#santino d'antonio x reader

[ricinbach]

DULCE PERICULUM | CHAPTER II - MIRRORS

through me you pass into eternal pain.

(John Wick x Reader)

The music had stopped.

The ivory keys released themselves in a slow, relentless surrender. Along followed the black, the low vibrations succumbing into the sudden drift in the air. The crackles in the fireplace were resistant, burning through the sickeningly calm atmosphere with their fiery glint, the warmth echoing across the stone confinements.

An almost-composed symphony of the world’s fanciest crystal hitting the polished mahogany and marble followed suit, the amber liquids within shaky yet no drops escaped. Fingers rested on the rim of the thin Baccarat awaiting what was to come, sensing the change.

Heads began turning around ever-so-slowly, fingertips all around the vast lounge letting go of silverware against the fine china, books hitting the dark leather couches. Some gasps, audible yet subdued, emanated from the edge of the room. Breaths were held as eyes with enlarged irises only focused on one particular focal point.

Like they were meant to be.

It was as if the universe was playing along with his gravitating effect as he walked into the room. Feet light as feathers in the leather soles, yet have run miles too far to count. The pitch-black suit, one-of-a-kind and classy as ever, was tailored solely for him and his edges, his broad shoulders, and long limbs. It matched the raven mane that framed his face, all slicked back which adorned his sharp features, his neatly trimmed dark beard contrasting the fair skin and the hollows of his high cheekbones.

All this time, all these years, and you still did not fully understand just how he managed to do it. How he held the aura of recluse, of determination, of discipline and power, exuded without much evident effort from of his end. It had to be the countless years of witnessing the deepest, darkest secrets this world had to offer. It had to be the deep pain he had been put under in another life, the sacrifices he had to make and the bullets he had to take.

It all had to mean something. Every sliver of blood, sweat and tears had to mean something. At least, that was the way you had been taughtYou would have reckoned the Russians did not care that much of philosophical meaning anyway, as long as contracts were being fulfilled. They had been always the practical ones, straight to the kill.

As long as the teachings of the Russians helped you tonight and onward, it was nothing you could not live with.

Taking a couple steps into the small entryway through the curtains, he overlooked the room briefly and his pitch black eyes met yours.

Like they have been searching for them to begin with, though with which combinations of complicated emotions, you were not sure this time around.

It has been a while, John.

In any room he would ever step in, his eyes would somehow latch onto your being. Like they would always search for you, a part of you, in any corner and crevice. No matter how many years had passed, how many bodies were in between, how many memories forgotten - but never lost.

It had always made a jolt of unknown emotional origin ran through you.

That was then.

The thrill was short-lasting as your body grasped back into reality with the briefly clouded thoughts of the business you had to conduct slowly coming back to the forefront of your mind.

Now, it was someone else the dark orbs searched for. Someone you kept hearing whispers about. It did not take long for rumors to get transported overseas, echoing throughout the pink and emerald green marble walls of the Rome Continental. Hushed in low voices over a couple of martinis, in passing, throughout the circles of assassins. It seemed like nothing ever stayed a secret in your world, not for too long anyway.

All you knew was if your secrets were slipping out the lips of dangerous strangers, all they did was to put a target on your back.

“She is not one of us.”

Someone who did not belong to this world of deep and dark secrets, of constantly defending for your life, of running from one bullet to another punch in the face. Someone who undoubtedly had been pure, unscathed and unscarred. Caring and giving, taking good care of John when he needed it the most, in his lowest moments. Concealed moments and emotions that only came out of hiding in her presence.

Someone who brought the rare good in him, hidden deep in the pits of darkness, death and fear, a small yet mighty shining star in the night sky. The softness that is under the stone cold exterior. A side of him that not many lucky people got to bear witness.

A side you had memorized to the core back in the day, staying alive in the crevices of your deepest memories. That had once been your sole reality, the center of your universe, pulling you back from the darkness and into the light in the most forgiving way.

All gazes followed him for a brief moment as his polished leather soles hit the hardwood, a gentle but commanding series of thuds dissipating in the luxuriously silk carpet in his stride as he approached the bar, towards you.

As if he was trying to cross the rift that had parted you, the arrogant waves of salty ocean water separated you both away from the shore and led you astray. His steps appeared calculated, but what was not when it came to him?

“Didn’t have to do much this time, did I?”

Snapping out of your thoughts, your gaze focused on Winston yet again, a knowing smile stretching your lips to match his. Elbow gently leaning against the counter as he watched the scene unfold, always analyzing and protecting his establishment. Checking his watch, he straightened up and began buttoning his suit jacket all the while looking at you, as if he wanted to gauge if you would hold up alright in his absence. A soft, smiling nod from you would do the trick.

As John made his way over in what seemed like an eternity, and took a seat on the leather stool next to you, life at the Continental lounge resumed - the soft keys of the piano started echoing across the walls, crystals were twinkled and drinks were sipped. Like a giant shark, paving his wave through the vast ocean of activity, cutting through the surroundings with habitual ease. An ease that was brought by being the one and only. The menace of the ocean. Cannot be tamed, cannot be controlled.

Except only by one special person he would burn the world for, rumor had it.

Winston excused himself, as he made his way towards the inviting booths towards the back of the lounge, a parting nod, however subtle, towards the impeccably dressed assassin seated right next to you and a sliver of an approving smile. His presence as the owner of the whole joint made itself known, this time a more respected aura than one fueled by fear, as a white gloved waiter immediately placed a refill of his favorite Chianti on the marble table.

Speaking of drinks, just as John sad situated himself at the edge of his seat, yet another glass of a freshly made Negroni clinked in front of you - and him, a whiskey, neat. The bartenders at the Continental knew every assassin that spent hours on the bar over the years, after all. There were worse places to be regulars at.

His dark eyes still gleamed the same when they met yours. The same neutral curve of his lips and veined fingers as he reached for the crystal in front of him. A slight lean of his torso over the counter, balancing himself to face the point of his attention for the time being.

But there was one difference, albeit minor to many but a noticeable one. The faint smell of oud and neroli from expensive cologne exuded from his body, getting mixed up with the aroma of liquor around.

The John Wick preying on his enemies would not have a scent linger on him, to never leave a trace nearby. He would let nothing give away from his already designed scheme, each movement and thought brushed over hundreds of times before the moment.

If John Wick wanted you to know he was there - you would know. That was one of the qualities that made him, that many could not master.

No, this time, he was vulnerable. An off-duty Wick, one of the rarest occurrences of all. This time around, he wanted to be known, his presence to be felt, to be acknowledged and discovered. Perhaps, to be indulged. The question was, by whom?

It was a question you had already learned the answer to prior.

“Welcome back.”

And his voice still had the familiar, warm tint laced with it as he took a sip out of his drink and spoke to you. Words spoken genuinely, as was the story told by his eyes warming up to your sight sitting in front of him yet again.

“It’s good to be back.”

The pianist continued his gentle tango with the ivory keys, adorning the background of the conversation. The Negroni hit you a bit harder this round in his presence, the bitter liquid making its’ way through your throat strangely calming - thankful for the bartender for the refill as it gradually became evident of just how nervous he made you, no matter how many times you had told yourself you would not get nervous.

“How is everything at the Rome Continental?”

A small smile erupted on your lips with a nod, and a murmur of “good”. This had to be hard for him too, you had thought. Maybe just as hard as it had been for you, yet you tried to conceal it the best you could. Tried your hardest not to think of who was waiting at home for him.

Tried not to think of who was waiting at home for you, just for a finite, slow sliver of a second as your past caught up to you, managing to sit right in front of you.

“We would love to have you over sometime, whether business or pleasure.

Oh, how you wished you could talk more, ask more, know more about him and his life - but the floors had ears and the walls had eyes. Too much was at risk for being thrown around in casual conversation between two old friends at the lounge, surrounded by people who lied and coerced for a living.

John, in return, let out a smile in thanks - whatever intrusive or questioning thoughts he was thinking in his mind, you had no way of telling from his stance. It had always been the toughest battle to read his true emotions, a battle you sometimes won in glory but most of the time succumbed to the opposition.

This was one of the latter times.

“I come with good news this time, John.”

His head tilted, clearly intrigued in the next words to follow out of your mouth, he appeared to not be overly enthusiastic, concealing maybe his true feelings. As he had every right to. You never knew what could go awry in deals made in the lounge, over a couple of drinks. It was always something he excelled at - preparing yourself for each and all possibility, let it be good or catastrophic.

“Santino agreed to help with the task.”

In his world, everything came with a price. That was lesson one.

Just as you finished your words with a slight smile on the corner of your lips, without breaking eye contact with John for too long, your nimble fingers placed the crystal on the mahogany counter and instead reached for the black purse in front of you to pull out an object of interest.

“But there is only one task.”

A ray of light through the chandeliers hit the bronze marker in an angle as it shone while being slowly slid across the polished bar by your red fingernails to barely touch the large hand as it made it’s destination. His body covering the line of sight out of any potentially interested guests - this was a sight meant for just the both of you.

The faint gleam of the marker reflected in his dark irises as an almost inaudible sigh left his lips, gaze slowly directing to catch yours. Your head tilted as it awaited for a response for a couple of moments, eyes glued into his in a desperate attempt to read the reflections with a reassuring smile adorning your features. His fingers brushed over it in passing as he grabbed his drink and sipped whatever was left in it with year’s ease, in a single go.

Within you, you knew there was a time in your lives where he would do anything for you. Maybe, just maybe, he still would. Or maybe, he would do anything for the one on his mind and his future - not the one in his past.

John Wick was not a man to delve in the past.

“Tell Santino I will take it.”

#ITS HAPPENING #john wick x reader #john wick #santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick chapter 1 #dulce periculum #val writes

[fics-not-tragedies]

January 2024 Music Prompts: Day 7

Don't Blame Me ♫ Taylor Swift

Don't Blame Me ♫ Taylor Swift x Santino D'Antonio

I would fall from grace/Just to touch your face

Santino, with his brooding charm and penchant for taking risks, was a man used to living on the margins of society. The neon lights of the city reflected in his dark eyes the intensity that simmered beneath the surface. He moved like a shadow through the crowded streets, his thoughts a labyrinth of desires and pain.

One fateful evening, he found himself in a dimly lit jazz club, where the sultry notes of a saxophone told stories of passion and longing. The air was thick with anticipation and Santino took a seat at the bar, drawn by an invisible force.

As the barman placed a glass in front of him, he couldn't shake the image that had haunted his dreams - a face, delicate and distant, like a mirage shimmering at the edge of his consciousness. He could not resist the pull, the magnetic force that drew him towards an unknown destiny.

The jazz band continued its soulful serenade, casting a spell over the smoky atmosphere. Santino's eyes scanned the room, searching for the elusive face that had etched itself into the corridors of his mind.

And then, there you were - a vision in the low light, her eyes a haunting shade that held the secrets of a thousand stories. Santino felt a jolt in his chest, a heartbeat that transcended the rhythmic pulse of the jazz.

"I would fall from grace," he thought, captivated by the ethereal presence before him, "just to touch your face."

As if guided by an unseen force, Santino approached you. The world around both of you seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the haunting melody of the saxophone and the quiet murmurs of shared glances.

"May I?" he asked, extending his hand in a silent invitation to dance.

You nodded, a knowing smile playing on your lips. You two moved in rhythm with the music, bodies swaying to the intoxicating melody. In the dance's ebb and flow, Santino felt a connection that defied explanation - a magnetic pull that drew him closer to the mysteries you held.

The jazz club transformed into a sanctuary of shared secrets and unspoken desires. Santino, usually a man of few words, found himself compelled to speak.

"I would fall from grace," he whispered into your ear, his voice a husky murmur against the notes of the saxophone, "just to touch your face."

Your eyes held a mixture of surprise and recognition, as if you, too, had dreamt of a connection that transcended the boundaries of reality. In that dimly lit space, Santino and you shared a dance that spoke of yearning and the uncharted territories of the heart.

As the final notes lingered in the air, both of you found yourselves at the entrance of the jazz club, the city's lights a mosaic of possibilities. The night held a promise, and Santino couldn't resist the pull of destiny.

"Bella," he said, his words hanging in the air like a vow, "I’ve dreamt about you."

While your gaze held a silent agreement, you took his hand. Together you navigated the labyrinthine streets of the city, your footsteps echoing with the heartbeat of a shared connection that transcended the boundaries of time.

As you stood at the edge of a moonlit bridge, Santino brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle yet electric in intensity. The pulse of the city matched the rhythm of your hearts, and in that moment Santino knew that he had not fallen out of favour, but into the embrace of a destiny written in the stars.

"There is no one I want more, bella," he murmured, his lips touching yours.

And with that kiss, you knew he was yours for eternity together.

#january 2024 music prompts #music prompts #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #imagine #drabble #santino d'antonio fanfiction #santino d'antonio fanfic #santino d'antonio fic #santino d'antonio imagine #santino d'antonio drabble #santino d'antonio x you #santino d'antonio x reader #prompt fics

[the-darklings]

otp ask #13 with santi and v please 🤲🏼 spare me some crumbs

you are most welcome to the crumbs, my friend!!!

13. Who’s the bigger tease?

Santi, but V is ten times more potent and deadly when committed to it heh. He gets breathless and eyes glazed/pupils blown real quick. Eats her alive with his eyes and/or listens raptly, depending on what approach she chooses.

• ⸼ ۫ 𓈒 otp asks

#it's been a MINUTE not even gonna front. #s: i can wait #fic: children of ares #santino d'antonio x reader #asks #otp asks

[bluelolblue]

Good morning to myself, now I wanna write Santino eating up pussy for breakfast

Thanks @marquisedegramont for morning inspiration lmfaoo

#santino d’antonio #santino d'antonio #john wick chapter 2 #im still so tired and im writing this kinda half awake #but this is on my list for fem reader x santino #santino one chance pls

[kimhargreeves]

Love is War-Caine x Reader (John Wick Chapter 4)

Summary: You've remained a friend to John Wick throughout years, that hasn't changed since he's been excommunicado. Now finding you in Osaka and a few more allies he asks for your help again, which leads you to reunite with an old friend.

(Watched John Wick 4 a few days ago and I am surprised no one has written on this character! Donnie Yen is such a badass playing blind characters. So I wrote this myself. Sorry in advance since I suck at writing a fighting scene, and because this is short.)

The day Santino D'Antonio was shot was officially the day John Wick's life changed. The man had to rest, looking over his shoulders every second to be aware of anyone trying to kill him. The people who continued to remain by his side would be punished.

I was one of them when The High Table came over to my place. They punished me well but I embraced the pain and moved on with my life, and so I went to Japan.

Continuing with my work and wanting to be far from my previous life in the United States.

"Shimazu, my friend. This sushi is delicious as always!" I smiled looking at the tall man.

The man smiled a little and poured some sake for himself. "I believe you've had enough drinks for the night, (Y/N)."

I pouted at the man, he's asking like such a dad. I've known the man for years and met him way back along with his daughter, both of them welcomed me with open arms when I arrived. In exchange for their help I would offer my help and the yakuza.

I exchanged my guns for a katana.

"The night is still young. Besides, I want a bit of fun, the other night I almost got my ass beaten if it weren't for your men arriving."

"Still reckless as ever. I have someone you might want to see." I hummed looking at the man and I heard light footsteps.

I rose from my spot suddenly sobering myself up when I saw another man with us. It was none other than John Wick. "…J-John."

We saw John standing by a cherry blossom tree close to us.

I know it wasn't the time but I did the first thing that came to my mind, which was to hug him tight. I always considered John as an older brother, so seeing him back again was so refreshing. I felt his hand on my back patting me. I looked up at him and smiled.

Shimazu had a straight face when he looked at John Wick. I decided to stay silent but remained by John's side as I heard both men exchange words, Shimazu agreed on helping John, as soon as he did his daughter came by.

She warned us about a group about to Osaka's continental. We looked at John and told him to hide himself while we went out to fight. I grabbed my katana and followed Shimazu closely and started to walk further into the hotel. I watched more of his men grabbing their weapons and getting ready.

We see people hurriedly leaving the hotel after Akira told everyone to evacuate. I remain to Shimazu's side when we come face to face with a man I wasn't expecting to see. Caine.

I felt my body freeze when I saw him standing by the enemy.

Sharp as ever I see. He's wearing a suit and as usual with his cane guiding him. It's been a while since he gave his vision up, that's the consequences for working in this profession.

He is an old friend of John and I. So, he's leading a group of men then, the men working to the Marquis. I stay silent listening to both me exchange words. I glanced around when I saw men pointing their bow and arrows at the enemy.

"John Wick isn't here. So, as my master said give your weapons up." I declared glaring at the group in front of us.

I noticed Caine had tilted his head a bit. He wasn't expecting me to be here. It has been quite a while since we last saw each other.

Despite the warnings, a quick fight ensued when the enemy refused to give their weapons up, since they were determined to find John Wick in the hotel. I raised my katana and quickly slashed down one of the men, quickly I ran forward to attack another one and was able to penetrate the blade through two men in suits.

I harshly pulled the blade back and wiped the blood with my sleeve and I saw Shimazu give me a sign to follow a group of men who entered further into the hotel to look for John. I ran faster and began to avoid being shot and kicked the gun away from a man's hand when he was ready to shoot me.

I raised my leg up and kicked the man's head down and quickly turn around when I heard another one rushing towards me. I easily slashed the man's throat and watched him fall to the bloody floor.

"Have to hurry over to John and get him out of here." I ran faster through the empty halls and made it to the glass room where every antique is displayed.

As soon as I arrived I saw men on the floor and I huffed sliding down the floor and I froze my movements when I saw Caine was in the room. I have to be very quiet. I looked over my shoulder and saw John was hidden nearby.

Quietly I began to stand up and tried not to step on the shards of glass. "There's no use in hiding, (Y/N). Why are you helping a man like John Wick?" Caine spoke knowing I was in the room but not knowing where exactly.

"And why are you working against us?" I spoke seeing Caine standing still and looking at my direction.

"They'll harm my daughter if I don't do this. If it were between You and John and my daughter. I would choose my daughter. You won't be getting in my way."

"Wasn't planning on your trying to stop me. Last time I checked I bear your ass on a fight, you quite liked being under me." I tease standing up straight and raising my katana.

I saw John giving me an odd look but quietly began to crawl over to a gun. I gave him a nod while he continued.

Caine and I rushed over to one another and I huffed dodging his attacks and falling back when he almost hit me. I'll try my best not to slice him up, I'll only hit him with the side of my katana.

"Hmph!" The sound of my katana hit against his cane made a loud sound and I had to grab my weapon with both hands when I began to lose a bit of strength when my hands began to shake. I yelled and tried to kick him back but he was quicker and he hit my stomach hard and made me fall back to the floor.

I let out a cry when I felt glass enter my skin. "You always liked to talk a lot, but I was the one who did most of the action." I blushed when I saw a stupid smirk across his face.

I moved my legs and did my best to make him fall but he easily dodged my moves and hit my leg with his cane making me hiss and he stepped over to stand over my chest and pressed his shoe against me.

A loud movement was heard behind us and we heard John loading up his gun, Cane quickly took his out and both began to try and shoot each other. I struggled to breathe and before I had the chance to strike him again he grabbed me making stand up as he held me close.

"I would suggest you stop this, John. You would want me to harm her would you?"

I angrily looked back at Cain. "You bastard. How dare you use me as a human shield?!" I ask unimpressed with his work.

Caine only fell silent when I asked him and saw a annoyed expression on his face.

"And after everything we had?" I laugh bitterly which wasn't a good thing since he tossed me aside, I tripped over my own feet and ending up falling on one of the art glass in the room.

I groaned trying to stand up and tried to ignore the shards of glass on my palms. I continued to hear John and Caine trying to shoot each other and fight.

"I know our line of work is dangerous, but what kind of a sick bastard with threaten you with that?!" I shout at him.

I find it hard to imagine how he must have felt to have his little girl at risk. His daughter is so hard studying intelligent girl, I had the pleasure of knowing her many times before, I've known the girl ever since she was born, helped Caine in raising her in a way when his wife passed away.

It was her or her daughter. The bright and nice woman chose to give her daughter life. Caine was distraught and needed some peace, so that's when I took action and offered to help him raise his girl.

Both men continued to fight and John was the first one out. I watched him run out of the room so the people here in Osaka wouldn't be harmed because of him. I started to chase after him but I felt a hand hold onto arm tightly before I had the chance to leave.

I looked back and looked at Caine. I couldn't quite read his expression but behind those dark glasses he seemed worried. "They know what happened… They threatened my daughter, myself and you as well. If I don't kill them they will kill us..they are going to kill you too."

He wasn't harming me. His grip on me loosened up and I didn't do anything to provoke him. My expression turned to sadness, why must something always happen to us.

I huff trying to laugh, "I'm flattered to know that you still care about me.", He continued to frown. He was always a serious type, especially with work.

"What if we were to work together? We can stop this and kill the man-"

"That won't do, haven't I made myself clear?!" He said raising his voice.

Caine remained now silent until he let go of me and I saw a smirk across his face again. "I see you haven't changed.."

I fought back at laughing at him for saying that. "No matter what happens, I'll continue to worry about you. Hand me over John Wick and this will all be over."

"I'm sorry but I can't. I promised from the start that my loyalty to him would remain." I slowly started to back away now afraid if Caine would harm me because of my answer.

My loyalty to John Wick.

Too afraid to stick around I turned around and quickly began to follow to where I saw John run off. I was all bloodied up and hurt but I continued to run and made it at the train station. And got inside when I noticed John sitting by himself. I smiled when I saw the man also bloodied up and bruised.

I sat right by his side and we continued to not say anything on what happened back there. I felt extremely tired and so was John, I glanced over to him when I felt his stare on me.

"Did you seriously date him?" John asked after a moment of silence, out of everything that happened that's the first thing he asks??

I sighed leaning back on the seat and crossed my arms over my chest, "Was that such a big surprise for you? I thought it would be obvious, at the amount of times the three of us would reunite."

John must've not remembered of the time we invited him over for dinner but he decided to stay with Helen instead. I didn't blame him.

"Sorry. I just didn't expect the reveal." He muttered holding onto his injured shoulder. I glanced back at him and smiled.

I'll continue to fight by his side, but this'll all be a mess later on. We have to figure this one out and take revenge for those who have tried to kill John. I don't want any of this to happen, but I swear if someone were to harm him, Caine or his daughter, I'll be the person to kill the Marquis even if it means that I could die trying.

#john wick #john wick 4 #caine john wick #donnie yen #john wick chapter 4 #keanu reeves #hiroyuki sanada #caine x reader #marquis de gramont

[savingcrxws]

masterpost

THE BEAR

carmen berzatto

EYES ON FIRE | carmy x ex!reader, exes to lovers

mikey berzatto

chef luca

JOHN WICK

john wick

santino d'antonio

vincent de gramont

OUTER BANKS

jj maybank

rafe cameron

pope heyward

MARVEL

peter parker

loki

thor

steven grant | marc spector | jake lockely | moon knight system

kang the conqueror

THE SANDMAN

dream of the endless

the corinthian

death of the endless

desire of the endless

#masterpost.txt #marvel #the sandman #the bear #obx #outer banks

[weclassygirl]

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐭

Word count: +3.1k

Pairing: santino d’antonio x f!reader

Warnings: violence per usual

Author’s note: a bit late with the update but at least it’s not a year long gap. hope you enjoy nonetheless!

dulce periculum series: 07 / ...

Gif credits (x)

Caterina can land a mean punch - is what you first learned at Camorra and currently feel through as you land on the floor, holding onto your stomach. 

“Get up, I’m not done with you yet.” she says, her inked arms stretching above her head. It became a routine of some sorts, you would train with Caterina in the morning, occasionally switching up with other Guards. On some occasions even Santino would show up, preferably standing in the doorway, watching people train, just like he does now. 

His head moves up from his phone and towards the training area where you and Caterina spar. You get up from the ground, feeling the ever watchful eyes of the Italian. You charge at the woman, landing a hit to her side, she grabs your arms before it can make a full impact, trying to throw you off balance. You lean to the side, hoping to throw her off with the weight of your body. You succeed, almost. Caterina flawlessly retreats from the movement that would toss over most people, supporting herself on her arms as her back follows to the front, her feet softly touching the mat. Another circus trick as you’ve come to learn. 

Before Camorra, Caterina used to travel with a circus, left it with 6 other girls, far younger than her when she learned that the boss was abusing them. You’ve noticed that the rest of the Guard had similar stories. All of them were taken or rather offered a job by Camorra after some event in their lives. 

Andre with his illegal street racing. Luca as an ex-government employee. Spirto that hacked into the Pentagon, which he won’t reveal any details about. Little shit. Ben who used to fight in underground rings. And Sonya who survived by being a thief in Morocco. 

All of them unique in their own ways, exactly what Camorra was looking for. 

“You have to try a bit harder, Jade.” she says with her back turned to you.

And you do. 

You quickly run at her and aim for her legs, your footsteps light as a feather even while running. Caterina ends up on the ground, propping herself up on her elbows as you squat down a few feet behind her. She looks towards you, if looks could kill, but the gaze is quickly replaced by a smirk. 

“Finally.” she gets up and clasps her hands. “Wanna go again?”

“I think my back would kill me if I did.” you say as your hand softly goes over the wounded area. She nods at you and leaves the mat. You walk to the doorway, slowing down as you see Santino putting down his phone.

“Few more training and you might even join the Guard.” he says and you furrow your brows. Before you can say anything you hear footsteps next to you. Spirto and Ben. 

“As if she isn’t a part of it now.” the latter acknowledges. 

“Don’t rile her up, she might think she’s higher on the food chain than us.” Spirto teases and you give him a jab with your elbow. The hacker smiles and salutes you as he walks away. 

Ben turns to you. “Don’t worry, even if the Council doesn’t approve of you rising up in the hierarchy we’ll still take you on some missions.”

“Some?” you ask.

Santino speaks up this time. “They wouldn’t be able to take you on all of them. The Council might get suspicious.” You nod at his statement. 

The Council is still a bit reluctant about you joining Camorra, especially now after your meeting with the Elder. You believe that if someone was to find out about your deal with him, they would know it first. Well, maybe the Bowery King would actually know first, he and his people run not only in New York, sometimes it’s scary how far his power can reach. 

Ben bids you both goodbye and you’re left with Santino. He asks you to take a walk with him and you accept. After a quick change from your training clothes, you meet up with Santino outside. Both of you walk through the Camorra property, entering the vast garden. You see some people tending to the flowers, the garden’s in full bloom. 

You pick up various topics, from the basic “how was your day” to the constant one “how are you finding yourself here”. You still haven’t found a way back home, hours spent in the library, doing research on nearly every topic that might have some relevance to your problem go by with no results. The answer to the question is however always the same. 

“Good, still adjusting, trying to survive in a world from a movie series.” 

You sometimes catch yourself missing it. Home. Or whatever you could call it. The small apartment you were renting couldn’t really classify as home. There was no warmth in it, no pleasant memories, only constant routine that never seemed to change. 

The two of you walk through an arch and stay by a small pond, some fishes swimming in it. Santino turns to you with a question on his lips. 

“Do you trust me?” it comes off as a surprise to you. For a moment you panic but try not to show it. Did he- 

You try not to worry about what he might have meant by that and answer nonetheless. “I do.”

He hums in confirmation. “But, why are you asking me that?” you question him. 

He seems to think for a moment before his eyes focus on a spot in the water. “You’ve been here 2 years already, with no way of going back home, nor being close to finding it.” 

It feels like a punch in the gut, the hopelessness of not finding the solution to your never ending problem. But the Italian doesn’t mean to make it sound like that, it’s not an accusation, just a simple statement.

“I’d prefer to know that you can trust me so I can return that trust.” his gaze shifts from the pond to you, a light breeze flowing through some unruly curls on his head. 

“And do you?”

“Yes.” you relax at that answer, but feel bad for it. You’re lying to him, the moment you got back from the desert you’ve been lying to him, whether it’s about your stay there and even this. A simple question regarding your trust towards the Italian, to Camorra even. 

You dread the day he might find out about the deal, the tasks the Elder has been giving you. You try not to think much about it but the weight of it still remains. 

The next few days are the same, wake up, train, get ready for the mission or some new contract. You’ve been switching between missions and the tasks from the High Table like crazy, working on barely a few hours of sleep and exhaustion looming in your body. Even your night visits to Santino’s office had subdued. You hope that the Italian might see it as you being too tired from the contracts, maybe even some relief that you get some sleep at night without a problem of nightmares suddenly waking you up. 

You get back from one of the contract missions to a message on your bed. You know what it is before you even pick it up. This time it’s just a meeting point with one of the messengers for the High Table. 

You sneak out of the mansion as quickly and quietly as you can, you make sure that no one follows you when you arrive at the spot. A man waits by the car and gets inside it, you follow him and sit in the backseat. He passes you a note. 

Mikael Nieve

A small picture attached to it shows a heavy built man, short haircut and slight stubble on his face. There are some traces of white hair in the haircut. 

“Does he have any security on him?” you ask the driver. 

“Two with him, two outside of the booth and three keeping an eye out on the hallway where his room is.” he tells you and starts the car. 

You arrive at the hotel and immediately head to the restaurant. It’s a large venue but there’s so many tables that it looks clustered together. The barman gives you a look as you walk past and towards Mikael’s table. Some people already sit by it but you don’t see your target. Some of them give you a quick glance as you slow down your footsteps but you don’t falter and head straight to the bathrooms. He’s not there either. You think for a moment and head towards the hotel rooms. 

You look out for the security men with him and just like the driver said, you see three of them circling around the hallway. One of them stands by the door while the other two walk back and forth at the ends of the hallway. The red haired man notices you and starts walking towards you. 

“Miss, this area is unavailable to other guests. Please head back or use the elevator to-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence as a bullet hits his throat. His body buckles to the ground, bloody red hand moving down from his neck. The other men hear the thud of the body, one runs up to you, gun in his hand, the other enters the hotel room, trying to get Mikael out. The man fires and the bullet grazes you in the arm, you fire back, hitting the man in the hip. He charges at you and you knock the gun out of his hand, from the corner of your eye you see Mikael being hidden by the other guard’s body. You shot the gun at the man in front of you, his body slowly falling down to the ground as your focus is completely directed to Mikael. 

The guard sees you and tries firing the gun but don’t give him a chance as the bullet enters his head. You set your eyes on the target and fire, an empty clicking sound following. No more bullets. The man grins and runs at you. 

You dodge him and move to the door of his room, better to take the fight somewhere away from unwanted eyes. Both of you enter the room, dodging each other’s attacks. The man slams you to the wall, his hand on your throat, squeezing as hard as he can. The oxygen slowly runs out, your hand goes to the side of your thighs, reaching for the small knife concealed in there. You get a hold of it and slice at the hand holding your throat. The man backs away and you push him through the bathroom door, his body on the ground. You move to give one last blow but the man switches places with you and lifts you up, slamming your body on the mirror. Shards and broken pieces of glass falling to the floor. 

The man heaves as you try to get up. “Give my regards to whoever set up the contract.” his hand flies up, ready to deliver the final blow. You scatter on the ground, fiddling to find some new weapon. You take a hold of one of the broken pieces from the floor and plunge it in his neck. A trickle of blood runs from the wound on his neck and from his mouth, a scarlet hand reaches out to you, leaving a print on your shoulder. 

You look over to the man, light escaping from his eyes before giving away his last breath. You sit there for a moment, heart racing, wounds and bruises created in the process making themselves known. Your body seems to move on his own, hand reaching into your pocket, a shattered screen of the phone lighting up. You dial a number and hesitate. Can you trust the old man not to say anything? You opt not to and call the driver instead. 

With a weak voice you say “I need a reservation for four.” the other side hangs up. You stand up from the floor and stride to the hallway. The three men lay perfectly still on the floor, blood seeping into the carpet. You curse under your breath and bring them into the room, one by one. 

A quarter passes before you hear a knock on the door. You reach out to the gun, the magazine already replaced with a new one. You open the door and sigh when seeing the familiar face of the driver. You move aside, letting the men he brought with him work. They clean everything up rather quickly, still precize like Charlie’s men. The hallway is taken care of too, leaving nothing to ponder about when walking the hallways. You turn to the driver, anger slowly rising on your face. “I want to talk to him.” 

He knows who you’re talking about. He shakes his head and scoffs. “You can’t just demand something like that.” 

“This wasn't part of the deal.” 

“And what was it exactly? You’re bound to the High Table, you can’t alter the deal he gives you. Just follow orders or I’ll gladly put a bullet through your head.” he warns you and passes you, leaving you alone in the room, the scent of cleaning detergents in the air. What did I get myself into? you think while leaving the room. You enter the car, driver only giving you some change of clothes, eyes focused on the road. You change into the running clothes and exit the car as you reach the mansion. The driver says nothing, not informing about any new task that will come soon. You’re left in the driveway and run to the mansion. 

There are few guards stationed outside, they nod at you as you run by and into the building. Some sweat clinging to your skin, made a few laps so that you keep up the cover up story. You walk up the stairs, heading into your room but see the light coming from Santino’s office. You hesitate but knock on the door. 

You walk in, seeing the Italian looking over some papers, another deal probably. He looks up at you from them, a lazy smile with a hint of surprise on his face. “I was wondering where you went off to. Your room was empty.” he observes but the small paranoia cripples up your spine. Why was he in your room? He seems to notice your silent question. “I was walking by, usually you have your light on at this hour, that wasn’t the case tonight so I wanted to make sure that at least one of us got some good night sleep.”

You believe him and walk over to the desk. “I went running. Thought that maybe some exercise will tire me out, help me fall asleep.” 

“So then, a new technique for insomnia?”

“In its experimental stage.” you sit by his side, one of the chairs still there in case you come in. A small change in his office since you’ve arrived in his world, a pleasant one too, comforting. “What’s all this?” you gesture to the stack of papers spread on the desk. He’s been working non stop on the deals with other countries, shipments that needed to go through, blackmails, especially now as the Head. 

“Overdue deal with the Germans. They’re getting restless, and soon so will I.” he chuckles weakly. The bags under his eyes evident, hair not so elegantly slicked, few loose curls falling on his forehead. 

“You should rest.”

“I should finish this. Get it over with.” he speaks softly and you don’t push any further, knowing how stubborn he can be. 

You watch him work, occasionally help with translation if needed. The night drags on, moon high up in the sky peeking through the window. Both of you talk, trying not to keep yourself awake even if sleep would be much needed now, but it’s too nice to just leave him all alone. The comfort hanging in the air is cozy, you could feel it being wrapped around your body. 

Santino surprises you with a question. “Do you want to go back? To your world.”

You take your time this time, contemplating on the answer. Do you? Can you even go back? The past two years have changed you as a person, to be in a world where it’s all a fiction but has never felt more real. Can you go back after the things you’ve seen?

“I don’t know.” you start. “I still catch myself wanting to go back but recently…” Santino looks at you with keen eyes, dreading your response, A glimpse of care in his eyes and something more. “recently I’ve been feeling like I’ve finally found a place where I could be myself, not worry about anything that I was living through in my world.”

It’s a half lie. The Elder could still have your head on a spike if you speak a word about your deal. But you want to stay, stay at Camorra, with the Guard, with Santino. It’s… home. More twisted version of it but better than you could have expected.

“Ben still catches you in the library, looking through every physics book we have.” the Italian comments and you smile. The library has been your place of quiet and intense search. Physics books didn’t do anything to have even a small glance or chance at your return to home. Ben caught you a few times with books spread around you, at first he talked to you out of pity but with time he warmed up to you, started helping with whatever knowledge he had. 

“None of them were helpful, mind you.”

“I’ll make sure to buy new ones for your research, then.” he replies and you’ve now noticed how close he was sitting next to you. Your eyes move quickly to his lips and back to the emerald green of his eyes. If you moved closer you could… You move back slightly, looking at the clock behind him, 5am.

“I should try and get some sleep, Andre will kill me if I miss the training.” you announce and stand up from the chair. Santino catches your wrist and you turn, he lingers, a silent sentence in his head, one that you can’t decipher. He let’s go and his eyes follow you as you exit his office. He doesn’t voice the faint bruises that have been forming on your throat. 

You reach your room, not bothering to change your clothing as your frame falls on the bed. The soft mattress engulfs you as you finally feel the exhaustion get to you. 

#john wick fic #john wick #santino d'antonio x reader #fic; dulce periculum #my fic tag #writing #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #john wick 2 #john wick parabellum #some action finally #i know im a bit late with the update but im working on it #small steps #feel free to give me your thoughts #Feedback is much appreciated #posting this gif was a nightmare

[ep-the-penguin]

Deal With The Devil

(Credits to the original gif creator)

[Published: Saturday, January 2nd, 2021]

Pairings: Santino D'Antonio x F. Reader

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: Just angst... I guess... And light swearing...

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Summary: (Y/N) ends up making a deal with the most powerful demon that exists...

~~~~~~

Notes: With the start of a whole new year (hopefully a better one for everyone), I wanted to post a little something-something for my boi, Santino. And also this is the first thing I've posted this year so yeah-

This one-shot was something that I randomly (more like forced myself really-) came up with just a few hours ago. This was meant to be a very short drabble but... Here we are.

Even though I'm highly satisfied with this as a stand-alone, I would possibly one of these days like to turn this short scene into a mini-series of some sort. But that's only if anyone actually wants to further learn about this Alternate Universe, (Y/N)'s and Santino's relationship, so on and so forth. Also, no promises though...

Anyway, wishing everyone has an awesome start to this beautiful new year, and now, onto the actual story!

Anyone who speaks Italian, correct me on my garbage Italian... Please?

I also would appreciate it if you REBLOGGED my work instead of liking them. It helps not only me but others' works to be put more in the top spots of the tags algorithm, so our works can get seen by as many people as possible. Thank you for understanding!

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With a shaken breath, (Y/N) places a small wooden box in the hole that she had just created with the soil.

She brings out her leather bonded spellbook from her satchel, rapidly flipping through the pages until she lands on the correct one.

She pauses for a moment, her mind wandering with thoughts of what her parents might think of her for breaking the promise she had made with them for almost a year now, even a few months before her mother had tragically died.

She swallows down her salvia and the ever-building guilt, glancing at the photo sticking out of her book. She hesitantly pulls out the photo, studying the smiling faces of her two loving parents and herself from a few years ago. She sadly smiles, tracing her mother's face with tenderness before reluctantly placing it back deep inside of the book.

This is the only way. She reminds herself before whispering the spell with incredible perfection. It only makes sense that she can say it so flawlessly, and that's because she's done it many times throughout the years now.

Once the words the spell is completely said, silence fills the air of the darkened location as she glances around the open dirt area. She patiently waits, her nerves getting the best of her as she tightly grips onto her jeans, trying to stop her hands from shaking so much.

Is that idiot ever going to come? She asks herself, glancing at her phone after a few minutes of nothing.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blows away the fallen hair from her face as the person she so happened to be waiting for finally makes his appearance.

"Passerotta!"

Speak of the devil… She breaths out a sigh in relief that she didn't even know she was containing as she glances at the male confidently standing a few feet away from her.

As always, he looks just as inhumanly stunning (and overly cocky) just like she had remembered him being since the last time she had spoken with him.

He currently wears a dark green three-piece suit that surprisingly looks great on him, especially since it matches his brightly colored eyes.

She tiredly sighs, slouching her shoulders as she runs her hand through her slightly messy hair, hoping to get this stupid conversation done with.

"What a pleasant surprise mio piccolo cacciatore, and one that I so happened to need right now." The demon happily greets with a large grin, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he watches her with a curious gaze.

She choices to remain quiet, not bothering to greet him like she usually would, with her playful, sarcastic, and witty attitude as she turns her head away from him, avoiding making eye contact with the demon.

His smile slowly falters as he studies her odd and closed off behavior. His mind races with so many questions and concerns as he continues to observe her from his spot.

"It has been almost a year since we've last spoken. Have you been alright, mio caro amico? You don't look too well-"

"Save him…" She softly mumbles, slowly lifting herself off the ground.

"I'm sorry?" He asks, frowning his brows in both worry and confusion.

"I said, save him." (Y/N) harshly repeats herself, now having the courage to gaze straight into his eyes.

The demon sighs, turning away from her hard glare as he combs a hand through his curly locks. "I can't."

"And why not? As far as I know, you're the only reason why he's even in this mess, to begin with!"

"I only did what he asked of me, what he wanted me to do. He willingly made the deal with me. No one can change that, but you already know that." He reminds her, narrowing his eyes slightly as he folds his arms together.

"You could have refused him." She points out, following his movements.

"You know I don't do that, (Y/N)."

"I don't need this bullshit right now, Santino." She announces, pinching the bridge of her nose while shaking her head.

"Really? I don't recall you ever mentioning that information to me."

"Santino! Just save him goddammit!"

"May I remind you that once a human has a mark of a deal, there is nothing anyone can do to stop the consequences."

That's not entirely true and you know it… She wants to yell at him at that moment for lying straight to her face, but instead choices to keep her mouth shut about that information as she adverts her gaze to her mud-covered boots.

"...he's the only thing I have left in this world, Santi…"

Silence comes from the demon, causing her to glance at him in question as she notices he's not looking at her but instead at the night sky with an unreasonable expression.

"One less hunter to deal with, the better it is for me." He says after a few moments of continued silence, shrugging his shoulders which causes (Y/N) to tightly clench her fists and jaw out of frustration.

"Santino, I'm begging you, save my father. Please." She desperately begs, tears welling up in her eyes as she tries to fight them from falling.

He raises a brow, stuffing his hands inside of his trousers as he stalks closer to her, almost reminding her of a predator with its prey. She remains completely still, allowing him to examine her with such calculation with his stare.

"And what would you give me in return?"

(Y/N) blinks, snapping her gaze to stare into his green colored ones in confusion. She had once, a long time thought, firmly believed that he was different from all the other demons and dark entities. That he was her only true friend, the only person that she can rely on...

But as soon as the realization hits her, she almost lets out a sob as she remembers that her father was right all along. Santino is just like everyone else, using her innocence and naiveness to manipulate her, probably to use her natural abilities and position in society to gain even more power than he already has or needs.

"Well, what do you offer, little one?" Santino softly asks, waiting ever so patiently for her answer.

She takes a long and almost pained breath of air, mentally preparing herself for the many consequences that are going to occur once she makes a deal with the most powerful demon that man itself knows so little about.

As a tear slips from her eye, she quickly wipes it away as she reminds herself that she has no other choice but to do this…

"Anything you want, Santino D'Antonio."

He smiles, but not the kind that she would expect to see from a powerful being like himself. It's something along the lines of being pained, broken, and almost torn around the edges.

She nearly has to stop herself from taking a step back from the shock of witnessing the demon's vulnerability.

He reaches a hand of his out, eyes secretly pleading for her to stop. "Then we have ourselves a deal, (Y/N) Wick."

She ignores her mind screaming at her to stop, ignoring the demon's stare, and just ignoring everything her parents had taught her not to do over her years of learning magic as she firmly grips onto his larger hand, completing the contract.

#john wick one shot #john wick imagine #john wick au #john wick fanfic #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #reader insert #x reader #au one shot #demon au #magic au #ep the penguin writings #demon santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio oneshot #platonic one-shot #child!reader #teen!reader #platonic

[nw-art]

I wanted to keep this fic as a one-shot, buuuut... You know how it is. I’m all hype and felt a MASSIVE urge to write a follow-up to what I recently posted.

Therefor! Here’s chapter 2, containing: - dinner date; - Santino being Santino;  - me crying over how wonderful Italian food is;  - hahaha are you some kind of mafioso hahaha??!!; - comparing Santino’s cufflinks to stars picked up from the velvety night sky; - 2.4k words. 

Enjoy!

#santino d'antonio x reader #john wick #john wick fanfic #santino d'antonio #john wick chapter 2 #reader insert #riccardo scamarcio

[idle-writer]

Masterlist

MASTERLIST (Updated: 07-09-2020)

All works are cross-posted only on my AO3. 

Requests are open.

RK800 / CONNOR

think before - ongoing - (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ...) 

RK900 / NINES

His Place

RK800 / CONNOR x reader x RK900 / NINES

Intruder - ongoing - (1, 2, 3, ...) 

BUCKY BARNES

Wintercearig - ongoing - (1, 2, ...)

Study All Night

It’s a date!

Lip Reading (18+)

First - collection of one shots feat. firsts with Bucky (requests are open)

first meeting

first time saying “i love you”

STEVE ROGERS

..

PETER PARKER

..

SANTINO D’ANTONIO

Come and Get Me

Ignorance is Bliss

#masterlist #detroit become human #marvel cinematic universe #connor x reader #connor x you #rk800 x reader #rk900 x reader #nines x reader #mcu imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #santino x reader #santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick imagine #dbh imagine #sebastian stan #john wick #reader insert

[ricinbach]

dulce periculum | chapter i - smoke

through me you pass into the city of woe.

It was one of those nights where it seemed like the amber liquid in the crystal glass never ceased to end, regardless of how many sips were taken.

The gentle hum of jazz and light fingers on the delicate piano delighted the atmosphere, nicely complementing the woody bourbon aftertaste and the cigar smoke in the low air. The comfort of the plush, intricate leather against tailored suits and the crackle of blue, orange and red flames.

Hints of cutlery touching the gold-engraved china, of crystal hitting mahogany a little too harshly. Of concealed weapons hitting a little too close against the body. Of the smallest pitter patters of raindrops against tempered glass behind the dark crimson velvet curtains.

It was calm - a state of luxurious peace and quiet. The curtains shielding the light from the outside hustle and bustle of the giant city, a city without borders. Where anything and everything was allowed as far as imagination went. Guidelines to be followed, self-inflicted or enforced, yet almost exclusively broken all the time.

But here, within the limits of this building, there were rules.

Important, life-changing yet very simple, very few ones. Unspoken ones. Not a single table, writing or guidebook could be found anywhere on the premises. There was no need.

Rules every habitant, temporary or permanent, had to obey - which was not considerably hard to begin with. It could be baffling how many chose not to and succumbed to their weaker halves, no matter how many times they have been instilled in their brains or how severe the consequences had been in the previous cases of mischief.

Everybody knew. Everybody in this life of danger, sin and animalistic brutality knew yet how every action had a consequence. Every mistake had a price tag on it - a hefty gold coin or the unfriendly end of a sharp blade. Every kill usually came with some sort of chaos in the aftermath, sometimes in the silent cries of weeping widows, sometimes in the echoing sounds of even more bullets.

Thankfully, everybody behaved that night.

For now.

It was a prize to be earned these days to have a single night of peace and quiet. To have a drink in solitude, accompanied by the soothing music and the grumbling maze of your thoughts, bitter liquids making their way down your throat as they warmed you up.

The pianist would transition into a low and slow sonata as a delicate finger trailed around the thin, crystal Negroni glass while more calloused ones made themselves gently known on your covered back - a hovering touch, one that aims not to disturb but to awaken, to calm, to reassure. A touch that knew just how fast you and your senses could react upon intrusion and discomfort.

It’s just me.

Familiar hints of fresh air, linen and slightest musk calmed your senses as your sleep-deprived eyes stared at the soft bar light reflecting and simmering against the amber of your drink, its orange aroma reminding you of home. The owner of the lingering touch on your back making their way to the leather-bound stool on your right, a gentle smile on the corners of the lips. A smile many could miss, could mistake as a sarcastic or condescending little smirk. A genuine smile that not many could be on the receiving end of.

“Oh, dear.”

Eyes turning to the side following your body that merely adjusted to face the blue eyes, you kept leaning against your elbows on the mahogany with a quizzical expression on your face - but not without a soft curl of your lips.

It felt good to be in his presence, after all.

“I have never seen much good come out of a Negroni night for you, Miss.”

A chuckle escapes your lips, not the happiest one nor the saddest but one that is genuine at the generalized observation over your life patterns. What made your throat constrict, however, was not the uneasiness from the man or the alcohol as you took another sip in a hurry - but just how spot-on he was.

The vermouth running down you was not the answer to your prayer for comfort and for him to be wrong just once - but it brought fire.

Fire, so bright and so, so warm. Yellow and blue, orange and red, murderous yet cathartic.

Fire that engulfed the card as it darkened on your palm.

“Always the optimist, Winston.”

It was his turn to chuckle as he retracted the hand and laid his thin glasses down on the polished bar counter, his blue shirt complementing the designer navy suit that he always seemed to favor. A finger gently lifting to hint the bartender for another one of his classic drink.

Classy, yet subtle. Like all that made him, him.

A comfortable silence ensued as you took yet another sip, the ribbed needles of thoughts swarming through your mind, winning over the previous state of peace and quiet once they reminded of just why you were there while a part of yourself found solace with the comforting familiarity of the moment.

Winston. A safe spot in a not-so-safe city. Irresistible drinks and understanding silences that in fact, revealed everything.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked gently as he cut through the void, eyes not leaving your bloodshot ones, his Martini glass tilted in preparation for his sip. It was a question that meant no harm but made your jaw clench regardless, your tired but able body tense under the Armani.

In a world that let you survive often times by lying, it would not save you then. Behind those wondering, knowing eyes, he could read you like an open book - wasting all of those years of practicing the stoic poker face, the one that came out right before the kills or the big lies. It worked on most, hell, it worked on all of them before the big kills that brought you the sweet, green cash. The big lies that saved your life undercover. The situations that no one could survive unless they played their cards right.

Didn’t work on him either, apparently.

“Trouble would be all gone if you could help me out with one thing.”

To that, he would tilt his head curiously, setting the glass on the coaster with such grace, deviousness with a hint of worry shining in his eyes.

“You can ask John Wick to come join me for some bourbon.”

#back at it again #posting from ao3 #john wick x reader #john wick #santino d'antonio #winston #santino d'antonio x reader #i am a simp and simp forever #val writes #fanfic #dulce periculum #dante

[fics-not-tragedies]

January 2024 Music Prompts: Day 12

I Can See You ♫ Taylor Swift

I Can See You ♫ Taylor Swift x Santino D'Antonio

But what would you do if I went to touch you now?/What would you do if they never found us out?/What would you do if we never made a sound?

Santino, a charismatic man with a mysterious aura that reverberated through the office corridors, became entangled in a secret romance with his colleague, you. The hum of the neon lights and the rhythm of the tapping keyboards formed the backdrop for your stolen glances and clandestine conversations.

One afternoon, when the office was in its usual chaos, you and Santino found yourselves alone in the break room. There was a tension in the air of unspoken desires, and the proximity of your shared space seemed to intensify the heartbeat of your connection.

Santino leaned against the counter with a playful gleam in his eye. "But what would you do if I touched you now?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that stirred the air between the two of you.

You, your cheeks flushing with a mixture of anticipation and hesitation, met his gaze. "What would you do if they never found us out?"

Your words, like a dance of possibilities, hung in the air - an unspoken agreement that lingered beneath the surface of your professional facades. The breakroom, usually a space for hurried lunches and casual small talk, became a clandestine meeting ground for the burgeoning romance that neither of you could deny.

Santino, with a confidence that bordered on audacity, closed the distance between you. His hand, warm and inviting, brushed against yours as he reached for a cup of coffee. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and your eyes locked in a silent exchange that spoke volumes.

"What would you do if we never made a sound?" Santino continued, his lips curving into a knowing smile.

You, caught in the magnetic pull of the moment, felt the walls of restraint crumbling around you both. The allure of the forbidden lingered in the air, a temptation that fueled the flames of your hidden desires.

As the days unfolded, Santino and you navigated the delicate dance of your workplace romance. The office became a theater of stolen glances, lingering touches, and shared secrets concealed behind the guise of professionalism. The unspoken understanding between you two heightened the thrill of your connection, like a covert operation conducted in plain sight.

During a late-night project, when the office was shrouded in silence, Santino and you found yourselves working alone. The glow of computer screens cast a soft illumination, creating an intimate atmosphere that seemed to invite the revelation of your concealed desires.

"But what would you do if I went to touch you now?" Santino whispered, his words a promise that hung in the air like a question mark.

You, your heart pounding, met his gaze with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. In that suspended moment, the boundary between professionalism and passion blurred, and the allure of what lay beneath the surface became impossible to ignore.

Santino, with a tender boldness, cupped your face in his hands. Your lips met in a quiet symphony of desire, a kiss that spoke of the suppressed emotions you had dared not acknowledge.

"What would you do if they never found us out?" Santino murmured against your lips, his voice a breathy confession.

You, caught in the throes of a passion that had long simmered beneath the surface, felt a sense of liberation. The weight of secrecy lifted, and the office, with its walls of restraint, became an arena for the unbridled exploration of your connection.

In the hushed stillness, as your kisses became a language of their own, Santino whispered, "What would you do if we never made a sound?"

Your workplace romance, once confined to stolen moments and concealed glances, became an open acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed amidst the hum of office machinery and the monotony of daily routines.

#january 2024 music prompts #music prompts #santino d'antonio fanfiction #santino d'antonio fanfic #santino d'antonio fic #santino d'antonio imagine #santino d'antonio drabble #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #imagine #drabble #santino x reader #santino x you #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio x you #prompt fics

[the-darklings]

—𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒖𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒏𝒕;

—PART XX. | ODERINT DUM METUANT

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

word count: 19.6k+

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

warnings: underlying angst, swearing, minor panic attack

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

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

“Well?”

“The toxicity in your blood has increased again.”

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

“What’s next?”

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

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

It’s unlikely you have that kind of time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none of those assumptions are correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything you’ve told him…

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

It makes him feel sick. Furious.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

“You’re turning brooding into a sport.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you here, Hector?”

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

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

“We’re going to be late.”

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

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

And now…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She would do it for you.”

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

“Would she?” he counters softly.

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

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

When, oh when, will your luck run out?

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

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

“But what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you know what this war would mean.”

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

And so it leaves only one question to be asked.

“So why are you so fine with it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We should go.”

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

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

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

Santino is not coming.

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

You’re aware. But you had also hoped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not angry. I just hoped…”

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

Cars. Multiple cars, approaching at a rapid speed.

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

One black and the other…

White.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darlin’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Battle ready. Dressed for war. Prepared for bloodshed.

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

“You came.”

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

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

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

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

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

The simplicity of those words undoes you completely.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pure sarcasm drips from his tongue.

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

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

“I’m aware.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s smart,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Surely not.

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

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

And most certainly not looking for revenge of your own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ruska Roma.

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

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

Winston and Santino are here by virtue of choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drawing a fortifying breath, you make the first move.

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

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

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

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

“That would be unfortunate.”

“For me, or for my ass?”

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

“Both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dead to the world.

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

You were his favourite.

Tragedy.

Tragedy.

Tragedy.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—I’m fine.”

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

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

Your throat burns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not alone.

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

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

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

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

Light flares ahead, drawing your eyes to it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your peripheral, you see him gesture around vaguely.

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

Funny how time changes things.

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

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

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

“The further you fall,” you supply evenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There are conditions.”

Your eyes snap to the Bowery King.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be very careful—”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terror tinged with unease at the open threat.

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

Then, follows a tinge of grim satisfaction.

Good. Let them hate as long as they fear.

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

Clap. Clap. Clap.

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

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

Did I?

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

“And what of your word?”

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

“My word?” you repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Halt, snake.”

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

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

Your eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“New orders.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would he really risk open war?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Slyfer?”

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

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

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

“Possibly.”

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

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

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

“Just because my poison—”

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

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

“Vipress!”

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

“Join us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two very familiar men peer back at you.

The Elder’s face. Rafik’s face.

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

“Where did you get these?”

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

Zach. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t let him take you.”

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

“I know,” you say calmly.

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

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

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

The Elder’s face distorts—

“V.”

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

The world is coming undone at the seams.

Shit—

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

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

Shit, not now.

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

“V—”

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I speak with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Johnathan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you love her.

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

“Are you not going to ask me?”

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

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

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

“You don’t think she will.”

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

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

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

“Are we done here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

“You should tell him.”

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

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

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

“It can wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Elder.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ends justify the means.

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

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

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

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

. . .

an:

and then there were five.

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

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

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #john wick fic #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio imagine #fanfic #original characters #fic: children of ares

[kashimos-hajime]

dance with the devil | d.w.t.d. 00

summary: “Perhaps you’re the man I’m looking for.”

WARNINGS: smut! straight up, they’re horny!!! swearing, drinking, switch santi, choking, teasing, tenderness, etc. pairing: santino d’antonio x fem!reader word count: 5.3k

a/n: ok so i promised a santino fic a few months back, and here it is. @the-darklings, this is all because of you 🤡🤡🤡 also, first time smut so like,,, here we go. now a prologue to dance with the devil series :)

... | 01 | 02 | 03 

You meet him when you are twenty two and he, twenty five. Young girl and boy who know exactly how the world works yet not quite. The Sicilian nights are hot, and the taste of alcohol is already settling itself well on your tongue as you spot him just across the bar, lifting his glass to you the instant eyes meet.

He stinks of money and he drips gold as he inclines his head to you. Then, he drains the whiskey in one foul swoop. You smile and busy yourself with scanning the dancing crowd. You have a meeting for a contract, and if whoever wanted to hire you could just show up—

Your eyes are dragged almost against their will back to the man. His green eyes remind you of a smiling snake, silky hair glimmering in the yellow light above the bar.

He wants you, that much is certain. The red and blue strobe lights that swing their way paint him a pretty demon as you tip a shot of liquid courage down your throat. There’s another man by his side but he doesn’t appear focused on his friend’s attention wandering off towards you. Crooking a finger, his smirk simmers underneath your skin as he beckons you towards him.

Meandering over, you tug at strap of your dress and drop off your shot glass at the bar counter, fixing on that smile many men have fallen to their knees for. Men you’ve left in dust the instant you had no use of them.

Santino D’Antonio might be your greatest conquest yet. If whoever wanted to buy you isn’t showing up, it’s their loss. You’re quite sure a Camorra heir can outpay whatever Tarasov has to offer to convince you to stay in his service.

You grin, carefully tucking a strand of hair into your ear and pulling out the earpiece with it. You drop it to the floor, letting it become crushed underneath a drunk dancer’s weight, before you approach Santino. There is a vacant seat beside him, one which you eye for a moment before soaking in Santino’s face. He tilts his head to the seat but you simply raise your hand for him to take.

“Salve.”

“Buona sera.” His hand engulfs yours, fingers like tendrils of ivy that wrap around your wrist warmly. His mouth finds your knuckles, lips soft against your skin before he straightens once again. “Have I interested you in some way, sir?” You feign your ignorance and he grins.

“You have. Sit, bella mia, and drink with me.” A glass of rich red is placed before you and you arch an eyebrow at the dark liquor, grasping it by the stem and raising it to your nose. “Basse Sangiovese Toscana.”

“$500 dollars in a single glass,” you point out, and his smirk grows. “You have money to spend, signore?”

“I do on a woman like you,” he murmurs. “Try.” Coming from his smooth voice, it sounds more like an order than a request, his eyes resting intently on your cheek. His stare burns, gliding down to your neck as you take a testing sip and you let out a breathless sigh as you swallow. It’s incredibly smooth, a hint of strawberry and spice biting at the back of your throat. Nodding, you wipe at your lip, a smear of lipstick following your thumb. “Good?”

“Fantastic. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…”

“Santino. And who has graced me?”

“Y/N.” He raises his glass to your name, downing his wine and you laugh lightly at his silly little smirk, as if that it’s meant to impress you. You lean on your elbow, cheek resting against your fingers as his glass is immediately replaced. “Although, I suppose there are other names to call me.” Your voice is feigned innocence wrapped up to look all pretty, and Santino’s eyes darken as he leans towards you, fingers brushing the cool skin of your wrist of your hand that still twirls that glass of wine, and you don’t look away when he finds your gaze again.

“Is there?”

You draw the glass to your lips, breaking the sizzling contact of his fingers against your skin. Your stomach is in knots as you take a longer pull. It swirls in your mouth, the flavours crashing down against your tongue as you swallow, and you sigh as it slides down your throat once again, silky smooth.

“Yes, of course. Where I work, ma’am suits me just fine.”

“Hm.” His eyes study you, and you let him, suiting to nurse your wine instead as he traces your side profile, and you like the attention he gives to your every little detail as you wave a hand for another glass. “That is not your money to spend, bella mia.”

“If you want me to stay, you’ll buy me another glass, Santino,” you quip and he surrenders with a small smile. He relaxes into the stool, still managing to look as commanding as you’ve heard he can be. At least, from what Jardani has told you.

Jardani who would kill you if he knew who you were talking to right now.

For that reason alone, it makes you all the more inclined to play with your food.

“So, what’s your story?” you begin, angling your body towards him. Your dress rides up your legs as you cross one over the other and you lean one arm along the back of the chair, bringing the new, full, glass to your lips. “Santino. I could read a lot from that name alone.”

“Take your best guess, then.” He’s inviting you to be wrong, and you know it. You know he wants to impress you, and you’re certain it has impressed many women before you, but to you…

The idea of simply throwing around money because you have more than enough to do so is one you can never quite wrap your head around. It nearly makes you sick with what riches has been linked to, and although you are more than able to sustain yourself now, you still have to work for it. After all, if Tarasov even caught wind of you trying to sneak out from underneath his iron grasp—

Hell to pay would be an understatement.

Santino never had to work a day in his life to keep himself alive.

“You’re obviously looking for someone. Why else would you be here?” you begin, deciding to play it easy for now. You still want to have fun. “You reek of money, from your suit to your demeanor, yet you sit here alone. You’re not one to party, to celebrate by going black with drink. You don’t want to be here. You could be at home, drinking the same wine, in the quiet by the fireplace. That is what rich men do, isn’t it? Brood and stare into a fire.”

He doesn’t answer. The wine sloshes as you twirl the glass. You gaze into the dark carmine, watching it filter out the light. The smell of vodka and sweat pushes up against your lungs as Santitno takes a sip of his own glass, and you wonder if he doesn’t answer because you’re a little bit too right.

“We do a lot more than that, bella.”

“Spend money on pretty girls,” you amend to his slight displeasure. You know what he wants, and it’s not you making fun of something meant to impress you. “How can I forget that?”

“And how about you, Y/N?” He tests your name on his tongue, and to your annoyance, the shiver that crawls up your spine is delightful. “Are you so bored that you will latch onto any man who shows interest in you?”

“What makes you think I’m bored?”

You are so dreadfully bored.

“You’re an intelligent woman, bella. You would not come here if you did not seek some sort of plaything.” He drags the glass between his lips and you hum to yourself, delicately tipping your own back. The red wine is singing, whispering in your head as you let it slip down your throat. Setting the glass down with a gentle clatter, you lean back into your chair again and look at Santino lazily.

“Then I guess we’re both looking for something, signore.”

He laughs, scathingly cold, calculated. You’re a problem he wants to solve, but when your own lazy smile turns cheeky, he scoffs as if to convince both himself and you that you’re no longer worth his time. You’re more than determined to prove him wrong.

Leaning forward, you uncross your legs and push yourself into his space. With one arm along the countertop and the other on his knee, you tilt your head and let out a soft sigh. You’re a rush of wine and heat and the flowers of Chanel Grand Extrait, and he breathes you in; intoxicating himself on you.

You’re a delight. You know this.

He licks his lips, his hand on the bar counter sliding over the wood until he reaches your elbow. A thumb traces the curve of your bicep, setting the skin on fire. Your blood is roaring, your mind razor-focused, and you smirk when his gaze finally meets yours. His eyes are softer as he soaks in your face, and you lift your hand from his knee, eyes flitting to his lips as you brush hair behind his ear. Your cheek brushes his, your fingers weaving deeply into his curls as you lean forward until your lips are by his ear. He lets out an amused purr, turning his head towards you. The gentle whisper of breath against your jaw makes your hair stand on end, but you feel more than alive. You are thriving off the current that runs from his heart to yours. Painted lips sweep over the shell of his ear and his hand finds your waist, already demanding.

“I’m not staying far away, signore,” you murmur and your breath is tantalizing sweet with strawberries and spice from the wine he’s paid for. His fingers dig deeper into your waist at the tone of your voice. “Perhaps you’re the man I’m looking for.”

.

There is one thing you learn about Santino.

He kisses as if he does not know when he will kiss you next—as if he is a starving man and you are a feast. He devours you with something dark and hungry, his eyes flooding with want, his hands roaming as he slams you against the wall. You let out a soft hiss when his hips grind against yours, and you nip the shell of his ear.

There is a hunger in you, too.

“How long has it been for you?” you ask teasingly, but he merely silences you with a bruising kiss and you laugh when he lets you breathe because of how eager he is to have his hands on every part of you. How eager he is to have everything you have.

That’s what it is with Santino D’Antonio. He wants things handed to him on a silver platter, and if he doesn’t have it, he will fight until he is bloody for it. He doesn’t care: whether it be power, control, or sex, or money, he will have whatever he wants.

Even if it means he’s fucking you against the door in the hallway of a hotel. You pull out the card, swiping it blindly against the black bar and praying it clicks as Santino nudges your head up, lips seeking the column of your throat. Your other hand is lost in his curls, clutching onto them desperately as his hands trace up the curve of your thighs.

Click.

It’s instinct. Santino crushes your hand on the handle, and together the two of you fall back as the door opens. You land with a painful gasp, the carpet doing nothing to cushion your fall as he kicks the door shut with a slam. You rip open his jacket, pulling it off his shoulders and he draws back long enough to fling it off, admiring the blown out irises, the heady mist in your eyes. Your shoulders protest as he lifts himself off of you and you stretch beneath him, arching like a feline caught in the shade. His hands disappear underneath your dress and you feel them hook on your panties. Sliding them delicately off your ankle, he gives you that arrogant twitch of his lip before throwing it behind him.

Sitting up, your fingers make quick work of the buttons, pressing a kiss to his chest before you let out a laugh. Slipping out from underneath him scrambling to your feet before he can protest, you toss your card onto the glass coffee table. He’s still on his knees, the belt hanging loose from his hips as you kick off your shoes.

“You’re not fucking me on the floor,” you tell him and he ascends to his feet as you back into your bedroom. Following, his eyes trace your every movement, his lips parted, his expression nothing you’ve ever seen before.

More than lust, his passion consumes him. He is feral: hair a mess, clothes wrinkled chaos and half undone. Something inside you stirs at the way he stalks your movement and you reach out to him, fingers outstretched. The rings glimmer in the low light and he eyes the diamond and gold adorning your fingers before looking up at you.

You arch an eyebrow, smile goading.

He takes your hand willingly and you pull him sharply towards you, spinning around and pushing him onto the edge of the bed. He sinks easily, and you smirk, lip caught between teeth as you swing a leg over his hips.

You stand victorious above him, grabbing his hands and settling them on your hips as you sink into his lap. There are no words and no words are needed as you toss your arms around his neck, lips finding his. Your eyes slip shut and he groans against your body as you melt into his body. His hands go flat against your back, trailing the smooth expanse of your skin as he runs his nails down your shoulder blade. Biting on his bottom lip, you give him a warning growl when one of his hands wanders too close to your head.

His other hand begins to unlace the backing of your dress, also known as the one thing keeping the skimpy black fabric tied to your body and he pulls your hair, exposing your neck to his starving lips once again.

“Santino.” His name comes out sharp—punishment—as the strings of fabric fall away and he brings a hand to your front, peeling away the dress from your chest. The ecstasy of his smooth mouth exploring your collarbones, your breasts, sends any complaints you had into the gutter.

You thought he’d be selfish in this endeavour, like he is in all else; no, he takes his time. He adores every inch of you, lavishes you with attention with that mouth of his and you simply let him, dress pooled around your waist, hands holding his head to your chest. His hands run up and down the line of your back, and you give an impatient wriggle.

“Patience is a virtue, no?” he murmurs into your breast, eyes flashing up at you, wide and innocent, as if he doesn’t have one of your nipples caught between his teeth. He smirks, smattering kisses between your breasts and your lip twitches.

Guess you have to do all the work.

His hands traverse down your back to your waist again just as you push him onto his back. Your legs bracket his hips and you reach between your thighs to unzip his pants as he gazes up at you in wonder. He doesn’t look displeased at all that you’ve interrupted his affections—instead, he looks all the more ravenous as his hands pull up your dress. Throwing it off, you barely give a shit where it lands as you focus on undoing the final button between you and him.

He lifts his hips off the bed, giving you enough room to pull down pants and boxers. Leaning forward again, you hover over him, landing little teasing kisses along his collarbones just as he gives an eager thrust up towards you. He barely misses his mark and you smirk, returning your attention to his face.

“Now, who’s impatient?”

“Bella, please.”

“Begging?” You could’ve laughed. Santino D’Antonio already begging in your hands. Your hand wraps around his bared throat and you fit your mouth to his, eyes closing as you slant your hips and sink. The sound he makes is not human, thrumming against your palm and throat, and his eyes squeeze shut. His fingers dig deep into your waist and you gasp, grinning when his hips jerk up against you. “I didn’t peg you for a begging man, Santino.” The words push into his mouth and he growls.

Even when he’s under you, Santino takes and takes and takes.

“I do not beg for what I can simply have, bella mia,” he whispers and your eyes widen as a hand finds itself around your own neck. Putting you into a sitting position, Santino’s hips still against yours and his green eyes sharpen in the golden light of your hotel room.

“And you think you can have this whenever you want it?” you hiss. You rock your hips back on him and he bites down on his lip, not eager to let you win. “Believe me, Santino, you are no match for me.”

His smile carves itself into your memory.

“Prove it.”

Your body is burning, your heart racing in between your legs as you grab his wrists and pin them above his head. The crush of his gel and the fragrant cologne, the taste of wine still on his lips, it all surrounds you as you ride him deeply, slowly, savouring every minute of him gliding against you.

His sounds are soft, breathy, and guttural as you lower yourself to him, eyes on his half-lidded green gaze. Whatever words he whisper are in indiscernible Italian and you close your eyes, just enjoying the fullness that is a man inside you after so long. Even if you had made fun of Santino for being eager, you are just as if not even more so.

The euphoria that surges through your veins cause a wildfire that burns its way through your muscles and you push harder against him, the sleek heat of his skin against yours causing your stomach to cramp. Pushing back against him, you lose yourself in the feel of him deep inside you, of his free hand running up and down your chest and abdomen. Breathless sighs spill from your lips as you feel his lips find the curve of your breast, fleeting kisses pressed into your ribcage as he finds small pleasures in merely touching your searing skin. Your hand slides over his smooth skin, trailing up his arm, wrapping around his head and he groans into your skin. His fingers in the flesh of your ass, his lips wrapped teasingly around one of your nipples, you’re arched against him like a cat and his hand runs down the fine line of your back.

“Bella,” he whispers through gritted teeth, at last catching your attention. Your other hand, heavy around his throat, slides to cup the side of his neck and jaw, and he closes his eyes, tilting his head back to expose more sweat-slick skin. Teeth run along the cord of his neck and you taste the wine in his skin.

His hands find your hips at last. He thrusts up into you harder, faster, and you let out a soft cry as he, unrelenting, takes you how he wanted to from the beginning. He’s fucking in deep, and rough, and you want him to just pin you to the bed and do all the work while you reap the pleasures of your wiles and teasing.

You relinquish your control to him and it’s evident when you succumb to him. Your eyes close and you sink into his grip, timing the roll of your hips to his smooth strokes. Laying flat against his chest, you let him hear what he does to you, how he pulls you apart you like you’re nothing more than a present to be ripped open.

“Santino,” you breathe, voice cracking and he pants into your mouth, rolling you over to your back. From this angle, he lifts your hips and his hips snap faster against yours, his bruised lips finding yours somehow. It’s a messy clash of teeth and tongue, and you barely manage to mumble “Fuck—” before he sneaks a hand between your two bodies and presses a thumb against your heat.

You dissolve into nothing more than a jumble of curses and pleads and moans, your hands finding purchase in his unruly curls. You yank him, hold him, order him around by your fingers in his hair alone, and he complies easily, his lips going where you need them.

The cramping in your stomach eases and you feel it rise within you, standing on the brink. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you take him in deeper, your head tossed back in bliss as he growls against your neck.

“Santino,” you gasp, his name sounding like the most wonderful song you’ve ever heard. It is your prayer answered as he hastens his thrusts, pumping in and out of you at a pace you can’t quite keep up with. Pushing against him, you feel his lips find your collarbone as the coil within you unwinds too slowly for your liking. The air is electric with the sound of skin on skin, the desperate panting, the wet slick of you. Because of him. “Santino, fuck.”

“Come for me, bella mia.” His voice is hoarse with restraint and you feel his cool breath against your lips as you manage to pry your eyes open. He is already there, watching, and you see the desire, the greed, so blatantly. He wants you to come undone before him. He wants to watch you fall apart before he does.

Always one to impress.

Muscles flex and your fingers rake down his back, leaving a trail of red marks as you shake your head, lip bit tightly between your teeth. His thrusts become frantic, chaos, and he loses his rhythm as you let him sink deeper into you, your thighs spreading wider for him. It’s so easy for him—you are so pliant beneath his touch, but so is he in your grasp.

His thumb against your clit presses harder against your nerves and you squeeze your eyes shut, lips parting to let out a hoarse cry, one he swallows with his own mouth. He exhales with every thrust, his soft moans weaving into your ears as he parts just enough to gain his breath. Noses brush, lips meet, and it becomes filthy with the open mouthed kisses he trails all over your cheeks, the corners of your mouth, your jaw.

“Santino.” His name comes out a whisper as you hitch a breath, the coil bending in your abdomen, and his strokes become desperate, slow, piercing. He ducks his head, a deep groan against your neck spilling out of his mouth as he comes undone, spilling into you with lazy thrusts. You shiver at the feeling, back arching just as he licks a stripe up your chest and you clench your abdomen, unwilling to fall so quickly after him—unwilling to fall apart at all.

You want to make him work for it.

He said prove it, so he must.

“Why do you deny me so, hm?” he murmurs, nose brushing against your jaw as he admires your fatigued expression. It’s taking all your might not to let go at the whim of his thumb rubbing slow circles against your clit, and he nips at your jaw, displeased. “Why do you deny yourself the satisfaction I bring you?”

“You said to prove it, caro mio.” He hoists himself up to look at you properly, his eyes still dark, blown out with lust. You’re sure he can probably go for another round in a moment, but you’re not letting him anywhere near you unless he can make the coil inside of you snap. “I think I’ve proven myself.”

“Hm, you have.” He presses a chaste, soft kiss against half of your mouth and he hums playfully as he trails it down your jaw.

“Good.” Your hands tug at his curls, and you sigh as his lips travel down your neck. “Now, it’s your turn, Santino. Nothing you’ve done has impressed me so far.” Liar.

“Really?” He doesn’t believe you either. Good. You’ve picked a smart one. His breath is husky against your breasts as he places deliberate little kisses down your ribcage, across your navel, caressing your taut abdomen with a gentle finger. “I give rewards when they are due.”

Your whole body is strung out on his touch, every single flitting thing setting you on fire and making your thighs clench as he finally reaches the notch of your hip bone. The air is alive with the smell of sweat and sex, and you melt into the mattress, trying to force yourself to relax.

“And have I been good?” you ask breathlessly as his finger brushes the inside of your thigh and he chuckles against your hip, biting down on the bone.

“You have been very good, bella mia.”

You’re still warm, a fresh carcass after a kill, and he sinks a finger into you easily, and then another. His other hand pushing your hips flat, he crooks them inside of you, playing with his food. His lips tease your inner thigh, the edges of your heat, and you throw your head back, hands tugging him to where you need him the most.

“How should I reward you, hm?” He pulls out his fingers, tracing the edges as he sucks a bruising kiss onto your inner thigh. Helpless, you can’t help but let out a small cry as he massages your swollen flesh. You’re so close. “With my fingers alone? Hm?” He demands an answer but you can hardly form a coherent sentence as he pushes his digits back into your molten wet heat. “With my mouth?” His breath pushes against your nerves and you let out a quivering sigh, thighs locking around his head and he chuckles. It is a warm, rich sound that echoes in this room as his nose brushes against your clit.

A word that resembles his name comes out choked and your jaw clenches as you let out an impatient groan at his teasing.

“Prideful woman. This all could’ve been avoided if you had simply come undone as nature had asked you to. As I asked you to.”

“Santino—” You cut yourself off when his fingers push deeper into you and your eyes flutter shut, your hips rising against his hand.

“I wonder how you taste,” he murmurs, voice muffled as his tongue flickers out. You feel it, gasping when his tongue dips in by his fingers, and your fingers pull hard on his curls as he groans into you.

The coil bends.

It’s a slow ramp up. Nothing crashing, instantaneous, and you enjoy it more this way. You savour his every lick, his every gentle crook of his fingers, the way he plays with you, the thumb against your nerves. It’s sloppy, it’s slow, and it’s fucking divine, as he raises his mouth. Moving his thumb out of the way, you are not prepared for the gentle suck of your clit, his lips wrapped around it like it’s a goddamn lollipop sucker.

“Fuck! Santino—” Your hips rise again but he presses you firmly down. You know he’s smirking—arrogant little shit— “Fuck.” The coil is breaking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Close, hm?” His words vibrate between your thighs and you jerk back into him, catching a third finger that sinks down into you deeply. It’s unabashedly hasty, the way he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. He’s waited long enough, the impatient bastard. “Let me hear you scream, cara mia.”

Your hand tightens in his hair as you come. Letting out a loud, cracked moan, your mind explodes into one of white stars and darkness as you try to ride out your pleasure. Eyes rolled back into your head, you sigh. Ecstasy pulses through your veins. Everything feels like warm honey as you pull him up by the hair and he grins when you study him, your chest heaving as you try to recover. Your nerves are shot. He’s no doubt pleased with himself.

“Shut the fuck up,” you mumble, closing your eyes and simply letting him have his way. His chin and lips are wet with you, and you sigh as he kisses you gently, softly, his fingers still working through your throbbing slick.

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, pressing a kiss onto the corner of your mouth. “Perhaps you are the woman I’m looking for, hm?” You open your eyes as he falls beside you, wiping at his face. You roll onto your side and he grins, his arm tugging you flush against him and you melt into his heat, eyes closing. “How much do I have to pay Tarasov to keep you, bella mia?”

Your eyes snap open and his arm tightens around you as he chuckles. You wrap a leg around his waist, looking up at him and he looks younger, softer in the afterglow of sex. Not like the arrogant rogue in the bar, but more a young man who gazes at you with an admiration you don’t receive often. His green gaze is clear as he uses his free hand to brush hair away from your face.

“How did you know?”

“How does one not recognize a woman as beautiful as you?” He grins, his hand running up your spine, and sucks in a breath between his teeth. “I’ve heard tales of you, Persephone, and to say they do not entice me will be a lie.”

“And do you think they are true?” you hum, your lips brushing his as you speak. He chuckles, fingers digging into your back.

“I am willing to give you a chance to prove it,” he returns. Rolling your eyes, you get up, something inside you twinging at the sudden movement. “It will be done. Prove yourself and you will be free of Tarasov for good.”

“Let me think about it,” you say, glancing back at him. He props himself up on his elbow, eyes fixed on you as you stand up. “Depends on the job.”

“Lisbon, two weeks from now. Half a million.”

“What for?”

“A small test.” He sits up, leaning back on his hands. “I am not the one you must impress.” You mull the thought over in your head, the idea of sitting in front of Giovanni D’Antonio not exactly a welcome thought.

“Fine,” you say anyway. Anything is better than Viggo Tarasov playing with the riches you’ve given him and threatening to take it all away with a simple snap of his fingers. The thought of him makes your insides curdle, and he’s a foul taste in your mouth.

You need to wash the thought of him away.

You head towards the bathroom, shaking your head, but turn when you don’t hear Santino following. Stopping at the doorway, you glance over your shoulder and the grin comes easily, softly, when you see him staring at you with feral desire. “Are you to join me? All this talk of business has made me so uptight.”

The shower steam does wonders for your muscles and mind.

Santino does even more so with his skilled tongue.

#fic: dance with the devil #santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio fic #riccardo scamarcio #riccardo scarmacio fic #john wick fic #my writing

[marytvirgin]

Hurricane - Santino D’Antônio

My first post here on the site. I'm sorry if it didn't look good. English is not my first language (I am Brazilian and I used Google Translate to do this). (The fact that I read almost everything in English but only know how to write the basics kills me. So I'm sorry if there are any mistakes.) Santino stole my heart, I need more of it to get well! I hope you like it!

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You didn't suspect anything the first time you met. How could you? Everything you saw in the man was charming, polite and handsome; the green eyes were always bright as emeralds; the smile made of disguised arrogance, power, glory and above all care. There was also the way he treated you, you felt like a queen every time he kissed the back of your hand, pulled the chair for you to sit on, opened doors for you to pass, offered his arm so you both could walk together, gave you beautiful flowers, he wrote letters by hand containing poems. Small gestures that won your heart. 

Over time things happened, but you ignored everything and all the red flags that your brain signaled you. You ignored the security guards who tried to hide from your eyes when you and Santino went out together. You ignored the lack of information about what his “company” worked with. You ignored that gun you found in the nightstand drawer next to his bed. You ignored everything that could end the perfect image of the man you learned to love. You ignored everything, because your world had no more colors than those that color his eyes. You ignored everything because Santino became everything to you. You ignored it until you couldn't. Until the day you were caught by some of the many men who hate Santino. Until the day you waited for him. Until the day he didn't come for you. Until the day you discovered everything he really is. Until you found out that you were not everything to him.

When you were younger you asked your parents where broken hearts go. Now you know they’re not going anywhere, they’re in the chest cutting us off with the shrapnel. Seeing Santino at the door of your apartment months after the kidnapping hurt. It is the first time that you has seen or spoken to him since that day. It hurt more than the rope they used to hold your legs and wrists, more than the slap you got on your face, more than the words they said to you when they realized that Santino wouldn't come for you. That he doesn't love you like you love him.

It hurt.

He seems to want to say something. The lips parted, but the words did not come out. How could he? There was nothing the Italian man could say to fix what was broken in your relationship. His father is the head of Camorra, his sister is the heir and he is only the replacement. Santino's situation is no longer good with his father, insisting with the older man that he needed to save you would only make things worse with his parent. He chose not to screw up with his father. Things are as simple as that, or at least they should be.

Everything should be as simple as the two of you lying in bed on lazy mornings, as passionate kisses, as love nights. But what did you both expect? That you both would live the life of a normal couple? No. Playing house never worked with adults. It doesn't work in your reality. You both wanted the simplicity of love; Santino wanted you, your smile, your voice, your love, your common life; you wanted him, wanted his smile, his accent, his voice, his curls, his love, but never in a million years would you want the life bathed in blood that Santino has. You both wanted the simplicity of love, and that is the problem: love has never been and will never be simple.

Loving is like facing a hurricane. It is having moments of devastation, destruction, chaos and if everything goes well go through it and be right in the center of everything; stay where the world is ending around you, but you are both safe. You and Santino went through your hurricane and are now facing the consequences.

Eye to eye, heart pounding at a thousand miles an hour, tears stinging behind the eyes pushing the pain out; you hold the door handle tightly and give a broken smile at his words.

“Amore, io... mi dispiace. I didn't want us to end up like this. I didn't want us to finish.” He was being sincere, you can see it by his eyes, by his face.

"Me neither. But it's okay, Santino.” Your voice is almost more broken than your heart. Almost.

Now, you finally understand why hurricanes are named after people.

"Goodbye, my love."

The door closes.

The tears fall.

Your Hurricane wins the name of Santino.

#santinodantonio #santino d'antonio #santino x reader #santinofanfiction #john wick #john wick x you #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader

[vostara]

— forgive my thoughts when i’m asleep (listen on spotify)

a playlist for my sci-fi au.

santino d’antonio x reader, with a splash of hinted romance at john wick

updated: august 17th, 2020 | all playlists

hurt - nine inch nails // marked for death - emma ruth rundle // mr. sandman - syml // do you really want to hurt me - dita von teese, sébastien tellier // falling in love with a memory - monarchy // night business - perturbator // disintegration - monarchy // haunted - maty noyes // criminal - the soft moon // blind - hurts // colonies - m83 // devotion (demo) - hurts // omyt - the retuses // the beginning is the end is the beginning - the smashing pumpkins // lilitu - blueneck // lethal - cloudeater // stockholm syndrome - nostalghia // my tears are becoming a sea - m83 // together - nine inch nails // illuminated - hurts // girls and boys - monarchy, dita von teese // smells like teen spirit - saint mesa // in the house - in a heartbeat - volkor x // bullets - archive // biting on a rose - mother mother // fire - saint mesa // dead love - the soft moon // i lived on the moon - kwoon // right behind you - nine inch nails

#v.mixtapes #fic: afterimages #playlists #vostara #santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio fanfic #john wick #john wick fic #emersonsfam