perfect choices."

You hugged her briefly, an unusual display of affection given your family's typically reserved nature. "I'm as ready as I can be," you said honestly. "And Lewis is... not what I expected."

Your mother's smile held a hint of knowing. "The best ones never are."

The car ride into the city was significantly different with Naomi's presence. Where Kai remained stoically silent unless directly addressed, she maintained a professional but conversational approach.

"Mr. Hamilton thought you might have questions about London," she offered as you navigated through midday traffic. "About the residence, security protocols, practical matters."

"Have you worked for Lewis long?" you asked, curious about the inner workings of his organization.

"Five years," she replied. "Since he expanded operations from purely London-based to international."

"And your role is security only, or more than that?"

A slight smile crossed her features. "Officially, personal security. In practice, Mr. Hamilton utilizes people's full skill sets. I handle certain sensitive communications as well."

The implication that Lewis recognized and employed talents beyond traditional role boundaries aligned with what your mother had told you about his organization structure.

"How many women are in leadership positions in his organization?" you asked directly.

If Naomi was surprised by the question, she didn't show it. "Four on the executive team, including the head of legitimate business operations and the chief financial officer. Several more in territorial management positions."

The numbers were unprecedented compared to traditional family structures like your father's, where women wielded influence solely through family connections rather than official positions.

"And how has that been received by the more traditional elements of your world?" you pressed, genuinely curious about the practical implications of such a structure.

"With initial skepticism, then reluctant acceptance as results proved the approach effective," Naomi replied. "Mr. Hamilton is more concerned with capability than convention."

This aligned with your own observations of Lewis—his focus on practical outcomes rather than traditional methods. It was both reassuring and slightly intimidating to consider how your own capabilities might be evaluated once you were officially part of his organization.

The car pulled up to a nondescript office building in Midtown, the kind that housed lawyers, accountants, and other professional services. Naomi exited first, performing a quick security assessment before opening your door.

"Fifteenth floor," she directed, guiding you inside with Kai following closely behind. "Mr. Hamilton is already here with the necessary parties."

The elevator ride was silent, tension building in your chest with each ascending floor. The actual marriage certificate was a formality compared to the agreements already in place between families, but it represented a finality that couldn't be ignored. After today, the legal framework for your binding to Lewis Hamilton would be established. In a couple weeks would simply be the formal execution of what these papers initiated.

When the elevator doors opened, Lewis was waiting in the hallway, his expression revealing nothing of whatever thoughts might be circulating behind those dark, focused eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberately coordinated rather than rebellious.

"You came," he said simply, something like approval in his tone.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" you asked, genuinely curious about his uncertainty.

"I've learned not to take anything for granted," he replied, offering his arm in a formal gesture. "The paperwork is ready. Just the official aspects today—names, declarations, signatures. The legal minimum."

You placed your hand on his arm, the contact sending a small, involuntary thrill through you that you carefully masked. "Let's get it done, then."

The attorney's office was bland and functional, with none of the ceremony typically associated with marriage. A judge waited alongside a court clerk and the attorney who had apparently prepared the documents. Your father was there as well, his presence unexpected but not unwelcome.

"Hamilton thought I should witness," he explained when you raised an eyebrow in question. "Considering the circumstances."

The "circumstances" being the accelerated timeline and security concerns, you assumed. Lewis's inclusion of your father was both respectful of tradition and strategically sound, ensuring the Ricci family felt appropriately acknowledged even in this expedited process.

The actual signing took less than fifteen minutes—forms reviewed, declarations made, signatures applied to the appropriate lines. No vows, no rings exchanged, nothing to suggest this was anything more than a business transaction being finalized.

Yet as the judge pronounced you legally married and you signed your new name for the first time—your Ricci identity legally merged with Hamilton—the weight of the moment settled over you. This was real. Done. Official.

You were now, in the eyes of the law, Mrs. Hamilton.

Lewis's expression remained controlled throughout, though you caught a brief moment of something like satisfaction when the final document was signed. His hand brushed yours as he took the pen, the contact brief but deliberate.

"Congratulations to you both," the judge offered perfunctorily, clearly familiar with these expedited arrangements in your world. "The certificate will be processed immediately given the... special circumstances."

Those "special circumstances" being the substantial payment Lewis had undoubtedly made to expedite what would normally take weeks to process. Money smoothed all paths in your world, including legal ones.

Your father shook Lewis's hand formally, the gesture sealing the alliance that was now legally established between families. "Take care of her," he said, the simple statement carrying layers of meaning in your world.

"She's family now," Lewis replied, the only acknowledgment needed between men who understood that family was protected at all costs.

With the formalities concluded, you found yourself standing in the hallway outside the attorney's office, officially married to a man you'd known for less than a month. The surreal quality of the moment wasn't lost on you.

"Well," you said, uncertain what the appropriate comment might be for such an unusual situation. "That was efficient."

Lewis's mouth quirked slightly. "Efficiency has its place. Though the ceremony will include more of the traditional elements, I promise."

"Will there be cake?" you asked with deliberate lightness, trying to balance the strange tension of the moment. "A marriage isn't official without cake, legal documents notwithstanding."

This time his smile was genuine, transforming his severe features momentarily. "There will be cake," he confirmed. "And whatever other traditions you consider essential."

Your father cleared his throat, breaking the small moment of connection. "The car will take you home to finish your preparations," he said, all business now that the legal aspect was complete. "Hamilton's people have coordinated with Marco on security."

The reminder of the continuing threat cast a shadow over the moment. Despite the legal marriage now established, the danger from Bianchi and Suarez remained until you were safely away from New York and established within Lewis's territory.

"I'll see you soon," Lewis said, his eyes meeting yours with that focused intensity that still caught you off guard. "Next Thursday at ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock," you confirmed. "Should I bring anything specific?"

"Just yourself," he replied. "Everything else is arranged."

As you left with Naomi and Kai flanking you like protective shadows, you caught your father and Lewis falling into conversation, heads bent together in the particular way of men discussing security matters they deemed too concerning for female ears.

In the elevator, you found yourself staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls, searching for any visible change now that you were officially Lewis Hamilton's wife. The woman looking back appeared unchanged—composed, controlled, every inch the mafia princess you'd been raised to be.

But the legal reality had shifted beneath that unchanged exterior. You were no longer simply a Ricci daughter. You were a Hamilton wife, with all the protections and obligations that entailed.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hamilton?" Naomi asked quietly, the new form of address emphasizing the transformation.

"Fine," you replied automatically, then reconsidered. "Just adjusting to the new reality."

Naomi nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It gets easier. The transition."

You appreciated her attempt at reassurance, though you doubted her experience included arranged marriages to dangerous crime lords. Still, the sentiment was genuine, another indication that Lewis's people functioned differently than the soldiers in your father's organization.

The car ride back to the estate was silent, your mind processing the simple but significant ceremony that had just taken place. No flowers, no music, no witnesses beyond the necessary legal minimum. Just signatures on paper, establishing a bond that would reshape your entire existence.

Next Thursday would bring the more formal ceremony, the church blessing that would make your union official in the eyes of your world. Then London, a new home, a new role, a new life entirely.

You glanced down at your hand, noting the engagement ring still glittering on your finger. Soon it would be joined by a wedding band, another visible symbol of your new status. Another marker of the transition from Ricci to Hamilton.

The weight of it all pressed against your chest—not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but something in between. A recognition of threshold crossed, of possibilities both concerning and intriguing that waited on the other side.

Legally, you were already Mrs. Hamilton. Next Thursday would simply formalize what the law had already established. For better or worse, your fate was now bound to Lewis's—your safety, your future, your identity itself now inextricably linked with his.

The question that followed you back to the estate, that lingered as you prepared for your final night under your father's roof, was whether that binding represented constraint or liberation—a cage more gilded than the one you'd known, or the key to something resembling freedom within the confines of the world you'd been born into.

next week…

Thursday arrived too quickly, sunlight streaming through curtains you'd forgotten to close in your distracted state the night before. For a moment, you lay perfectly still, the weight of the day ahead settling over you like a physical presence. Your wedding day—though legally, you were already married, the certificate signed and filed with clinical efficiency last week.

A soft knock at your door interrupted this moment of quiet contemplation.

"Come in," you called, expecting your mother with last-minute instructions for the day.

Instead, the door burst open to reveal all three of your sisters, already dressed but carrying what appeared to be breakfast trays and—in Sophia's case—a bottle of champagne.

"Wedding day breakfast!" Sophia announced cheerfully, bouncing onto your bed with enough force to make you clutch the covers. "Though technically you're already married, which is weird. But still—tradition!"

Maria followed more sedately, setting down a tray laden with pastries and fruit. "Mama said to let you sleep, but Sophia insisted we do the sister breakfast thing."

"It's your last morning in this house," Gabriella added, her usual reserve softened by the significance of the occasion. "We couldn't let you spend it alone."

The gesture was so unexpectedly thoughtful that you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. For all the complexity of your family dynamics, your sisters had always been your constant—the ones who understood the particular pressures of being Ricci daughters in a world that valued sons.

"Thank you," you managed, sitting up as Sophia began pouring champagne into four juice glasses. "Though isn't nine a.m. a bit early for that?"

"It's a wedding day exception," Sophia declared, handing out the glasses. "And we're having mimosas technically, so it's practically breakfast."

"There's no orange juice in those," Maria pointed out dryly.

"Details," Sophia waved dismissively. "The point is, we're celebrating our sister's last morning of freedom!"

"I was hardly free before," you reminded her, accepting the glass anyway. "Just under a different management structure."

Gabriella snorted at your corporate phrasing. "Always the businesswoman. Even on your wedding day."

"Speaking of business," Maria said, settling cross-legged at the foot of your bed, "are you nervous about the London move? About working in Hamilton's organization?"

The question was typically direct from your most practical sister. "Not nervous, exactly," you replied, considering. "Cautiously optimistic, maybe. His structure is more... progressive than Papa's."

"Women in actual power positions," Sophia nodded, clearly having done her research. "Not just wives and daughters pulling strings behind the scenes."

"You've been investigating," you observed, surprised by her knowledge.

"Of course I have," she replied with an eye roll. "My big sister is marrying into this family. I needed to vet them."

The protectiveness behind the statement touched you unexpectedly. "And your assessment?"

"He's intimidating as all hell," Sophia admitted. "But legitimate from a business perspective. Built everything from scratch, which is impressive. And treats his people well, which is rare in our world."

"She's been obsessively reading everything she could find about him," Gabriella added. "It's been Hamilton this, Hamilton that for days."

"Just gathering intelligence," Sophia defended. "Especially since you've been so tight-lipped about the whole thing."

"There hasn't been much to say," you replied, though the statement wasn't entirely accurate. There had been plenty to process, just little you'd felt ready to share. "It's all happened so quickly."

"Too quickly," Maria murmured, concern evident in her expression. "Are you sure about this? About him?"

The direct question deserved a thoughtful answer. Your sisters were looking at you with varying degrees of worry, their excitement temporarily set aside in favor of genuine concern for your wellbeing.

"I'm as sure as I can be, given the circumstances," you said finally. "Lewis is... not what I expected, in mostly positive ways. He listens when I speak. Respects my intelligence. Agreed to my conditions regarding a formal role in the organization."

"But do you like him?" Sophia pressed, zeroing in on the personal rather than professional aspects. "As a person? As a man?"

The question caught you off guard, forcing you to confront feelings you'd been carefully setting aside in favor of strategic considerations. "I... find him interesting," you admitted carefully. "More complex than he first appears."

"That's not what I asked," Sophia persisted. "The kiss at the restaurant. Did it do anything for you?"

Heat crept up your neck at the memory—the surprisingly gentle press of his lips against yours, the controlled restraint that hinted at something more carefully held in check. "How did you know about that?"

"Javier was working the valet stand," Sophia grinned. "Nothing happens in Little Italy without someone in our circle seeing it."

"So?" Maria prompted, now equally curious. "Was there a spark? Chemistry? Anything to build on beyond the business arrangement?"

You took a sip of champagne, using the moment to gather your thoughts. "There's... something," you acknowledged finally. "I don't know if I'd call it chemistry exactly, but definitely interest. Curiosity, at least."

"Curiosity is a start," Gabriella nodded sagely. "And he's obviously attracted to you."

"How could you possibly know that?" you challenged.

"The way he watches you when he thinks no one's looking," she replied simply. "Like he's trying to solve a particularly complex equation."

"That doesn't sound like attraction," you pointed out. "That sounds like strategic assessment."

"For a man like Hamilton, they might be the same thing," Maria suggested. "He integrates everything into his calculations. Including personal feelings."

The assessment was surprisingly insightful and aligned with your own observations of Lewis's carefully controlled approach to all aspects of his life.

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, your mother's voice calling through: "Girls? The hair and makeup team is here. We need to start preparations."

"Coming, Mama!" Sophia called back, then turned to you with suddenly damp eyes. "I can't believe you're really leaving today."

"I'll visit," you promised, touched by her emotion. "And you'll all come to London soon."

"It won't be the same," she said, throwing her arms around you in an impulsive hug. "But I'm happy for you. Even if it's weird and rushed and scary."

Maria and Gabriella joined the embrace, creating a tangle of sisterly affection that threatened to undo your carefully maintained composure. These women were your constants, your confidantes, the ones who understood your particular position in a way no one else could.

"I'm going to miss you all so much," you admitted, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability that you'd never show in front of your father or Lewis.

"Enough with the waterworks," Maria said briskly, though her own eyes were suspiciously bright. "We've got a wedding to prepare for. Can't have the bride looking puffy-eyed in the photos."

The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of activity—hair styled, makeup applied, final adjustments made to the dress you'd selected for the church ceremony. Unlike the cream pantsuit from the legal signing, today's outfit was a concession to tradition—an elegant ivory sheath with a lace overlay, modest enough for church but stylish enough to feel like your own choice rather than a costume.

Your mother supervised the preparations with her usual efficiency, ensuring every detail was perfect while simultaneously coordinating with security regarding the transportation arrangements to and from the church.

"Lewis's people will take primary position once you leave the church," she explained as she fastened your grandmother's pearls around your neck—something borrowed, something old all in one. "Until then, our security maintains lead."

The detailed coordination was a stark reminder of the continuing threat from Bianchi and Suarez, a shadow hanging over what should have been a day focused solely on the ceremonial aspects of your union.

"Has there been any specific activity this morning?" you asked, remembering Lewis's agreement to transparency regarding threats.

Your mother hesitated briefly before answering. "Two of Bianchi's cars have been circling the neighborhood. Nothing overt, just... present. Making sure we know they're watching."

The information should have been concerning, but you'd become almost numb to the constant surveillance over the past week. "And Suarez?"

"Quieter. Which in some ways is more worrying." She adjusted the pearls with careful precision. "But the wedding party will have armed escorts front and back. The route has been secured. The ceremony will be brief, the reception even more so."

The stripped-down arrangements were a far cry from the elaborate celebrations typical for families of your standing, but security concerns had necessitated a more streamlined approach. Close family only, minimal external guests, everything condensed into a tight timeline that minimized exposure.

"Lewis sent this for you," your mother added, handing you a small velvet box. "To wear today."

Curious, you opened it to find a delicate diamond bracelet, classic in design but with subtle modern elements that aligned perfectly with your personal taste. A small card accompanied it:

To new beginnings. - L

The simple sentiment combined with the carefully selected jewelry—elegant without being ostentatious, personal without being presumptuous—reflected an attention to detail that continued to surprise you about Lewis. This wasn't a generic gift selected by an assistant but something chosen with your preferences in mind.

"He has good taste," your mother observed, watching as you fastened the bracelet around your wrist. "And pays attention to what would suit you specifically."

"Yes," you agreed quietly. "He does."

A final glance in the mirror confirmed that preparations were complete. The woman reflected back was poised, elegant, every inch the mafia princess about to forge an alliance through marriage. Only you knew the complex mix of emotions churning beneath that composed exterior—anxiety, resignation, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation.

Downstairs, your father waited in the foyer, dressed in his finest suit, his expression an unusual mix of pride and something that might have been regret. He'd never been demonstrative with his emotions, maintaining the stern façade expected of a man in his position, but today there was a softness around his eyes that caught you off guard.

"You look beautiful," he said simply as you descended the stairs. "Every bit a Ricci."

"You mean a Hamilton," you reminded him gently.

"You'll always be a Ricci," he countered, offering his arm with formal precision. "No matter whose name you carry."

The statement was both reassurance and reminder—you would always be connected to your family of birth, always carry their expectations and protection, regardless of your married status.

The journey to the church passed in tense silence, the convoy of vehicles maintaining tight formation through the city streets. Security teams communicated via radio, Marco's voice a constant low murmur from the front seat as he coordinated with other teams along the route.

St. Anthony's loomed ahead, its familiar stone façade a constant in your life from weekly masses to family celebrations and funerals. Today it would witness another milestone—your marriage blessing, the formal acknowledgment of the union already established by law.

As the car pulled to a stop at the church entrance, you took a steadying breath. "Ready?" your father asked, more solicitious than usual.

"As I'll ever be," you replied honestly.

The church interior was dimly lit, candles providing most of the illumination in deference to the security team's preference for controlled environments. No photographers, no videographers, nothing to document the ceremony beyond memory.

Your sisters waited inside, serving as your only attendants, while your mother was already seated in the front pew. The guest list was minimal—close family, a few key capos from your father's organization, no external connections that might complicate security arrangements.

And then you saw Lewis, standing at the altar alongside Father Donato. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and subtle gray tie—formal without being showy, appropriate for the sacred setting while maintaining his distinctive style. His usual ear piercings replaced with more subtle versions in deference to the church environment.

As your father escorted you down the aisle, Lewis's eyes never left yours, that intense focus now familiar though no less powerful for its familiarity. Something shifted in his expression as you approached—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of his usual controlled mask.

The ceremony itself was brief but traditional, Father Donato guiding you through the familiar rhythms of the Catholic marriage rite. You'd been surprised to learn that Lewis was also Catholic, another piece of information you'd gleaned secondhand rather than directly from him.

"I, Lewis, take you to be my wife," he recited, his voice steady and clear in the hushed church. "I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and honor you all the days of my life."

The traditional vows acquired new weight when spoken by someone of Lewis's reputation—a man known for his absolute commitment to his word, for whom promises were not made lightly.

When your turn came, you repeated the familiar phrases with careful precision, aware of the multiple layers of meaning they carried in your particular circumstances. This wasn't just a religious ceremony but the formal sealing of a strategic alliance, the public declaration of what had already been legally established.

The ring Lewis placed on your finger was a simple platinum band that complemented your engagement ring without overshadowing it—again showing his attention to detail and understanding of your preferences for elegant restraint over flashy display.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Donato declared finally. "What God has joined together, let no one put asunder."

Lewis leaned in for the traditional kiss, maintaining the appropriate restraint for a church setting while still allowing his hand to rest lightly at your waist—a gesture that felt protective rather than possessive, anchoring rather than restricting.

And then it was done. In the eyes of the church, the law, and your world, you were officially Mrs. Lewis Hamilton.

The small reception that followed was held in the church hall rather than at a separate venue, another concession to security concerns. Limited to just family and a few key associates, it had none of the elaborate celebration typical for weddings in your circle, but the streamlined approach felt appropriate given the circumstances.

Your sisters surrounded you immediately, offering congratulations and cheerful commentary on the ceremony, while Lewis was momentarily engaged with your father and uncle in what appeared to be a serious discussion near the door.

"He couldn't take his eyes off you," Sophia whispered excitedly. "Like, not even for a second during the whole ceremony."

"That's generally where the groom looks during a wedding," you pointed out dryly, though her observation had not escaped your notice.

"It was more than that," Maria insisted. "There was actual emotion there. From a man who looks like he calculates when to blink."

You couldn't help but laugh at the description, accurate as it was to Lewis's usual controlled demeanor. "He's less robotic than he appears initially," you defended. "Just... reserved."

"Well, he looks at you like you're a puzzle he's determined to solve," Gabriella offered. "Which, for a man like him, is probably the highest compliment."

Before you could respond, Lewis appeared at your side, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back—a gesture becoming familiar despite its newness.

"Your father has some business to discuss with the security team," he explained. "We have about thirty minutes before we need to depart."

Your sisters exchanged meaningful glances before making themselves scarce with suspicious synchronicity, leaving you momentarily alone with your new husband in the crowded room.

"You look beautiful," Lewis said quietly, his eyes making a deliberate assessment that sent an unexpected warmth through you. "The dress suits you perfectly."

"Thank you," you replied, gesturing to the bracelet at your wrist. "And thank you for this. It's lovely."

"I'm glad you like it." A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. "I thought it complemented your style without trying to remake it."

The comment revealed more understanding of your personal preferences than you'd realized he possessed. "You seem to know a lot about me," you observed. "While I know relatively little about you beyond your business reputation."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "A valid observation. What would you like to know?"

The direct invitation to ask questions caught you slightly off guard. "I didn't even know you were Catholic until this morning," you admitted. "Something that seems relevant given today's ceremony."

"My mother's influence," he explained. "She's quite devout. Scottish Catholic, very traditional in some ways despite her... unconventional choice in husband."

"Scottish?" you repeated, realizing how little you knew about his background.

"My mother was from Glasgow originally," he confirmed. "My father from Grenada. They met in London in the 80s, caused quite the scandal in both their families at the time."

The revelation that Lewis was also mixed, like you, though with different backgrounds, was unexpected new information. "So you understand the complexity of straddling different cultural identities," you observed.

"To some extent," he acknowledged. "Though my experience was somewhat different from yours. London in the 90s had its own particular challenges for mixed children."

The personal disclosure felt significant coming from someone as private as Lewis. "What else should I know about my new husband?" you asked, genuinely curious now about the man beyond the business facade. "Before we start our life together in London."

Lewis seemed to consider the question carefully. "I'm an early riser. Five a.m. most days. I prefer coffee black, music loud when working alone, silence when concentrating on complex problems. I run daily regardless of weather or schedule. And I have a twelve-year-old English bulldog named Roscoe who doesn't travel much but who you'll meet soon enough."

The litany of personal details delivered in his usual precise manner made you smile despite yourself. "A dog person. I wouldn't have guessed that."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted slightly. "Roscoe has been with me through some significant transitions. He's practically part of the security team at this point, though considerably less efficient at patrol duties."

"I look forward to meeting him," you said, surprising yourself with the genuine sentiment.

"He'll be pleased to finally have a proper mummy around the house," Lewis replied, a hint of actual humor warming his tone. "He's been terribly spoiled as an only child."

The casual reference to family dynamics, to a shared household with domestic routines, suddenly made the reality of your situation more concrete than all the legal documents and ceremony combined. You were actually moving into this man's home, becoming part of his daily life, integrating into his existing routines and spaces.

"Are you alright?" Lewis asked, clearly noting the shift in your expression. "You went somewhere else for a moment."

"Just... processing," you admitted. "The reality of all this. Moving to London. Living together. Being married in truth rather than just on paper."

Lewis studied you with that intense focus that still caught you off guard. "It's a significant transition," he acknowledged. "And happening more rapidly than either of us initially planned. If you need time to adjust once we're in London, that can be arranged."

The consideration was unexpected but welcome. "Thank you," you said sincerely. "I may take you up on that."

Marco appeared at the edge of the room, making a subtle hand signal that indicated it was time to depart. Lewis nodded once in acknowledgment before turning back to you.

"The car is ready," he explained. "Security has cleared the route to the airport. The plane is fueled and waiting."

The reminder of your imminent departure sent a fresh wave of anxiety through you. This was really happening—leaving New York, leaving your family, beginning a new life in London as Mrs. Hamilton.

"I should say goodbye to my sisters," you said, suddenly realizing how final this moment was despite promises of visits and calls.

"Of course," Lewis agreed immediately. "Take whatever time you need. Security can adjust."

The consideration—putting your emotional needs above rigid scheduling—was another small indication that Lewis might be more adaptable than his controlled exterior suggested.

Your sisters engulfed you in a group embrace when you found them near the dessert table, Sophia already teary-eyed despite her earlier attempts at maintaining composure.

"Call us the second you land," she insisted, hugging you tightly. "And every day after that until we come visit."

"Which will be soon," Maria added firmly. "Very soon. Whether Hamilton's ready for a house full of Ricci women or not."

"He'll manage," you assured them, fighting your own unexpected emotion. "He has a dog, apparently. Roscoe. If he can handle a spoiled bulldog, he can handle you three."

"A dog?" Sophia perked up immediately. "That's weirdly humanizing. I would have bet money he had, like, a tank of sharks or something suitably villainous."

You couldn't help laughing at the absurd image, the moment of levity cutting through the heaviness of goodbye. "I'll send pictures when I meet him."

Final embraces with your sisters, your mother, even a rare moment of demonstrative affection from your father followed—all under the watchful eyes of security personnel who maintained their vigilance despite the emotional context.

And then it was time. Lewis appeared at your side, offering his arm with formal precision. "Ready?" he asked quietly.

You took a last look at your family gathered together, memorizing their faces in this moment. "Ready," you confirmed, though the word felt inadequate for the magnitude of the transition.

Outside, a sleek black car waited, the convoy of security vehicles arranged in tight formation before and after. Lewis helped you into the backseat before sliding in beside you, his presence solid and strangely reassuring as the door closed with finality.

As the car pulled away from the church, you resisted the urge to look back, instead focusing on the road ahead—both literally and figuratively. For better or worse, your path was now irreversibly linked with Lewis Hamilton's, your future shaped by the alliance formalized today.

"To London," you said quietly, as much to yourself as to him.

Lewis's hand covered yours briefly, a surprisingly gentle gesture from someone with his reputation for controlled strength. "To new beginnings," he replied, echoing the note from the bracelet.

New beginnings indeed—as a wife, as a Hamilton, as a woman stepping into uncharted territory with a dangerous, complex man who continued to reveal unexpected depths beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

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

The airport security protocols were unlike anything you'd experienced before, even with your father's typically thorough arrangements. Lewis's team had effectively taken control of the private terminal, men with hard eyes and visible weapons conducting security sweeps that extended to every individual within proximity of your designated path.

"Is this standard procedure?" you asked Naomi as she escorted you through another checkpoint staffed by stone-faced personnel.

"For Mr. Hamilton, yes," she confirmed. "Though we've elevated measures given the current circumstances."

The "current circumstances" being Bianchi and Suarez's alliance against you both. Your father's world had always contained violence, but Lewis's approach was different—methodical, layered, utilizing technology in ways the traditional families rarely embraced.

Lewis stood ahead, conferring with a tall, severe man you hadn't been introduced to. Their conversation was too low to overhear, but your mother's lessons in reading body language told you everything you needed to know. The tension in Lewis's shoulders, the slight forward tilt of his stance—the threat assessment had escalated.

When you finally boarded the private jet, you found the interior arranged for both luxury and functionality. The main cabin featured comfortable seating that converted for sleeping, while a separate section appeared equipped for secure communications and operational needs.

"We'll be wheels up in ten minutes," Lewis informed you, settling into the seat across from yours. "The flight path has been cleared with priority routing. About seven hours to London."

You nodded, watching as the cabin door sealed. Every aspect of the operation reflected Lewis's personality—efficient, precise, leaving nothing to chance.

As the plane began taxiing, Lewis checked his phone one final time, his expression hardening briefly before wiping clean.

"Problem?" you asked, already recognizing his micro-tells after weeks of careful observation.

He glanced up, seeming to debate how much to share. "One of Bianchi's cars was intercepted near the airport perimeter. Nothing serious, just an attempt at intimidation."

The casual way he dismissed what was likely an armed confrontation was characteristic of your world—violence so normalized it barely warranted mention.

"And Suarez?" you pressed, remembering your mother's comment about his concerning silence.

"No direct activity today," Lewis replied, his tone measured. "But he's mobilized more resources that suggest planning rather than immediate action."

"What kind of resources?" You kept your voice steady despite the implication.

Lewis's gaze was direct, assessing your reaction. "The type we discussed. More specialists in making problems disappear. But their focus appears to be on disrupting business operations rather than personal targeting at this stage."

The plane accelerated down the runway, the powerful engines pushing you back against your seat as you lifted into the air. Within moments, New York was receding beneath you—your home, your family, everything familiar falling away as you ascended toward the cloud layer.

"Second thoughts?" Lewis asked quietly, noting your gaze fixed on the diminishing cityscape.

"Not second thoughts," you clarified, watching the landscape transform into an abstract pattern of lights and shadows. "Just... acknowledging the transition."

Lewis nodded, understanding in his expression. "The first major move is always the most significant. It rewrites your mental map of where 'home' exists."

The observation was unexpectedly insightful, suggesting Lewis had experienced similar transitions himself—perhaps in his rise from whatever circumstances had preceded his current position of power.

Once the plane reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant appeared with refreshments. Lewis requested sparkling water while you opted for white wine, the tension of the day's events finally beginning to ease as the immediate security concerns fell away with each mile between you and New York.

"We should use this time to align on what to expect in London," Lewis suggested as the attendant discreetly withdrew. "The immediate arrangements and security protocols."

"Give me the highlight reel," you requested, taking a sip of wine. "I've had enough briefings for one lifetime this week."

A ghost of a smile touched Lewis's mouth. "We'll land at a private airfield rather than Heathrow. Security transfer to the residence, which has been secured and prepared. Tomorrow will be a buffer day—adjustment, settling in. The day after, orientation to the London operation if you're ready."

"And the security protocols? I assume they'll be similar to New York."

"More comprehensive initially," Lewis acknowledged. "Until we've addressed the Bianchi-Suarez situation more definitively. Naomi will be your primary detail, but the team includes six rotating personnel, all with specialized training."

"That seems excessive," you observed, though not critically.

"Perhaps," Lewis conceded. "But I prefer thoroughness to recovering from preventable errors."

It was a philosophy that had clearly served him well in building his operation from nothing to international significance. The meticulous attention to detail, the preference for over-preparation rather than reaction—these were qualities that aligned with your own approach to complex situations.

"And my role in the organization?" you asked, returning to the condition you'd established for agreeing to the accelerated timeline. "When does that integration begin?"

"As soon as you're ready," Lewis replied without hesitation. "I've arranged initial briefings with our financial team whenever you feel prepared to engage. Claire, our CFO, is particularly interested in your perspective on digital currency applications."

The immediate follow-through on his promise was both surprising and reassuring—evidence that your negotiated condition hadn't been merely a concession to secure your agreement but an actual commitment he intended to honor.

"I'd like to start the day after tomorrow," you decided. "No point playing house when there's actual work to be done."

Lewis nodded, that hint of approval appearing again. "I'll arrange it."

A comfortable silence fell between you, the hum of the engines creating a cocoon of white noise that allowed for reflection. You studied Lewis as he reviewed something on his tablet—the precise movements, the focused attention, the contained energy that seemed to radiate from him even in stillness.

"You're watching me again," he observed without looking up, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"Just trying to figure you out still," you replied with more honesty than you'd intended.

This time he did look up, something like genuine amusement warming his usually guarded expression. "And did your earlier assessment change?"

You considered how to answer, remembering your mother's advice about strategic revelations—show enough insight to establish credibility without revealing the full extent of your observations.

"You're still exactly as controlled as your reputation suggests. Very calibrated."

Lewis set aside his tablet, giving you his full attention. "Most people interpret that calibration as emotional distance."

"Most people aren't trained to read between the lines," you pointed out. "In our world, understanding what isn't being said is often more important than the words themselves."

"Is this a skill your father cultivated in you deliberately, or one you developed out of necessity?" Lewis asked, the question surprisingly personal.

"Both," you admitted. "Though my mother was the one who taught me to read body language, microexpressions. How to gather information from what men don't say as much as what they do."

Lewis nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "Your father underestimates you. It's perhaps his most significant strategic error."

The assessment was both complimentary and slightly unsettling—a reminder that Lewis had been evaluating your family dynamics with the same careful attention you'd been applying to understanding him.

"He sees what he expects to see," you said, loyalty to your father tempering your response despite the accuracy of Lewis's observation. "Daughters are assets to be protected and strategically deployed, not operational partners."

"His loss," Lewis replied simply. "And potentially my gain, if you're as capable as I suspect in the financial arena."

The straightforward acknowledgment of your potential value beyond the family alliance was unexpectedly refreshing after years of having your abilities sidelined or minimized in your father's organization.

The flight attendant reappeared to inquire about dinner preferences, temporarily shifting the conversation to more mundane matters. As the meal was served—surprisingly excellent for airplane food—Lewis steered the discussion toward London itself, gauging your familiarity with the city and noting areas near the residence that might be of interest once security protocols allowed for more freedom of movement.

It was the most normal conversation you'd had with him—practical but not purely business-focused, personal without veering into uncomfortable intimacy. A glimpse, perhaps, of what day-to-day interactions might evolve into once the initial adjustment period passed.

After dinner and you finally changing out of your dress and into something more simple, the flight attendant converted several seats into a sleeping area, complete with privacy screens and surprisingly comfortable bedding. The arrangement created a clear delineation between your space and Lewis's—a respectful acknowledgment that despite your legal marriage, the personal aspects of your relationship remained in early, cautious stages.

"You should get some rest," Lewis suggested as the cabin lights dimmed. "Time change hits hard if you don't sleep on the flight."

"And you?" you asked, noting he had made no move toward his own sleeping area.

"Need to finish reviewing some things first," he replied, gesturing to his tablet. "I'll rest later."

The response was what you'd expected—Lewis Hamilton seemed unlikely to waste productive hours even on a transatlantic flight. His reputation for tireless work ethic was apparently well-earned.

As you settled into the makeshift bed, the events of the past couple of weeks—the legal ceremony, the church wedding, the rushed departure from everything familiar—finally caught up to you. Exhaustion descended like a physical weight, and despite the unfamiliar surroundings, sleep came surprisingly quickly.

You woke some indeterminate time later to the sound of quiet conversation from the rear cabin. Disoriented briefly, it took a moment to remember where you were—on a plane bound for London, married to Lewis Hamilton, leaving behind the only life you'd known for an uncertain future in a new city.

The voices were too low to distinguish words, but one was clearly Lewis's, his measured tones recognizable even in hushed conversation. Something about the tension in his voice suggested the discussion involved significant business rather than routine matters.

Curiosity warred with the etiquette of pretending not to overhear, but your entire upbringing had emphasized the value of information gathered through careful observation. You remained still, controlling your breathing to maintain the appearance of sleep while straining to catch fragments of the conversation.

"...confirmed movement in the eastern territory... necessary response measures... timeline for..."

The phrases were too disconnected for complete understanding, but the general thrust suggested operational issues requiring Lewis's attention—likely the same "resources" Suarez had mobilized that Lewis had mentioned before takeoff.

The conversation concluded shortly after, followed by the sound of someone returning to the main cabin. Through barely-opened eyes, you observed Lewis move to the window, his expression more openly troubled than you'd yet witnessed. For a brief moment, the carefully maintained mask slipped, revealing the weight of whatever concerns now occupied his thoughts.

Then, as if sensing observation, his features reset to the controlled neutrality you'd come to expect. He glanced in your direction, and you closed your eyes fully, maintaining the steady breathing of genuine sleep.

You must have drifted off again despite your intention to remain alert, because the next thing you registered was the gentle announcement that you'd begin descent to London within thirty minutes. Sunlight streamed through the partially opened window shades, indicating morning had arrived during your transatlantic journey.

Lewis was already awake—or perhaps had never actually slept—his appearance somehow immaculate despite the overnight flight. He acknowledged your waking with a simple nod, offering you a cup of coffee prepared exactly as you preferred it—a small but notable detail that suggested he'd been paying attention to your habits just as you'd been observing his.

"Sleep well?" he inquired, his voice carrying that particular early-morning quality that made it slightly deeper than usual.

"Well enough," you replied, accepting the coffee gratefully. "You?"

"I've managed on less," he said, the shadows under his eyes suggesting he'd worked through most of the night rather than utilizing the sleeping arrangements.

As the plane began its descent, London emerged from the morning haze below—a sprawling metropolis that would now be your home for the foreseeable future. The reality of it struck you anew—this wasn't a visit or temporary relocation but your new life, your new base of operations, your new identity as Mrs. Hamilton taking physical form in this unfamiliar city.

"Welcome to London," Lewis said quietly, noting your intense study of the cityscape below. "For what it's worth."

The small acknowledgment of the complicated nature of your arrival—not quite forced, not quite voluntary, somewhere in the ambiguous middle ground of strategic necessity—reflected an awareness of your perspective that you found unexpectedly considerate.

The landing proceeded with the same precise efficiency that characterized all of Lewis's operations. As the plane taxied to a private hangar, you could see the security detail already assembled on the tarmac—a carefully positioned formation designed for maximum protection during the vulnerable moments of transfer from plane to vehicles.

"The security chief will coordinate the transfer," Lewis explained as the plane came to a complete stop. "Naomi will remain with you throughout. I'll be in the lead vehicle."

The separation was clearly strategic rather than personal—dividing high-value targets to reduce vulnerability. It was standard procedure in your world, though rarely employed so systematically in your father's more traditional operation.

As predicted, the transfer from plane to waiting vehicles proceeded with military precision. Naomi remained at your side, her vigilance never wavering despite the controlled environment, while Lewis moved ahead with his security team, all scanning continuously for potential threats.

The convoy of sleek black vehicles pulled away from the private airfield, moving through London streets with the coordinated flow of a unit that had rehearsed this exact scenario multiple times. Through the bulletproof glass, you caught glimpses of the city that would now be your home—historic architecture alongside modern skyscrapers, the distinctive London landmarks you'd seen in photos but never visited in person.

Forty minutes later, the convoy turned through an inconspicuous gate set into a high stone wall, revealing a surprisingly secluded property given its location in central London. The residence itself was an elegant townhouse, its historical façade concealing what you suspected were significant modern security upgrades within.

"Your first impression?" Naomi asked as the car pulled to a stop in a courtyard shielded from street view by strategic landscaping.

"Impressive security integration," you noted, recognizing the subtle indicators of a property that had been fortified without compromising its aesthetic. "Almost invisible unless you know what to look for."

Naomi nodded, approval in her expression. "Mr. Hamilton believes security should be thorough without being obtrusive."

Lewis was waiting as security personnel opened your car door, offering his hand with formal courtesy as you emerged. "Welcome to Belgravia," he said simply. "This will be your primary residence while in London."

The "your" rather than "our" was a subtle but significant choice of words—establishing the space as territory that belonged to you as well, not merely his domain that you were being permitted to occupy. Another small indicator of the partnership approach he'd referenced in your previous discussions.

The interior of the townhouse revealed exactly what you'd expected—historical architectural elements preserved alongside state-of-the-art security and modern amenities. The aesthetic was sophisticated without being showy, the furnishings clearly selected for both function and refined taste rather than ostentatious display.

"Your things arrived yesterday," Lewis informed you as staff appeared to take the minimal luggage you'd brought on the plane. "The primary suite has been prepared, along with an adjoining room set up as your private office, as discussed."

The separate office space had been among your requests during one of your planning conversations—a territory that would be exclusively yours within the shared residence. Lewis's immediate implementation of this preference was another small but meaningful follow-through on his commitments.

"I'll show you the essential areas," he continued, leading you through the main floor with efficient precision. "Security briefing will follow once you've had time to settle in."

The tour was comprehensive but concise—living areas, kitchen, dining room, library, and a surprisingly lovely conservatory at the rear of the property that overlooked a small but immaculately maintained garden. Throughout, staff appeared briefly before dissolving back into the background, each clearly trained to maintain the delicate balance between availability and invisibility that characterized well-run households in your world.

As you ascended to the upper floors, Lewis pointed out his office—a space clearly designed for both business functions and security, with multiple screens and communications equipment visible through the partially open door. "My primary workspace," he explained. "Though I maintain separate offices for different aspects of the operation elsewhere in the city."

The division between residential and operational spaces was more defined than in your father's home, where business frequently spilled into family areas with little regard for boundaries. Lewis's approach seemed more compartmentalized—another reflection of his preference for precise delineation in all aspects of his life.

The primary suite occupied most of the top floor—a spacious bedroom with adjoining sitting area, a luxurious bathroom featuring both shower and soaking tub that immediately caught your attention, and extensive closet space where you noted your clothing had already been unpacked and organized with meticulous attention to detail.

"The office you requested," Lewis indicated, opening a door to reveal a beautifully appointed workspace clearly designed with your preferences in mind. The desk faced windows overlooking the garden rather than the street—maximizing natural light while minimizing exposure—and the technology appeared to be top-of-the-line without being ostentatious.

"This is... perfect," you acknowledged, genuinely impressed. "How did you know exactly what I'd want?"

"Your mother provided some insight," Lewis explained, noting your surprise. "And I made certain educated guesses based on observation."

The admission that he'd consulted your mother about your preferences was unexpected—another indication of the thoroughness of his approach to integrating you into his life and operations.

"Thank you," you said sincerely. "For the attention to detail. It's appreciated."

Lewis nodded, accepting the gratitude without unnecessary elaboration. "I'll leave you to settle in. Security briefing in an hour, if that timing works for you. Otherwise, we can reschedule for later today."

"An hour is fine," you confirmed, grateful for the opportunity to process your new surroundings without an audience, however considerate that audience might be.

As Lewis turned to leave, you found yourself asking a question that had been forming since you'd entered the residence: "Where do you sleep?"

He paused, something flickering briefly across his features before his expression returned to its usual controlled neutrality. "Adjacent suite, connected through the shared sitting room," he replied, gesturing to a door you hadn't noticed initially. "As discussed regarding appropriate boundaries during the adjustment period."

The arrangement aligned with your previous conversation about the personal aspects of your marriage developing at their own pace separate from the legal and business elements—another commitment Lewis had implemented exactly as agreed rather than attempting to renegotiate once the legal binding was complete.

"Of course," you nodded. "Thank you for clarifying."

Left alone to explore your new space, you found yourself drawn to the windows overlooking the garden below. London stretched beyond—a city you'd visited but never truly known, now your home by virtue of marriage to a man you were still in the early stages of understanding.

The magnitude of the transition settled over you anew—not just physical relocation but the complete reorientation of your identity, your daily existence, your place within the complex world you'd been born into. No longer primarily a Ricci daughter but a Hamilton wife, with all the responsibilities and opportunities that entailed.

A sound from the garden below caught your attention—a distinctive snuffling that could only come from one source. Looking down, you spotted what had to be Roscoe—the English bulldog Lewis had mentioned—waddling importantly across the grass, supervised by a staff member who watched with obvious affection as the dog investigated the perimeter with methodical determination.

The sight of the dog—so normal, so domestic amid the high-security environment and criminal enterprise underpinnings—made you smile despite the weightiness of your thoughts. There was something endearingly incongruous about Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and calculating crime lord, having a beloved bulldog who was clearly treated as family rather than mere pet.

As you turned from the window to begin preparing for the security briefing, your gaze fell on the wedding band now paired with your engagement ring—the visible symbol of the irrevocable step you'd taken. For better or worse, your fate was now bound to Lewis Hamilton's, your future shaped by the alliance formalized through both law and religion.

The question that had followed you from New York remained unanswered: whether that binding represented constraint or opportunity—a more sophisticated cage or a genuine partnership with potential for growth beyond the strategic arrangement that had initiated it.

Only time would reveal which possibility would materialize. For now, you had a security briefing to prepare for, an organization to integrate into, and a new life to begin navigating—one careful step at a time.

..........tbd

[yanderefarm]

yandere angel who’s sooo sweet and devoted ? like a cupid or something

yandere angel

cw;; blood, violence, yandere tendencies, abusive relationships, religion, corruption

you: sweet and devoted!!

me: he's so devoted to you he wants to make you bleed. got it.

no but really i hope his weird sweetness comes across. i was having a hard time writing this one. i knew i wanted to do something with the idea of a cupid becoming literally sick with love and the idea of a human just inherently corrupting an angel. i almost wrote y/n as a lot more of a bastard while the angel was just broken by mistreatment but i decided against that bc it might make some people uncomfortable.

ultimately i decided that he's a bit of a bastard and y/n is jaded. i like writing different types of sickness for different yanderes. i think a yandere who wants to monopolize you so badly that he'd be excited if he was the only thing you ever looked at with anger or fear is fun. he wants to take care of you and make you happy of course! he loves you so much. but if you're going to be bad and make him hurt you then he'll enjoy watching you in pain. i also like to imagine sometimes y/n gets back at him by hurting him too. he wouldn't mind if you were sadistic as long as you only showed him that side of yourself.

i don't really have any plans to elaborate on him more than this unless people end up liking him and wanting more of him.

he starts off as a good normal angel, he's a cupid it's his job to help people find love. after a night with you he becomes corrupted and bound to you. he lives with you, cooks your meals, makes your bed, just generally takes care of you. but he's sick. if too many people love you he'll have to kill them so it's best for you if you don't spend time with anyone but him. you're so afraid of what he'll do you can only go to work and home.

there's a story in myth that speaks of what happens when you lust after angels, an unforgivable sin to lust after and corrupt that which represents god. the punishment for humans is their undoing, a mythical unraveling at the seems until there is nothing of you left. but what of the angel? some say that corrupted angels have their wings ripped from their back and they're thrown down into hell. 

you wish that was the case. 

the angel that follows behind you is not currently spending eternity in a pit of fire and you are not currently being ripped apart cosmically. in fact it wouldn't be odd to assume that you two had suffered no punishment for defiling god's holiest creation. you couldn't be entirely sure that the angel had actually been punished but you certainly had been. you can feel deep inside of you something happened to your soul that night, something was taken away from you. according to the angel his punishment was his obsession with you but you couldn't necessarily see how it was a punishment when he seemed so happy. honestly you didn't even trust him that he wasn't always this obsessed creep. 

what kind of normal angel thinks that it's a good idea to flirt with a human at a bar to "get your self esteem up"? either he was just that stupid or he'd always been this broken. even if he was just that stupid he had to know what would happen to him if he went back to your house with you. you hadn't known shit. you thought that you were just getting a casual hook up after your last relationship ended in you feeling undesirable and unlovable. you weren't trying to lust after any angel! and now you were stuck with him forever. 

you think you might hate him. no one else can see him because he's in his angelic form and all day he's either pushing your friends away from you or he's overwhelming you with all his "love". you watch as he's putting sewing needles in your coworkers lunch. he claims that this coworker has feelings for you. you both know that the only one eating the needles will be you. maybe that's why he puts more in there. you think he might hate you too. 

in a few hours you're standing outside your office building coughing up blood and little pieces of metal. "could.... you ......sto-stop?" 

his hand gently rubs your back as you cough. "I'll stop when he's dead." 

"im no-not... gh-gonna let you... bastard..." your body is trembling. 

"mm~ then i guess I won't stop." he's getting some sick enjoyment out of this you're sure. 

you can feel your vision getting darker and your head falls against him. you feel his arms craddle you so tenderly and you honestly miss coughing up needles. 

it's always like that. neither of you die no matter what either of you do. you're trapped together until the end of time. maybe this is what they meant by unraveling you, your mind will wither away until there's nothing left of you. sometimes you let yourself believe he means it when he says he loves you. sometimes you think you might love him too. 

[venussaidso]

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ-ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ ɴᴀᴋꜱʜᴀᴛʀᴀ 🗣️

(repost)

might make them great politicians if they cared enough.

Ashwini represents the head of Aries, and it is symbolized by the horse head. This indicates sharp thinking, mental speed and the impulse to take initiative. Active thoughts eventually lead to self-expression (an obvious 1H theme) and a possible confidence in speech, especially in the way that this nakshatra is related to celestial healers and the quickness to respond to the needs of others, this highlighting the potential skill to channel the right words at any given instant. The fast communication is also because this nakshatra falls in the merchant caste. So the potential excellency in persuasion, being impactful & emotionally insightful in speech, is indicative of them being good negotiators, traders and salespeople.

The “slick talker” thing is just the manifestation of their ability to respond fast, to shift (by personality or language), and be able to read the emotions of others to know what to channel (this is mostly connected to their healing abilities which may be used for bad through deception). Mars drives strategy, so this deceptiveness ties to their ability to scheme as well.

I know Ketu nakshatras are generally connected to scammers but there's a specific way that Ashwini does it. I've noticed how good they are at being chameleon, and liesmiths.

Low-Key Lyesmith is literally played by Ashwini ASC native Jonathan Tucker in American Gods.

(comment under the scene)

Another form of the demigod in the series is Mr. World, played by Ashwini Sun native Crispin Glover.

He is also seen shapeshifting. As expected, he is a mischievous double agent.

While likely Ashwini Moon Tom Hiddleston plays the demigod in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Low-Key Lyesmith is his other alias in the series American Gods, where he is still the Norse trickster god. “Lyesmith”, liesmith, puts emphasis on the ability to create illusions through speech and communication — this being a merchant nakshatra co-ruled by the smokey, shadow planet.

In the Marvel Cinematic Universe, his uses of magical illusions were taught by his mother, Frigga, who is played by Magha Moon Rene Russo.

I already touched on Ketu's associations to magic, witches, shape-shifting, and illusions, especially through the character Morgan Le Fay. Although it's not the only planet that is illusory, of course.

I'd relate Ashwini to the Silvertongue archetype. If you've watched There Will Be Blood, you realize just how good Daniel Plainview is at talking. He's your classic scammy salesman. Very, very good at selling his business, and very manipulative using his son as the face of it, for advertisement, to convince everyone else that he's a family man, in order to bring in more clients. Spoiler alert: he is not a family guy. The character was intentionally portrayed as a conman.

(comment under the video)

He's played by Ashwini Moon Daniel Day Lewis.

Disney's Hades, voiced by Ashwini Sun James Woods, was portrayed to come off as a charismatic slimy car salesman. He talks so fast you don't know what he's saying at times but he's really charismatic and funny which makes the person he's manipulating question themselves.

With the second clip to this attached video, I intentionally added it to emphasize Ashwini's internal speedy nature. The active mind processes also relate to Hades' fast-talking, illusory nature. Idris Elba guessing Tom Hiddleston instead of Benedict Cumberbatch, and Andy Serkis implying they're pretty much the same was a cherry on top. And it's so interesting how Benedict Cumberbatch was up to play Hades, along with Tom Hiddleston, for a live-action movie.

Although I doubt the project is happening anymore.

In the above YouTube video, you'll see how Plainview has a particular way of articulating himself... when he's actually lying. He speaks this way in front of a target audience, but his actions reflect something else.

This reminds me of Patrick Bateman, from American Psycho, giving a social justice warrior speech when he is actually internally empty and detached from humanity as a whole. All a front.

He does this quite a lot in the movie. Very important to pay attention to his articulation and presentation. Ashwinis can be remarkable shape-shifters.

Loki, also known as the Prince of Lies, has also been voiced by Ashwini Moon Troy Baker in video games. Obviously portrayed to be very charismatic, known for having a silver tongue, he's expected to be several steps ahead of everyone. That's the Aries scheming right there rooted in strategy (Mars) and psychological warfare (Ketu, as its the psyche).

Morgan Pendragon, from Camelot (2011), also leans into this archetype, but with just a touch of seduction. She used her power through speech and manipulation to influence others. There are impactful scenes where she is speaking to large crowds of people where she incites a lot of emotions from them. Her motivation, besides the throne, was to be a strong political figure.

Besides magic — psychological warfare, language, and emotional insight were tools for her to control outcomes. Even in defeat, she's quickly thinking of the next strategy and scheme. Being Ashwini, she's a fantastic negotiator. She loves collecting psychological insight as well. In this post, I talked about Ketuvians playing master illusionists.

[hitchyboi]

GHOST Lachryma Theories!!

I've been at work all day and BOY DO I HAVE THEORIES ON THE NEW GHOST SONG COMING OUT! I need to get everything out of my system in dissecting this 20 second trailer let's go!

First up! What does Lachryma mean?

Lachryma most likely is a derivative of Lachrymal from Latin which typically translates to tears. The most notable use of this word comes from a 19th-century painting by British artist Lord Fredrick Leighton. (Thank you art history) Donning a similar derivative of lachrymal the painting depicts a woman slump against a column with emblems of mourning around her.

Tobias has stated in an interview that Skeleta was going to focus more inward on emotions and what we feel that makes us human. Satanize being about a deep seated love that could be mistaken for possession. Because of this word's connection with tears the song most likely will be about sadness or even mourning with an emphasis on the act of crying itself.

Next! What does the trailer show us?

The trailer starts with an image of a gated fence with Ivy slowly opening up with a narrator speaking "In the middle of the night, it feeds." Based off of the fence's design it could be a cemetery that is opening up.

Next we are shown an individual laying in bed, a very fantastical room design with a blood mood shown through the window, as the narrator continues, "In the middle of the night, it eats you." The narrator's words about this "thing" feeding and eating in the night paired with the blood moon, and cemetery seems like this "thing" it's describing is a vampire. We also know Tobias has a love for old horror icons and has referenced Dracula and Nosferatu many times in the past.

In legends Ghouls are also known to have similar qualities as vampire's depending on where they're from so that would be a fun twist if the narrator was talking about the ghouls.

Afterwards we're shown a close up on the child's face, clearly scared and nearing tears before being followed by the blood red image of Perpetua's mask as the narrator finishes with, "Everybody knows everywhere you go, you can never run and you can not hide." The child crying once again is a call back to lachrymal meaning tears, and it appears that Perpetua's face is lit by the blood moon's glow.

Watching the trailer on Instagram also has slogan along the bottom referencing making your bed, and crying in it. A twist on the common saying of "You've made your bed, now lie in it." Typically said when someone is confronted with unpleasant results of something they have done.

The classic horror movie-esk trailer paired with the multiple references to beds and sleeping in some way also could pay homage to Nightmare on Elm street especially paired with the Freddy Kruger inspired outfit and photos Perpetua sported during the Rollingstones magazine shoot.

So... What does it all mean?

Lachryma most likely will be a song about deep sadness akin to grief or mourning. Perhaps over something done from their own actions? The consequences of those actions? A lot of vampiric symbolisms that could represent being hunted by these emotions, unable to truly hide from them. Freddy Kruger being used as a subtle story note also could work with this narration of constantly being a lingering presence, no way to completely hide from him.

This song most likely will also be the final first look at Papa V Perpetua in action! Satanized was a great way to reveal the new Papa, now we'll be able to see him moving around and more of the ghouls as well ^^

Did I get too carried away and excited over a trailer? Yes! Probably! Most Likely! Did I have all day to think about everything? Also yes? I most likely got many things wrong but that's the fun of theory making! I enjoyed piecing things together even if they only make sense in my own mind :P Hopefully this makes sense in some way though....

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

Is there anything support the populat interpretation that old valriya and valryians in general are more feminist, and progressive than the rest in Asoiaf?

Anon, thank you! I've been wanting to address this for awhile, so I'm going to actually answer this really fully, with as many receipts as I can provide (this ended up being more of an essay than I intended, but hopefully it helps)

I think there's in fact plenty of evidence to suggest that Valyria and the Valyrians in general were anything but progressive. Valyria was an expansive empire with a robust slave trade that practiced incest based on the idea of blood supremacy/blood purity. All of these things are absolutely antithetical to progressivism. There is no way any empire practicing slavery can ever be called progressive. Now, the Targaryens of Dragonstone have since given up the practice of slavery, but they certainly still believe in the supremacy of Valyrian blood.

And I'll see the argument, well what's wrong with believing your blood is special if your blood really is special and magic? Which is just-- if anyone catches themselves thinking this, and you sincerely believe that GRRM intended to create a magically superior master race of hot blondes who deserve to rule over all other backwards races by virtue of their superior breeding which is reinforced through brother-sister incest, and you've convinced yourself this represents progressive values, then you might want to step away from the computer for a bit and do a bit of self reflection.

And remember-- what is special about this special blood? It gives the bearers the ability to wield sentient weapons of mass destruction. It's also likely, according to the most popular theories, the result of blood magic involving human sacrifice. So there is a terrible price to pay for this so-called supremacy. Would any of us line up to be sacrificed to the Fourteen Flames so that the Valyrians can have nukes?

And if you are tempted by the idea that a woman who rides a dragon must inherently have some sort of power-- that is true. A woman who rides a dragon is more powerful than a woman who does not ride a dragon, and in some cases, more powerful than a man who does not ride a dragon, but that does not make her more powerful than a man who also rides a dragon. Dragonriding remained a carefully guarded privilege, and Targaryen women who might otherwise become dragonriders were routinely denied the privilege (despite the oft repeated "you cannot steal a dragon," when Saera Targaryen attempted to claim a dragon from the dragonpit, she was thrown into a cell for the attempted "theft,"words used by Jaehaerys). The dragonkeepers were established explicitly to keep anyone, even those of Targaryen blood, from taking them without permission. Any "liberation" that she has achieved is an illusion. What she has gained is the ability to enact violence upon others who are less privileged, and this ability does not save her from being the victim of gender based violence herself.

Politically speaking, it is also true that Valyria was a "freehold," in that they did not have a hereditary monarchy, but instead had a political structure akin to Ancient Athens (which was itself democratic, but not at all progressive or feminist). Landholding citizens could vote on laws and on temporary leaders, Archons. Were any of the lords freeholder women? We don't know. If we take Volantis as an example, the free city that seems to consider itself the successor to Valyria, the party of merchants, the elephants, had several female leaders three hundred years ago, but the party of the aristocracy, the tigers, the party made up of Valyrian Old Blood nobility, has never had a female leader. Lys, the other free city, is known for it's pleasure houses, which mainly employ women kidnapped into sexual slavery (as well as some young men). It is ruled by a group of magisters, who are chosen from among the wealthiest and noblest men in the city, not women. There does not seem to be a tradition of female leadership among Valyrians, and that's reflected by Aegon I himself, who becomes king, rather than his older sister-wife, Visenya. And although there have been girls named heir, temporarily, among the pre-Dance Targaryens, none were named heir above a trueborn brother aside from Rhaenyra, a choice that sparked a civil war. In this sense, the Targaryens are no different from the rest of Westeros.

As for feminism or sexual liberation, there's just no evidence to support it. We know that polygamy was not common, but it was also not entirely unheard of, but incest, to keep the bloodlines "pure," was common. Incest and polygamy are certainly sexual taboos, both in the real world and in Westeros, that the Valyrians violated, but the violation of sexual taboos is not automatically sexually liberated or feminist. Polygamy, when it is exclusively practiced by men and polyandry is forbidden (and we have no examples of Valyrian women taking multiple husbands, outside of fanfic), is often abusive to young women. Incest leads to an erosion of family relationships and abusive grooming situations are inevitable. King Jaehaerys' daughters are an excellent case study, and the stories of Saera and Viserra are particularly heartbreaking. Both women were punished severely for "sexual liberation," Viserra for getting drunk and slipping into her brother Baelon's bed at age fifteen, in an attempt to avoid an unwanted marriage to an old man. She was not punished because she was sister attempting to sleep with a brother, but because she was the wrong sister. Her mother, the queen had already chosen another sister for Baelon, and believed her own teenage daughter was seducing her brother for nefarious reasons. As a sister, Viserra should have been able to look to her brother for protection, but as the product of an incestuous family, Viserra could only conceive of that protection in terms of giving herself over to him sexually.

Beyond that, sexual slavery was also common in ancient Valyria, a practice that persisted in Lys and Volantis, with women (and young men) trafficked from other conquered and raided nations. Any culture that is built on a foundation of slavery and which considers sexual slavery to be normal and permissible, is a culture of normalized rape. Not feminist, not progressive.

I think we get the picture! so where did this idea that Valyrians are more progressive come from? I think there are two reasons. One, the fandom has a bit of a tendency to imagine Valyrians and their traditions in opposition to Westerosi Sevenism, and if Sevenism is fantasy Catholicism, and the fantasy Catholics also hate the Valyrian ways, they must hate them because those annoying uptight religious freaks just hate everything fun and cool, right? They hate revealing clothing, hate pornographic tapestries, hate sex outside of marriage, hate bastards. So being on Sevenism's shit-list must be a mark of honor, a sign of progressive values? But it's such a surface level reading, and a real misunderstanding of the medieval Catholic church, and a conflating of that church with the later Puritan values that many of us in the Anglosphere associate with being "devout." For most of European history, the Catholic church was simply The Church, and the church was, ironically, where you would find the material actions which most closely align with modern progressive values. The church cared for lepers, provided educations for women, took care of orphans, and fed the poor. In GRRM's world, which is admittedly more secular than the actual medieval world, Sevenism nevertheless has basically the same function, feeding the poor instead of, you know, enslaving them.

Finally, I blame the shows. While Valyrians weren't a progressive culture, Daenerys Targaryen herself held relatively progressive individual values by a medieval metric. She is a slavery abolitionist, she elevates women within her ranks, and she takes control of her own sexuality (after breaking free from her Targaryen brother). But Daenerys wasn't raised as a Targaryen. She grew up an orphan in exile, hearing stories of her illustrious ancestors from her brother, who of the two did absorb a bit of that culture, and is not coincidentally, fucked up, abusive, and misogynistic. He feels a sexual ownership over his sister, arranges a marriage for her, and even after her marriage, feels entitled to make decisions on her behalf. It is only after breaking away from Viserys that Dany comes into her own values. Having once been a mere object without agency of her own, she determines to save others from that fate and becomes an abolitionist. But because Game of Thrones gave viewers very little exposure to Targaryens aside from Daenerys, House Targaryen, in the eyes of most show watchers, is most closely associated with Dany and her freedom-fighter values. And as for Rhaenyra in House of the Dragon, being a female heir does not make her feminist or progressive, although it is tempting to view her that way when she is juxtaposed against Aegon II. Her "sexual liberation" was a lesson given to her by her uncle Daemon, a man who had an express interest in "liberating" her so that she would sleep with him, it was not a value she was raised with. In fact, she was very nearly disinherited for it, and was forced into a marriage with a gay man as a result of said "liberation." She had no interest in changing succession laws to allow absolute primogeniture, no interest in changing laws or norms around bastardy despite having bastards; she simply viewed herself as an exception. Rhaenyra's entire justification for her claim is not the desire to uplift women, bring peace and stability to Westeros, or even to keep her brother off the throne, it is simply that she believes she deserves it because her father is the king and he told her she could have it, despite all tradition and norms, and in spite of the near certain succession crisis it will cause. Whether she is right or wrong, absolutism is not progressive.

And let me just say, none of this means that you can't enjoy the Valyrians or think that they're fun or be a fan of house Targaryen. This insistence that Targaryens are the progressive, feminist (read: morally good) house seems by connected to the need of some fans to make their favorite characters unproblematic. If the Valyrians are "bad," does that make you a bad person for enjoying them? Of course not. But let's stop the moral grandstanding about the "feminist" and "progressive" Valyrians in a series that is an analogue for medieval feudalism. Neither of those things can exist under the systems in place in Westeros, nor could they have existed in the slavery based empire of conquest that was old Valyria.

[hihhasotherfixations]

John Price headcanons sfw & nsfw

I don’t usually do headcannons so please bear with me 👉👈

I hope you enjoy them tho :3 Will I use many of these in my writing? Yes, yes I will. These are both in general as well as him with you ;3

Part 2

Sfw:

He has an entire routine for his beard. Keeps it trimmed regularly and takes very good care of it, which causes it to feel very nice and soft to the touch.

Absolutely LOVES when you’re the one doing it though. It’s a small act of love that he can never get enough of. Whether you’re the one trimming it or just putting some products in. It’s a moment where he can sit on the bath rim and have you stand between his legs - or the other way around where he props you up on the sink and stands in between your legs. He just places his hands on your hips and closes his eyes, trusting you with something so important to him. It’s a very intimate thing that he treasures.

He has reading glasses. I won’t budge on this. Square(rectangle) ones with a very thin frame. Tends to forget whenever he puts them on his head and proceeds to go searching for them for five minutes.

He is very warm blooded. Always runs hot like a furnace. A blessing in the winter, a curse in the summer. Especially because he loves to cuddle.

Has a little trinket on his desk representing each of the 141 (+ Nik, Laswell and Farah). Be it a gift they gave to him or something that reminds him of them. There’s something for everyone. It clutters the edge of his desk a bit but it’s worth it because whenever the paperwork gets too much, he can just look at the little shrine he built and smile.

His love language is physical touch and quality time. While he loves giving you gifts and being romantic too, nothing beats holding you in his arms while you cuddle on the couch or in bed.

Speaking of- this man absolutely adores you. He doesn’t think he deserves the love you give him because of the things he’s done in his life. But every day he sees you, you prove that you do love him and he wants to return that love twice over.

His biggest fear is coming home after deployment to an empty house. Finding a letter on the table stating you can’t wait for him any longer. He’d understand, of course. But it would crush him.

While we’re on the sad train already- he suffers frequent nightmares due to PTSD. Feels really guilty for waking you up but also can’t stop himself from seeking your comfort after one of them - craving it. If you allow him to (he wouldn’t bring it up unless you suggested it), he’ll call you if he’s out on deployment or at base. Give him that privilege to phone you awake just to comfort him? There is nothing that man won’t do for you anymore.

He is terrified of being the one to leave you too though. He knows that if he’s ever faced with the option to sacrifice himself for one of the 141, he would. But it also breaks his heart because it would mean he’d leave you for them. He tries not to think about it like that, but it’s a constant conflict in his mind.

While he’s probably more likely to be a dog person, I can also really see him with cats just curled up on his chest. Once again, this man is always warm. The little felines will search him out like a bloodhound, preferring him over laying by the radiator.

THIS 👏 MAN 👏 CAN 👏 COOK 👏

And he loves to do it too. His idea of a hobby is either reading, building models or cooking. You can often find him in the kitchen with a cook book, making a five star meal. Loves to see your reaction to the taste of it, makes him proud of himself.

Also, yeah, he likes building models :3. Miniatures. In his spare time you can find him on the couch, bent over the coffee table with his reading glasses perched on his nose while he’s building a ww2 bomber plane out of matchsticks from some random pattern he found online. He has very steady hands and it causes the models to always look fantastic. His best and biggest work is a ship in a bottle from a kit you gave him for an anniversary between you two. He only works on that in short increments to make sure he doesn’t screw it up - it’s about 2/3 done. You’ve repeatedly tried to get him to share his work online but he always gets bashful and refuses.

If he ever got the chance to do it together with the team though?? He’s gonna be beaming about that single evening for a week straight.

His favourite colour is dark green, like the forests :)

This is less of a headcannon and more just snippets of canon proof that I found. But he can speak English, Russian, Arabic and Spanish. Maybe even more.

He’s a tea person. Can’t stand coffee. It’s not about the taste, simply that every time he tried it, it gave him a headache.

When he first introduced you to the team, he was very nervous. Really wanted them to like you. So when Soap immediately took you into a hug and thanked you for ‘taking care of the old man’, followed by Gaz introducing himself with a warm smile and a praising regalia of the things he’d heard from Price, he couldn’t be happier. And when he at one point saw you at the kitchen table with Ghost, talking calmly and laughing with the hulking man who’s tension had dropped from his shoulders? He knew you were the one.

Loves going on double dates with Laswell and her wife too. You’re all good friends and it’s a chance to truly unwind and just catch up with Kate outside of work.

Please for the love of all that is holy, take a bath or shower with him. He ADORES them. Really wants so bad to take care of you. Will do your whole cleaning routine for you if you let him. If it’s something he’s not used to? Teach him, he’s very eager to learn.

All in all, this man just loves you so much. He finds himself so so lucky that you chose him of all people as your partner. Whether you’re civilian or military, he’ll protect you with life and limb. Literally.

So, those were the sfw thoughts bouncing in my head. I hope you liked them. Now we’re moving onto the spicy stuff. Please respect the banner, thank you and more stuff for this man is coming! ^^

Nsfw:

He is an ass man. All the way. Don’t get me wrong, he LOVES your thighs, seeing the way his fingers indent the flesh when he squeezes, being buried between them - it’s heavenly. But there is just something about your ass that he can’t get enough of. If his eyes aren’t on it, then his hands are.

He won’t randomly smack your ass - doesn’t really sit right with him, doesn’t find it proper (except for certain situations ;3). But dear god does he always have a hand on your ass to squeeze if he gets the chance. Walking somewhere together? If he can, he’ll slide his hand from your back/waist down to your ass and hold there. Sitting on his lap? You already know it, his hand is on your ass, keeping you in place. Brushing past you? One hand on your waist, one hand on your ass while he apologises and squeezes past.

A gentle over a rough lover. While he can go both ways, he prefers to go slow and deep. Watching your face contort in pleasure as he fucks you, hearing every noise you make.

This man is an absolute pleasure dom. He gets off on seeing you get off. There’s plenty of nights where he solely focuses on you and doesn’t cum himself.

Doesn’t like the word daddy but for the love of god PLEASE use honorifics. Call him captain and sir and you’ll have an entirely different man on your hands.

Prefers giving over receiving oral. There’s just something about working his tongue and mouth on you that never fails to make him groan against you - even if his mouth is otherwise occupied.

Will always properly prepare you. He doesn’t like hurting you. He’s big and he knows it so he doesn’t want to take any chances.

While he doesn’t mind quickies (in his office is a favourite), he prefers the actual thing. Like stated before, he wants to focus on you and give you all the pleasure he can and a quicky just doesn’t allow for that.

For those instances where you rile him up enough to forego his gentler side however? He knows how to work you. He can push every button you have and have you seeing stars while he fucks the life out of you. Don’t expect to be standing on strong legs the day after.

Man has stamina for DAYS. Prefers to make you cum multiple times before he cums himself. Need a moment in between orgasms to recover before you can go again? That’s okay, you can cockwarm him while he waits.

Speaking of cum. It’s thick, potent and by god he cums a lot. Properly stuffs you if you let him.

Big on marking you. Loves leaving bites, hickeys and handprints. Give him the same too. Scratch marks, bite marks, hickeys. He loves checking his body over in he morning to see what you left.

He has quite the libido on him. He can’t help it, you’re the most inviting and enticing thing in his eyes. Bend over to pick something up and his cock can already be hardening in his pants.

He’s very considerate of your wants and needs though. If you don’t want to have sex, he’ll cuddle you and hold you instead. If you’re not into a certain thing, he’ll refrain on doing it next time. Very much wants to make it a time of pure pleasure and love for you, because that’s what it is for him too.

Very into kisses. Sloppy, long kisses where you moan and whine into his mouth. Better yet if you muffle your moans in his mouth while he fucks you.

Favourite positions are missionary, mating press, doggy style, lotus and spooning sex. He loves them for different reasons.

Missionary because of how close he can be, feeling your legs wrap around his waist while all of him touches all of you.

Mating press because of how deep he can hit and keep such control. He can see your face contort in pleasure while folding your legs up and holding you down.

Doggy style is obvious as to why. But he also really loves watching the way your back arches with this one. He can hold onto your hips and just let his eyes rove your body.

Lotus he loves a lot when cuddles on the couch evolve into more, or when he’s in his office and the need arrises for you both. Just having you seated on his lap, your legs around him, body pressed so closely into his while he gently fucks up into you? Heaven.

Spooning sex? You mean cuddles + sex? Hit. Him. Up. He absolutely loves fucking you like this in the morning. Lazy, tired, properly waking each other up with pleasure.

If you’re into it and allow him to, he’d even actually wake you up like that. Big on somnophelia like that for the thought of pulling you out of your dreams and your sleep with pleasure. If he gets to the stage where he’s opened you up and his cock is filling you without you waking up until then, he’s oh so proud of himself. Would only do it if you’re comfortable though.

Very big on cockwarming. Watch a movie together on the couch and let him rest his cock in you from behind. Can evolve into spooning sex on the couch while making you try to keep your attention on the movie. His hand on your chin, keeping your face pointed to the screen while he whispers against your ear.

I said it before, he’s big. Long and thick and knows how to use it well. He’s a very hairy man all over but he keeps it neatly trimmed down there.

The h a p p y t r a i l of this man. Run your nails over it and it instantly sends blood rushing into his cock.

Overall, John will fuck you whenever he gets the chance. And by the gods he will show you what it’s like to be truly worshipped.

Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to interact or send me any asks, I’d love to chat ^^

Part 2

[dr-zeddy]

I also believe that Miquella was jealous of Mohg/saw him as competition regarding his original plans

and intentionally made the Mohgwyn Dynasty look like an awful alternative to what he tried to do with the Haligtree.

This is on my personal speculative side but with the in-game context of what the Formless Mother religion symbolized in the Land's of Shadow, we may assume Mohg and his followers celebrated her in a similar fashion before Miquella took over his mind.

The bloodfiends are literally just vibing until you attack them/invade their territory. Bloodshed isn't the only thing this Outer God represents, it's also a symbolism for maternal love/birth/rebirth for those shunned and cursed (Hence why she blessed Mohg and showed up to the "subjugated tribe" in the Land's of Shadow), which we know from the "Outer God Heirloom"

I believe this deity is still twisted and not to meddled around with, but I don't think the Formless Mother exclusively stands for murdering people. We also know that the bloodfiends resulted to SH occasionally to serve their "mother" (which is in itself a little problematic but it also indicates that they do not walk around and randomly kill everything in their path) (see "Bloodfiend's Fork")

So my take is that when Miquella brainwashed Mohg this entire cult got corrupted too, making it the center of (mercy) killings and death while Miquella is the only anchor of life, we see this in the "Lord of Blood Exultation Talisman":

Spilling blood to create a new life. Which is, naturally speaking, nonsense and as I said before, a lot of things point to the fact that the FM has natural roots, while giving hope to those who were shunned.

This indicates that Mohg had similar goals to Miquella with his Haligtree, offering outcasts a haven/place to be/belong to. Miquella always relied on enchanting/manipulating people to achieve his goals, I guess he was pissed that Mohg was able to do this, only by being naturally charismatic, since we know that he had to be quite the leader if he pulls actual reasonable people like Ansbach to his side. He was the perfect leader for outcasts and the oppressed (see additonally my post about Mohg's appearence being extremley devine in the Land's of Shadow) and therefore was a direct threat to the things Miquella wanted to achieve with his Haligtree. Because why follow Miquella when there already was a similar cult/religion with a charismatic leader like Mohg?

[moonlightdancer26]

Hypothetically speaking, What do you think Draco and James’s dynamic would be like if they attended school together?

On one hand, James might terrify Draco into being quiet or find Draco too pathetic to be worth his time.

While on the other hand, Draco could report to Lucius who can, and likely will, murder James if he bullies Draco too much.

Awesome question. The amount of parallels between them is so interesting, I realised it’s a pretty unexplored topic in fanfics. It’s either Drarry fics who are pro-Snape and show James’s bad side (but they’re pro-Draco so they don’t criticise Draco or go in depth abt their similarities), or it’s a pro-Snape fic where James is obviously bashed and Draco isn’t touched upon, or it’s a fic that bashes Snape lmao.

The Snapedom doesn’t really talk about Draco either, I do get questioned because I hate James but love Draco and Severus, but most Snape fans seem to just not be too into the Lightning era or just dislike Draco. It’s difficult to find someone who has strong opinions on all three characters, which is weird given that the three of them are very problematic and lots of fans have strong opinions on at least one or two of them.

Considering how JKR made a point to show how similar James and Draco are, it’s a shock that fans don’t discuss it more. For example:

“Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Draco reminding Harry of Dudley, aka a spoiled kid who grew up in a loving environment and was well taken care of. Harry pointing out how, despite Snape and James both being scrawny black-haired 11 year old boys, one of them had the air of being well-cared for and loved (James) and the other seriously lacked that (Severus).

Dumbledore comparing James and Snape to Draco and Harry, though at the time we didn’t know who represented whom.

Both wealthy only-child purebloods who treated their inferiors badly.

But, as a response to your question, I’m not sure how they would’ve treated each other. There’s no doubt that they would’ve LOATHED each other, but we should also take into account that Draco, unlike Severus, came from a wealthy pureblood family. He had status and power, as well as Crabbe and Goyle who were basically bodyguards, so James definitely would not have gotten away with bullying him. It’s not a coincidence that James and Sirius’s favourite target was also an easy target (a poor, unpopular, half-blood Slytherin). James would hate Draco but wouldn’t target him as relentlessly or as successfully as he did with Severus.

Draco also had no problem bullying Harry, who was not only rich but also famous. But Harry and Co weren’t experienced bullies like James and Sirius (who went around hexing people), so Draco would definitely take more caution if he were to go after the Marauders.

All in all, I think they would’ve obviously hated each other’s guts and probably would’ve had a rivalry, given that they had pretty equal statuses.

[gildeddlily]

season 2 started off beautifully. I was ecstatic at the end of episode three, for the simple reason that it had the same spirit as season 1. Vi feeling like she made a mistake so big trying to reach Powder instead of seeing Jinx and the danger she represented that the only way to fix that for her was to join her oppressors. Caitlyn destroying all the progress she'd made, unlearning what she'd been taught about Zaun by being with zaunites like Vi, the moment one of them killed her mother, and embracing her roots we can say, talking of bad blood and "I thought you were different"- showing that the internalised racism was always there ready to resurface the moment it had an excuse to. Caitlyn saying that her mother being killed by a teenager who's never dealt with her trauma and mental illness is the same thing as Vi's parents being killed by members of a military institution, disregarding everything she knew about the pain and abuse Vi went through because of the Enforcers. a "men get abused too" situation, in which one ignores the social and historical background of that type of violence to feel less sorry about it. they were perfectly well written, because they are things we see everyday. my father taught me as a child that black people crossing the Mediterranean to look for work in Italy were a good thing, and now that he's had problems at work with one he's started saying the opposite. a gay man I knew laughed at trans folks and said they made things worse for us, ridiculing them in the company of straight people to feel less threatened. (not the exact same thing as what happened to Vi, but you get what I mean).

those are real things, and Arcane has always been good at showing real things.

later on, episode seven, Jayce fell down. he landed in the deepest hole of Zaun, broke his leg, was forced to wear a brace to walk, suffered and had to claw his way back to the surface, to Piltover, in a strange metaphor of Viktor's journey and life (saw a post talking even more beautifully about this, will put the link here if I find it again), and once he met Viktor again, he told him his illness, his legs, he, were beautiful. not despite everything. because of it. and now he can understand him a little more. now he says "your imperfections are beautiful" and we can believe him, because he's not speaking from the perspective of a man trying to convince his friend to stop harming others. he's a man trying to make his partner see that he still loves him, now that he's finally understood him after years of trying to reach the truth and always being stopped by something, and that he understands him enough to know why he's harming others, and that he cares for him enough to think that he will be able to understand why it's wrong. it's Viktor accepting the inevitability of being seen by someone who went to hell and back to reach him.

those were fucking beautiful arcs. they were.

and then?

Vi saw Caitlyn become what she'd always said she wouldn't become, and there were no repercussions. Catelyn got to walk away and live all the same. she lost an eye to Ambessa, but it was no punishment for what she'd done. how many people did she harm? how many people did her actions have repercussions on? Vi shouted at her once, and then it was like it had never happened- which is still real, I guess. it happens everyday. but I didn't see any wish to make us see how that was wrong. I don't want to be told "this is wrong", I'm old enough and smart enough to understand this, but I also think I can see the difference between trying to show deeper meanings and not wanting to deal with difficult plot lines.

and Zaun? it was sad. pathetic. years of abuse were what, forgotten and then vanished in thin air because there was a common enemy? that, sadly, isn't real. it isn't. years or oppression can't be forgotten so easily, not by the oppressed, for one "glorious" fight. it's lazy. what started as a good depiction of reality turned into an american wet dream of big fights and sad sacrifice scenes and epic love stories that cross any difficulty, and economic and social difference. don't you dare say something against Caitlyn and Vi's ending, they went through all that, they deserve nice things. they do. many other people did. no one cared about them tho.

so.

epic failure. good soundtracks tho.

[abyssalaquarist00]

UNCLE SAM'S NEW CLOTHES: How are American tax dollars spent?

Read more for artist commentary.

have had this concept simmering for a while now. wanted to imagine the "uncle sam" character as if he were to appear as a contemporary US politician. his pockets flow with taxpayer dollars, and its more the merrier with him. a couple things to note..

ill start off with the dogs. the US depends on Saudi and Emirati oil, hence why those dogs are black. theyre barking for american money, and aid in conflicts theyve started. these countries depend on the US military.

now the UAE in particular wants to become westernized, its in its best interest to do so. i have something else planned for that, so i wont get into it now.

israel is hiding between uncle sams legs, with a mouth dripping with blood. that is where its most safe, to be shielded from criticism. the dog is white in representation of both the flag and the fact that the zionist movement originated in europe.

the US uses these three nations militaries as its own personal attack dogs in what we call the "middle east" (which has its own british / french colonial origins)

also look up: why is the UAE called little sparta?

the zippo lighter represents the US military, they were also famously used in the vietnam war. you can assume that uncle sam used the zippo to light the dollars to light the cigar, which in turn is causing thick smoke (pollution)

of course its stupid to light the money on fire to light the cigar, but he has all the money a person could want. what does he care he burns a few hundred bucks?

the US military is actually one of the worlds leading polluters! you can look this up yourself if youd like.

and finally the cigar. the US sanctions and blockades countries they oppose, spend decades on propaganda against them, yet they want to reap all their resources and exports. what they cant have is luxury, so they crave it even more.

i think i forgot to mention the tie. its red and blue because the 2 party system is the same lol

the art might speak for itself but i know we live in a time where media literacy is at a low so. here it goes

crossposted from twitter of course

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

Getting some Berserk thoughts down, because the last time I was in my feelings about Griffith and the Golden Age arc, I’d promised at least one anon that I’d talk about it later and then I didn’t shfhff

But damn the Primrose Hall speech is such Wuthering Heights level miscommunication! It makes me ill!

Griffith positing that: a) having a dream is thee most important thing in the world and b) he cannot respect or consider a friend anyone who does not have their own dream (implicitly a dream different from his, so those two spheres never need interfere or threaten each other) or someone who is subordinate to him and therefore in danger of dying for his dream

And then like five chapters later we get Casca’s flashbacks about Griffith and that immediately establishes that he is a lying liar who lies when it comes to his own emotions and guilt, but also that we can’t really know what he’s feeling in the present day, exactly, because he’s a different person now

Contrary to what Griffith stan nation might say lol, I don’t think the dissonance between his two reactions to a child’s death directly resulting from him striving to achieve his goals is actually him just being a better liar by the Golden Age era

He’s become indelibly crueler over the years and like, twenty is not fifteen.* He’s older and spent the entire time in between at war, killing other people, and commanding his own troops to die, for his dream. Age has hardened him. Meanwhile, him succumbing to that cruelty, to steel himself against personal grief, is literally the culmination of the Golden Age arc!

*caveat that the ages are messy, but he appears to be a teen here and at least four to five years older by the Primrose Hall speech

But that flashback sequence is truly the key to Griffith’s character. It establishes both that he feels a general guilt over the blood on his hands, but also that he is motivated by a catastrophic level of sunk cost fallacy

I also think him musing that the child must have really admired knights and wanted to be a knight himself, and that he always looked at Griffith like he was a hero out of a story is more indicative of Griffith, and his initial perceptions of glory/his dream when he was younger, than simply an element of his guilt for leveraging the sense of hero worship he invokes in his followers (which is def an element at all)

It’s just very telling that this comes on the heels of Guts’ guilt over Adonis’ death and being reminded of his own younger self when seeing him

Griffith’s own dream likely started out of naivety and simply wanting glory/to be a hero/to ascend when he started the Band of the Hawk as an adolescent. I think that child’s death represents him coming to understand the cost of being a mercenary, and leading people to their deaths for his own gain, when it’s far too late and he’s already sitting on a pile of corpses. And the only way to make it up is to keep grasping at his dream so that at least those deaths weren’t for nothing. I really don’t think he’s particularly torn up about Adonis’ death in the moment, but the larger abstract sense of guilt very much threatens to crush him if he ever falters

And you know who has historically made him falter and put himself at risk, threatening his dream?

So, I think he’s very deliberately talking about Guts here actually, rather than the usual shipper line that he’s not even considering Guts when he says this.

I think he’s very deliberately bringing up the key differences between himself and Guts (having a dream; Guts viewing himself as nothing but a tool to him despite!!! Griffith trying to convince him that they’re equals) and trying to convince himself that Guts shouldn’t mean much to him/that he cannot respect his life

Because what’s one thing we know Griffith does? He pretends he doesn’t care while visibly caring very much

Interestingly, what Griffith claims not to respect at all when speaking to Charlotte, seems to be what drew him to Guts in the first place. I’d argue, part of how Guts makes him falter, aside from an emotional connection, is potentially that he’s envious/tempted by the concept of being so uniquely unburdened with personal goals, considering Griffith himself is practically drowning in his own ambition

Which, arguably, could simply be traits he values in any subordinate but not an equal. But we’re told several times by Casca that Guts is a unique case for him, that he’s never deliberately sought someone out to join him. And ostensibly, in that moment that observation is the only thing Griffith knows about him.

I’s also worth noting that he initially simply asks Guts to join them. (More specifically he just says “I want you.” Super normal). The duel and its terms are something Guts sets, resulting in this moment:

But even after that point, he keeps trying to nudge their relationship into a more personal dynamic. Confiding in him, making it clear that he doesn’t tell anyone else these thoughts. And of course the famous scene where he insists that his own life isn’t worth more than Guts’ at all

But Guts views himself as a sword to be wielded by Griffith (something we see Casca echo too) and keeps reinforcing the fact that he only does as Griffith demands

Griffith is very willing to leverage that and use Guys’ obedience to his benefit. At the heart of it, Griffith has always been mercenary even about this relationship. He’s very much trying to have his cake and eat it too, where his close personal friend and confidant is also his dog who he can bring to heel whenever it suits him

It is very telling the way Griffith reacts when Guts tries to leave him. Where when he realizes he can’t talk him out of it, he decides to make him stay

To me, this all ties back to the Primrose Hall speech, and how Griffith is trying to distance himself from his feelings for Guts, because he’s so much closer to his goals at that point. Ostensibly both the Princess’ favor and the attempt on his own life have made him really reevaluate how close he is to achieving something real and to not let something petty like feelings get in the way of that

…and then Guts breaks up with him and everything falls to pieces