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westcoastrry · 2 months

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all that you are || part 1

authors note: okay it's here!! part one of this mini-series, it is a long one and there's lots of violence (and will be in all parts of this series), i will list all warnings so if you’re not comfortable reading, i totally understand!! if you are, grab yourself some snacks and get comfy cos you're in for a long ride! i really hope you guys love this series like i do <3 p.s. this used to be an oc fic, i have edited to make it reader instead, so if you come across any certain descriptions of the readers hair colour, skin etc. let me know as they were all supposed to be edited out!

warnings: mentions of blood and violence, sexual themes, mentions of r*pe, swearing, arranged marriage, mentions of alcohol and drug use

word count: 19,592

summary: y/n is thrown into her new life as harry’s wife, and harry has to learn and prepare himself to take over the famiglia.

Her tears have dried, though they still threaten to spill from her eyes. Eighteen is supposed to mean a party and your first sip of alcohol for a woman of the mafia.

Not for Y/N.

It’s an engagement party and her final social activity as a free woman. As if she could ever have been considered free. Women are never free. Only free for men to fuck and abuse whenever they please.

Y/N has never liked parties and she doesn’t exactly like people, either. Well, the only parties she’s ever attended are those of strict rules and professionalism and, maybe, being locked away your whole life does that to someone; makes you socially awkward and nervous in the presence of boys.

She shivers at the thought of a boy even noticing her, and now she’s engaged to the most attractive Made Man she’s ever heard of.

Her mother stands behind her, stern face and dressed in a tight lavender dress. She zips up Y/N’s cream dress and admires it in the mirror for a moment.

It’s form-fitting, small ruffles across the waist and it ends a few inches above her knees. It’s the most daring and revealing dress Y/N has ever worn, and it bubbles nerves and excitement within her.

Gaia gazes at her through the mirror with a distant look in her eyes. She can remember when she was Y/N’s age, married off to Giovanni. She can remember the fear and terror that consumed her body… that still does.

Y/N frowns. “Are you okay, Mother?”

It’s meant to come out much louder than it does. She sounds like a frail child. She is. Gaia snaps out of her trance and plasters on a smile, but it’s the same smile she uses after Giovanni finishes beating her. It doesn’t sit well in her daughter's stomach.

“You look absolutely gorgeous, figlia,” she tells her.

Y/N keeps her back to her and continues to admire the dress in the tall mirror. At least she’ll look pretty. Gaia brushes the top of her shoulders and twirls her curled locks around her finger.

“Behave tonight. This is more than just an engagement party. We can’t have Stefano changing his mind.” She warns.

She isn’t thinking about the heartache and pain Y/N will have to endure, she’s thinking about the countless nights that Giovanni will abuse her if this wedding doesn’t happen. Y/N nods her head, nerves bubbling in her stomach.

In thirty minutes, she’ll be surrounded by strangers as they judge and prod her. In thirty minutes, she’ll be meeting her future husband; one of the youngest, most dangerous Made Men in New York.

She’s known for two months now, since she got home from school and Giovanni broke the news. She spent the night fighting, sobbing and kicking and begging him not to throw her away like that. Begged for him not to hand her over to a man of such power, who will beat and hurt and abuse her.

Though when she thinks about it, it’s not much different from her current home life. She gave up fighting after he beat her bloody and blue. Her lip is still swollen from it and a soft bruise is hidden under her eye.

It’s lucky Gaia knows how to apply makeup. Y/N supposes she’s had enough bruises and scars of her own to hide over the years.

She thinks she should consider herself lucky, really. Most girls in Y/N’s position never even meet their husbands before their wedding day. At least she will have an entire night to find out who her sick father has chosen and have three years to prepare herself. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

Her eyes meet Gaia’s in the mirror. She hopes to find a hint of sadness in them, a flicker of guilt that she’s allowing her husband to do such a thing to their daughter. Y/N can’t hate her, no matter how much she tries. Gaia doesn’t have a choice in the matter. This is business between her father and the New York Famiglia. She’ll only get a black eye and a bollocking if she tries to intervene.

“Where’s Bruno?” Y/N asks softly, voice hoarse from the way she cried herself to sleep the night before.

She hasn’t seen her brother in almost a week, and she’s beginning to wonder if he’s actually going to show up at the party tonight. She needs his support—not that he’ll ever really offer any. He’s too far up Giovanni’s ass.

Bruno Saccaro is his father's son. Dirty, loyal and merciless. He’s only three years older than Y/N, but every inch of his black heart serves for one thing only.

Murder.

He was initiated at thirteen, just two days after his first kill, where he tortured and maimed a man twice his age before stabbing him in the side of the head with his beloved knife. He’s sick, just like Giovanni.

Though when they were children, he was her protector, the second he took his first kill, he became blood-hungry and protecting his baby sister was at the bottom of his list of priorities. Y/N’s sure she isn’t even on the list anymore. The only thing Bruno cares about is pussy and the Famiglia. She wouldn’t be surprised if Bruno was the one that suggested marrying her off in the first place.

“Business,” Gaia responds. “He’ll be at the party later, don’t worry.” She must sense her discomfort, but even her words don’t soothe her.

Y/N can’t imagine what her brother will be like at the party. Will no doubt have his cock buried in some girl within the first ten minutes. The thought makes her heave. He’s not the brother she used to have. He’s just like their father now.

A soft tap on the door breaks Y/N from her daze and Maria pops her head through the crack in the door. Short pink hair is the first thing she sees and a relieved smile breaks onto her face.

Maria Saccaro. Y/N’s first and only cousin, barely three weeks younger than her and the only descendent of Romero Saccaro, Giovanni’s younger brother and Y/N’s Uncle.

“Auntie Gaia, can I have a moment with Y/N, please?” She asks softly, like butter wouldn’t melt on that pierced tongue of hers.

Y/N almost rolls her eyes at the girl. Her bright pink hair gives away everything anyone needs to know. Maria doesn’t obey rules, she breaks them and finds loopholes just to piss her father off.

Y/N remembers one night when they were ten, when Maria told her she purposely did stupid shit in hopes of giving her father a heart attack so he’d finally die. Six years later and she’s still unsuccessful. Though, Y/N did hear that her Uncle Romero has to watch his cholesterol. Maybe her cousin's insolence is finally paying off.

Gaia hums and leaves the room, not sparing a second glance at her niece, keeping the door ajar and Maria rolls her eyes, flouncing down onto the chaise lounge.

“God, your Mom is such a drip,” she scoffs.

Y/N stifles a laugh and stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her mother may be good at makeup but nothing will ever cover up the insecurity in her eyes and three weeks of sleep deprivation under them.

Y/N shakes her head and turns to her cousin. “What did Uncle Romero say about your hair?” she asks, concern swimming in her eyes and Maria lifts her bangs from her face.

There’s a thick purple bruise across her temple and an angry line of stitching down the centre of it. Y/N gasps, hand covering her mouth with wide eyes. Maria shakes her hand in dismissal.

“He clubbed me with his fucking ashtray,” she sighs. “The look on his face was totally worth it, though,” she tries to break out in a grin but Y/N sees right through it.

Maria may act like she doesn’t give a shit, but really, she’s just as scared of her father as Y/N is of hers.

Romero Saccaro, Consigliere to his older brother, Giovanni, and widowed father to Maria. He’s been married twice already in his lifetime. His first wife was killed by his own hands and his second by suicide.

Maria could never blame her Mother for taking the easy way out. She often contemplates it herself. It’s a surprise that he hasn’t tried to marry Maria off yet to form an alliance. Though perhaps it’s for the best that no one has tried. She’s too temperamental, too disobedient. Her husband would get tired of her and give her back.

When an arranged marriage occurs, the husband is promised a beautiful, unscathed wife. While Maria is incredibly beautiful and just as much of a virgin as Y/N, she’s also gobby and dominant. She fights back, and that kind of attitude will get her killed. Maybe Romero does care for his daughter after all. Or maybe his ego is too big for his daughter to ruin.

“Can’t believe you’re meeting your future husband today. Happy fucking birthday,” she mutters out, words laced with venom.

Y/N sighs, shoulders sagging as the nerves come back with full force. “He’s worse than Father. Harry Dellucci kills for fun. At least Father waits until he has good reason to murder somebody… not that it makes it any better,” she mumbles.

Maria stares at her cousin with an incredulous look. “Uncle Giovanni is a fifty-year-old fuck-tard with bigger tits than me,” she begins, trying not to laugh at Y/N’s grimace. “Harry Styles-Dellucci is a twenty-two-year-old God, with a body of a God, the voice of a God-“

“Okay, I get it. He’s God-like,” Y/N cuts her off through a burst of laughter, cheeks flushed and Maria howls that maniacal laugh with her.

“Who’s God-like?” A thick, northern voice booms through their laughter and the room falls silent.

Y/N jumps in her skin out of fear, shrivels into herself as she turns on her feet. A tall, brown-haired man stands before them, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips in a cynical yet playful manner and Y/N’s heart plummets to her knees.

In all of his 6 foot glory, Harry Styles-Dellucci stands tall, thick body clad in a typical oxford suit and Y/N gulps at the hard sight of him.

Harry eyes his future bride. Soft hair curled and twisted into an elegant updo, gentle makeup on her brazen features, but the look in her eyes screams terror. She’s tiny. He knew she was only eighteen, but God, he hoped she’d be somewhat of a woman already. But she isn’t, she’s a child, and Harry struggles to keep that smirk on his lips.

She’s a child.

Mike stands beside him, eyes focused on Maria and her bright pink hair. She catches his intense gaze, the flirtatious smirk on his lips that screams mischief and she blushes, returning the look with false confidence.

Though she may try, even Maria is a blushing mess in the presence of mafia men. No amount of hair dye and secret piercings in the world can ever change that.

“Does Uncle Giovanni know you’re up here?” Maria quips and Harry turns to her, brows raised.

He knows who she is, who all of Y/N’s family and her tiny group of socialites are. He did his homework. He takes in her pink hair, the attitude in her eyes and the way she pops her hip out with a hand resting on it. Definitely the troublemaker.

“Giovanni sent me up here. I want to be alone with my fiancée for a moment before the celebrations begin,” he tells her.

God, his voice drips sex and the sound of it alone has both fear and comfort setting in Y/N’s stomach, and an unrelenting pulsing between her legs. She knows that feeling all too well, though she’ll never admit to it.

Y/N bites back a gasp and clears her throat. Harry watches her nervously twiddling her thumbs. “Is that even allowed? You’re not married yet.” Maria reminds him.

And thank God, Harry thinks to himself. She’s just a child.

“Maria, it’s okay. If Father sent him up, it’s okay. I’ll see you in a little while,” she nods to her cousin but Maria doesn’t want to leave her alone with the notorious Made Man and his right-hand man.

Harry notices her hesitancy.

“Mikey, why don’t you escort Maria downstairs.” His eyes never leave Y/N as he speaks in a slow, dulcet tone, but her eyes remain glued to the floor. Goosebumps break out onto her skin, but she isn’t cold.

Mike silently escorts the young girl out and closes the door behind him, leaving the soon-to-be couple alone. Harry squints at her. She’s curled into herself, fear dripping off her body in waves.

He takes a tentative step toward her, hands in his pockets and retrieves a small velvet box. Harry opens it and offers it to the girl.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

With arms around her middle, Y/N finally looks up at him and his breath is lodged in his throat. She’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. Bright eyes and soft, gentle skin that he wants nothing more than to caress. If she’s this gorgeous now, Harry can’t comprehend what she’ll be like in three years time.

Being so up close, he sees her properly. The perfect slope of her nose, the sparkle in her distant eyes. He can see the sparse dotting of freckles across her nose and cheeks beneath the thin layer of makeup, the twitch in the arch of her shaped brows, the fullness of her painted lips.

Y/N takes the box from him slowly. The golden band stares right back at her, a thick diamond sitting in the centre and she lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s beautiful,” she forces herself to mutter out but Harry can see she’s trying to bite back a sob.

It is beautiful… but it’s plain, generic. A wedding ring should be personal, should mean something. Harry takes it from the box and gently reaches for her hand. Her skin is warm, even softer than it looks and his lips twitch. Y/N purses her lips. His fingers are rough and cold as he slides the ring onto her finger and just like that, she’s his.

The ring hangs heavy on her hand. A golden cage. She bites back another cry.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, hands close to her chest again and Harry tilts his head.

He can read her body like a book and he’s only known her for a few moments. There’s fear in the way she holds herself, but now her eyes are void of emotion, like she’s suddenly completely coming to terms with what will happen. Like she’s accepted it — like she’s empty.

Y/N looks back down to her feet and a strand of beautifully curled hair falls into her face. Harry reaches to brush it back, wonders if it’s also as soft as it looks, but she flinches back and he stills. Harry frowns. What has Giovanni done to the girl?

“Y/N,” he speaks softly, regarding the girl with a tone he’s only ever shown to his mother and sister.

The sound of her name slipping from his lips has her peering up at him, crystal eyes boring into his emerald ones and his heart leaps.

So fucking beautiful.

He reaches a hand against her face again and caresses her warm cheek. She flushes under his touch but doesn’t flinch away.

“Are you scared of me?” He asks.

Y/N gulps and lets out a shaky breath. “You’re a Made Man. You kill and you torture. Of course, I’m afraid of you,” she breathes and it’s the first proper sentence she’s directly said to him… that she’s afraid.

Harry remains quiet, letting himself revel in the sound of her voice. Silky soft, just like her skin and hair.

He dips his face down so he’s level with her. Even with her four-inch heels, he still towers above her, Y/N’s eyes level with his clavicle.

“I kill and torture those who deserve it, those who betray me,” he tells her. “But you are going to be my wife, Y/N. And fear has no place in a marriage.”

She dares to gaze up at him, his face stoic as she notices the sparse hairs that coat his chin and upper lip and she wishes she could read what he’s thinking, like he can read her. Her eyes are dazzling up at him, thick and dark lashes fluttering beneath the thin coating of mascara on them.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

“I’ve never not been afraid,” she admits and she isn’t sure why she’s telling him.

What if he uses the knowledge to prey on her? What if he laughs in her face? She doesn’t know why she tells him, but the bubbling in the pit of her stomach stops when she does. The confession burns something in the pit of Harry’s stomach and it’s only now that he notices the subtle discolouration beneath her left eye.

Bruises.

His thumb brushes over the soft skin and she shudders, tries to shy away but he keeps her head in place.

“He won’t hurt you anymore.”

Harry’s cocky smirk is gone as he peers down at her, a promising glint in his eyes and she’s never heard anything so tender and honest. She wants to believe him, that he won’t hurt her anymore. But she isn’t Harry’s wife yet, so Giovanni still has free reign over what he does to his daughter, no matter what Harry tries to promise.

Y/N nods her head and takes a step back. She avoids his gaze and Harry knows she doesn’t believe him. The wedding isn’t for another three years. Three years of being under Giovanni’s hold and dreading the day they’re bound for life.

He never asked for this marriage either, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make his wife’s life a living hell. He’s seen the pain and torture Stefano inflicts on his Mother and in early years, on his sister too, and he’d rather be slaughtered than to inflict that same pain on another so undeserving.

He always promised himself that whether he marries for love or for the Famiglia, he’ll never lay a hand on his wife. Never do anything to hurt her.

Harry wishes to change many things when he becomes Capo, but what men do to their wives can never be one of them. Once married, the woman becomes the man’s possession, and not even a Capo dei Capi can decide what husbands do to their wives. Willing or not.

Y/N doesn’t say anything on the matter though, she knows how it works and she’s too couped up in her own thoughts. She doesn’t want to argue back, so she bites her tongue and remains silent.

She doesn’t want to be one of those submissive housewives that keeps a nice house and their husband's bed warm. She doesn't want to be silent like her Mother. But she has to be realistic, and in her unfortunate luck, she’ll never be able to marry for love. She'll never have the freedom of going anywhere without a guard, or have a job or go to college. She'll never make friends with women her age, or go clubbing and sleep around a little.

She’s his possession.

Her life was signed away the day she was born. Hell, Giovanni started seeking eligible husbands when she was still in the womb, it didn’t matter that they were already in their 20’s at the time. She’s considering herself lucky that Harry is only four years older than her.

She’s come to terms with it. Of never being able to make any decisions for herself. Of never having freedom. Of never feeling loved or safe. She’s spent her whole life in denial, hoping, praying that a fairytale Prince would crash into her life and sweep her off her feet, take her away from the mafia and the pain. She’s always known better, but maybe now it’s only just sunk in.

She glances back down at the golden cage on her finger. A beautiful ring to bind her to a lifetime of misery.

“Our fathers think it’s best if we arrive together.” His rugged voice cuts through the silence again.

Y/N clears her throat and nods her head, patting down the soft material of her dress and it clings to her body even tighter than before. Harry stifles a groan at the sight of her round hips and straightens his back. The longer he watches her, the less childlike she looks.

He offers his hand to her, palm outstretched and Y/N gawks at it like it’s from another planet. His fingers are adorned with intricately styled rings and he almost forgets she’s probably never held a man’s hand before.

He’ll be her first everything and the thought alone makes him twitch in excitement. She takes his warm hand with a hidden blush on her cheeks.

When they arrive at the doors, all eyes are on him and her. Hushed whispers echo through the ballroom, talk of her beauty and how he’s going to corrupt and break her. Harry smirks at the attention, he always has been one for the spotlight, but Y/N cowers into herself.

Her grip on his hand becomes tighter but she doesn’t notice it. Harry doesn’t say anything.

He tightens his hold on hers just enough for the reassurance she needs. Harry leads them both into the ballroom, soft music playing from the little string quartet in the corner and it looks like a fairytale wedding.

But it’s not.

It’s a forced engagement party for an arranged marriage that she doesn’t have a choice in. Harry had the choice of who he could marry, he wasn’t going to complain about the situation when she wasn’t given the same.

The party consists of uncomfortable dancing, heavy alcohol and Y/N and Harry’s families subtly digging at the other. She’s been tucked under his heavy arm for over an hour, a third glass of champagne in her hand and she bravely ignores the warning look on Giovanni’s face.

He told her before the party she was allowed two glasses at most. She knows what happens when she disobeys him, yet she finds herself finishing the third glass and reaching for a fourth.

Harry notices, too. He squeezes her hip each time she finishes a glass. It’s not a warning, nor a recommendation to stop. It’s a reminder of what Giovanni will do if she continues. It’s his way of trying to protect her while he can’t just yet. She ignores it, nonetheless. Maybe a good beating might make her feel a little more alive.

As his cousins leave their side, she lets out a deep breath and her shoulders relax with her exhale. Before Harry can say anything else, a broad figure is making its way over and he feels Y/N stiffen beside him again.

He reaches down for her hand, their fingers bumping and he loops his pinkie finger around hers. The touch doesn’t go unnoticed by the guest as he holds his hand out for Harry to shake.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” his gruff voice speaks and Y/N peers up through her lashes.

Dante Vitiello, The Boss.

People quaked in Harry’s presence, but in Dante’s? There were hardly any survivors. He’s a ruthless killer, initiated at the age of 11 after he killed a man with his bare hands. Y/N supposes that’s where he got his nickname from; Dante ‘The Vice’ Vitiello. She shudders under his gaze. She doesn’t know the man, only the stories that brave souls dared to chatter.

But Harry… Harry knows Dante. He trained with him when he was younger and they both thought themselves as friendly colleagues, a few stressed nights often sharing one another's company in Harry’s club, surrounded by a few women that they tended to pass around.

They had a bond, one Harry knew would always secure his position as future Capo and Dante always knew Harry would come through. Then there’s that one thing they both have in common; a mutual hatred for the fucked system their ancestors put in place; arranged marriages, the presentation of the sheets, disrespecting women.

Harry thanks him as Dante addresses Y/N, palm barely open as he offers a soft hold. She takes his hand and Dante brings it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He can feel her body stiffen further but it’s tradition. He drops her hand gently and she curls closer to Harry again. Even in the mere hours of knowing him, she seeks comfort in his embrace.

Harry says nothing.

Dante doesn’t look back at her. Though she appears much older than just eighteen, he’s nearing thirty and the last thing he wants is to make her even more uncomfortable. Besides, he remembers how he felt when the last Boss kissed his fiancée’s hand and eyed her up like a piece of meat, all those years ago.

“I’m sure Stefano and Giovanni will talk to you later about the arrangement but I’d like to let you know in advance,” Dante begins.

His accent is much thicker since the last time Harry saw him. He’s a typical Italian man. Tall and broad, dark hair, structured face and a well-maintained stubble.

“The wedding is set for October 16th…” he turns to Y/N, “... two weeks after your twenty-first birthday. The wedding will be here, again, and after the formalities and traditions, the next day you’ll both go back to New York.” All three wince at the sugar-coated mention of the bloody sheets but Y/N is the only one that makes it known.

She zones out after that, too caught in her own thoughts. Harry’s attractive, undeniably, but it doesn’t make the idea of having to sleep with him on their wedding night any easier.

Maybe if he was a family friend that she grew up with and was forced to marry, it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d have that bond of trust and familiarity with him, but that’s not the case. She doesn’t know him, therefore she can’t trust him. Every man in her life has beaten and abused her. Every man apart from Gomez.

Her eyes flutter across the hall in search of him. Now that she’s thought of him, she doesn’t remember seeing him since he came with her to the Saccaro Mansion. She searches and searches until she finds him standing off to the side, hands folded in front of him.

His dark blond hair is swept back in a formal quiff and his suit is tight on his body. Y/N doesn’t shudder when she looks at him, instead, she finds a sense of relief and safety wash over her.

Antonio Gomez has been by her side since she was born. He was Giovanni’s right-hand man when he first became Capo and was trusted with the job of protecting his little baby girl when she was born.

Gomez was only twenty when he was trusted with her life and had vowed to himself to always protect her. She still remembers the first time Giovanni hit her. She was five and had dropped her water on the rug.

She remembers the sting of her Father’s hand across her chubby face and the way Gomez ran for him, pinned him against the wall. But she remembers the sound of Giovanni’s gun exploding as he put a bullet in Gomez’ thigh as a warning. He never protected Y/N from him again, despite how much he wanted to.

“Y/N?” she hears Harry’s drawled voice call her name and she snaps her eyes away from her guard and back up to her fiancée.

“I need to speak with my Father. Would you like to come or join your family?” he asks her quietly and she reaches up to scratch at the bridge of her nose, a nervous habit, when she realises their pinkies are still linked.

He lets go and she clears her throat, taking a small step back and patting down the dress that hasn’t given her the confidence she hoped it would.

“Uh, I’ll go see Maria,” she mumbles with pursed lips and awkwardly walks past him, not standing around long enough for him to reach down and kiss her cheek in a polite manner.

Instead, he watches her walk away to her gushing, pink-haired cousin who has definitely drunk at least two bottles of champagne in the past hour. He waits until Y/N reaches her and he sees her shoulders relax, then a hand sits on his and he turns, his Father already by his side.

“She’s a real beauty, Harry. Don’t know how you can wait another three years for your wedding day.” Stefano’s perverted voice leaks through his ears.

Harry tries not to grimace or put a bullet in his leg for his comment. “I like my women with consent,” he mumbles, eyes back on her curved frame as she nervously wrings her hands while listening to Maria.

Stefano barks out a laugh, like not wanting to rape someone is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Suit yourself.”

He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that no more will be said about his fiancée, but Mike joins them both, eyes alert and posture sturdy. He reaches Harry and stands beside him, hands folded across his chest.

“Pretty little thing you got over there,” he remarks teasingly, though his voice holds no threat. He’s just stating facts but it still doesn’t sit well with Harry.

Mike has been his guard for three years now, and was one of Stefano’s soldiers beforehand. Harry and Mike have always been close, always shared too much between them both and Harry’s right-hand man and best friend, Jeff.

The three of them often spend their nights at the club, fucked between six or seven girls with strobe lights flashing. It’s a much more regular occurrence than when Harry does it with Dante.

He supposes there won’t be any more of that when he’s married.

He hums. Y/N’s eyes find him as she listens to something Maria says. She holds his gaze but something is off. Her body is rigid as she stands straight but her shoulders are slumped. Harry stares at her for another moment, eyes squinted when he notices hers are void of emotion.

She stares at him, like he’s not even there. Her face is blank, an expression that his soldiers have taken years to master. Harry gulps down something he doesn’t understand.

He hopes he hasn’t already broken her.

When the evening is over and the guests have left, Y/N and Harry are standing idly by the exit. Their separate cars are waiting for them as they say their goodbyes, families watching from their cars. She hasn’t relaxed much as the night progressed and now that she’s standing back by his side, her shoulders are stiff again and there’s a lump in her throat.

She knows she won’t be seeing him for another three years, that this is a temporary goodbye. Her heart begins to thump. Is he going to kiss her? Is he allowed? They’re not married yet but they will be.

Harry senses her quarrel and reaches for her hand, pulling out a little flip phone from his inner jacket pocket and turns her palm upright, sitting it in her hand. Y/N frowns, fingers closing around the old device and she looks up at him with pinched brows and an upturned lip.

“Um… what…” she doesn’t quite know what to say, doesn’t know how to ask him why he’s giving her a brick burner phone.

Harry reaches for her other hand and brings it over the phone, covering it and holding her hands in his. “My number’s in there and so is Mikey’s in case ya can’t reach me. I don’t know if your Father allows you t’have one, but now you do,” he explains briefly.

She doesn’t tell Harry that she’s never been allowed one, that she’ll no doubt get a black eye and a bloody lip for hiding it from Giovanni.

Instead, her tongue swipes across her lower lip and she nods. “Thank you.”

She isn’t sure what she’s thanking him for? It’s an old burner phone with two numbers on it. She can’t access the internet, can’t play games. No doubt all other numbers are blocked and she’ll only be able to call him and his guard, but she still feels a sense of relief? Maybe because he gave her that little bit of freedom… could it even be considered that?

“If he lays a hand on you in these next three years, I want you to promise you’ll tell me. I don’t care what time it is, you tell me.” His face is stoic, stern and set jaw.

She can see the seriousness in his eyes and she nods, like she’s hypnotised by the way his concern and worry flitters in his eyes. Maybe she is, she’s never seen that look directed to her before, at least not for a very long time.

“I promise,” Y/N swears, her eyes on his, and for a moment, she forgets the whole arrangement, that he’s going to be her husband for the rest of her life.

Because for that fleeting second, she feels like a shy girl in front of a handsome man that makes her heart flutter. For a blink of an eye, she feels normal as he gazes down at her with a look she can’t point. But that’s all it is. A moment and a look.

He doesn’t expect her to actually tell him, not when he can tell how embarrassed she feels when it’s mentioned. So when he’s on the private jet back to New York that night and he gets a text, his heart sinks to his feet. He’d left her for three hours and Giovanni had his grubby hands on her already, punishing her for something she didn’t tell him.

From: Y/N

What was it that you said? That he wouldn’t hurt me anymore?

He calls her immediately, but before the first ring can sound through his ear, the call is ended. His grip on the phone tightens and it takes everything in him not to throw it across the fucking plane. He can’t afford Stefano pressuring him about what’s wrong, he can’t have him knowing that he wants to protect Y/N. He can’t show that weakness.

Mike sits beside him, clicking his tongue as Jeff sits across from them. No one says anything, they don’t need to. Harry always took pride in his stoic expressions in times of agitation or fear, but the boys know him better than that.

They grew with him, watched him master that monstrous cold exterior that refuses to falter when he was beaten and tortured. Harry has been forced to bite his tongue in worse scenarios, so why is something so minuscule so difficult for him?

“This isn’t going to end well. You’ve met her once and you’re getting attached,” Mike says quietly, lips barely moving so as to not attract Stefano’s attention while he talks on the phone to Harry’s Mother, no doubt scolding Anne for something he did wrong.

Harry’s knee is bouncing, a nervous tick he hasn’t shown in years. He’s pissed that Stefano wouldn’t allow Anne and Gemma to the engagement party, Harry wanted his mother and sister to meet his fiancée, needed that support, even if he would never admit that out loud.

Jeff reaches over and kicks Harry’s ankle, stopping the jitters and he gnaws at his inner cheek, nostrils flaring and gently shaking his head.

“Not getting attached, Mikey. Just don’t like the idea of her Father laying a hand on her,” he seethes quietly through gritted teeth and Jeff squints.

He’s known Harry his entire life, knows how he feels about the lack of respect women receive in mafia families, how much he fucking loves his Mum and Gemma. And he knows he’s never seen Harry this pissed over some girl before, much less some girl he’s met once and hasn’t even touched.

Nothing else is said on the matter and in the following sixteen months, he doesn’t hear from her. He calls often and most nights the call ends before it rings, and others, all it does is dial in his ears.

He knows she’s kept the phone on, that she’s been reading the two-weekly check-in texts that he makes. He can see every call she makes and texts she sends, but she doesn’t send or receive any. Only from him.

He’s found it difficult. He’s never believed in affairs or homewrecking, call him old fashioned, and being in an engagement to a woman he doesn’t know or love has taken its toll. He knew he’d never be able to marry for love, that he would have had to marry for the Famiglia, for power and status. And he truly thought he’d have no problem in remaining faithful to his future wife, that whether they grew to love each other or not, she would be able to quench his thirst.

But Harry didn’t expect to have to wait three years after getting engaged and for his fiancée to be only just legal when they first met. To him, a four-year age gap is nothing, but remembering she’s now just turned nineteen and he’s almost twenty-three, he feels a bit funny about the whole situation.

He’s cut down on his fucks of the week. No more endless nights at the club with Mike and Jeff, fucking six or seven of the dancers between them. He’s been re-acquainted with his hand and on the odd occasion that it isn’t enough, he’s found himself in one of the private rooms in the back of the bar with Lily, one of his favourite dancers and fucks, just like tonight.

It’s been a long day of calls and fights and bullets and blood, and he needed to fuck his frustrations out somewhere. It’s no surprise to him when he comes much sooner than usual, but Lily doesn’t seem to be complaining.

Harry always had a knack to make her cum long before he did. She’s panting and giggling, pushing those bleach blonde locks from her face as she readjusts her outfit and spins on her heels, dazed eyes and drunken smile.

Harry doesn’t need to look at her to know. She watches him tug off the condom and shove his softening, yet still impressive length back in his pants with a smirk, bottom lip caught between her teeth as he fixes his suit to a more presentable standard.

It’s when he’s tucking his shirt in that she notices the silver band around his ring finger and she’s reminded he’s engaged. Lily isn’t stupid, she’s been in the business long enough to know it’s an arranged one.

“You get married in a few months, right? Wonder if she’ll be able to satisfy you like I can… though you are here now, so I suppose she can’t,” she snickers, eyes dark like she thinks Harry is about to laugh and agree, like he’s pleased with his infidelity.

He isn’t. His eyes darken and not in the way she wants them to, bile rising to his throat. He’ll be damned if he lets anyone talk about his fiancée like that.

“Probably not, I hear she’s a little virgin anyway. But hey, maybe her Dad broke her in for y-”

Her back is smashing against the wall, air knocked out of her before she can finish her sentence. Harry’s got his ring-clad fingers gripping her chin and jaw, nose pressed to hers and he’s seething.

“You better watch your fucking mouth, Lily. Just because we fuck, doesn’t mean you can get away with shit. Have a little respect, or I won’t go so easy on your old man next week when he doesn’t have my fuckin’ money.”

He doesn’t stand around long enough to see the fear in her eyes grow. Instead, he lets go, grabs his gun and leaves the girl standing in shock, silent tears rolling down her rosy cheeks and a trembling jaw.

Harry’s never laid a forceful hand on a woman until now and he thought he’d hate himself for it, but right now, all he can think about is Y/N. Of the disgusting things Lily said.

He texts her when he gets to his car, his usual ‘just checking in, how are things?’ and he grows impatient when she doesn’t respond immediately. But she never responds immediately; usually, she never responds at all. He’s speeding his way back to the penthouse, knuckles white as he grips the wheel and it only takes the usual 20-minute-drive just six.

By the time he’s storming into the elevator and punching in the security code to get to his floor, his phone is vibrating in his pocket and he fishes it out quickly, shoulders tensing when he sees Maria’s name after he made it very clear to only contact him if it was an emergency for Y/N. He unlocks the phone and reads over the message.

From: Maria

He found the phone.

Harry’s blood runs cold, sweat dotting at his hairline and for a second, he feels an unfamiliar lump climb up his throat. All he sees is red and his chest is heaving. He hasn’t felt this angry in a long time, so rageful. Harry shakes his head, teeth gritted and jaw set hard. How fucking stupid does Giovanni think he is that Harry wouldn’t find out? That he wouldn’t have given another phone to Maria in case something like this happened? How fucking brave is he, laying a hand on something that belongs to Harry? How fucking dare he.

Harry’s dialling numbers before his mind can even catch up to his action and after the first three rings sound through his ears, he lets out a growl and seethes through his teeth.

“Move the wedding forward. I want her with me now.”

It feels like déjà vu, standing in front of the same curved mirror with her mother standing behind her, pulling the same distasteful expression.

The flowers decorating the bride’s suit are the same; beige carnation bouquets with baby’s breath scattered sparsely between. The same, stupid classical music plays from the same scratched record, and the same golden cage is still wrapped tight around her ring finger.

The only thing that’s changed is her.

She’s grown a few inches taller and she’s filled out nicely. Her hips have rounded well and her breasts are full and perky. The chubby cheeks left sometime six months ago and her facial structure is strong and defined.

Her eyes are different now, not the same as they were two years ago, and she’s cut most of her hair. It sits just below her shoulders now, gappy bangs long across her forehead.

She got Maria to cut it on her birthday.

Gaia is struggling behind her daughter, lacing the back bodice of her wedding dress. It’s pretty—gorgeous, actually; a long mesh train with embroidered roses and petals across the hem of it.

A perfect fit across the top, a generous amount of suitable cleavage and as it meets her hips, the embroidery fades and the dress gently puffs out, accentuating her curves just a little more.

She feels pretty, like a Princess, but she silently reminds herself this isn’t a fairytale wedding, no matter how badly she wishes it was. Y/N watches herself in the mirror, short hair curled and pinned perfectly, wavy bangs framing her face and she looks ethereal.

She doesn’t have a black eye beneath the makeup like last time, nor does she have a busted lip.

Gaia tugs at the back of the dress again.

“Succhialo, figlia,” she scolds and Y/N rolls her eyes but she sucks her stomach in even more, nonetheless.

The last few months leading up to the wedding have been gruelling, to say the least. Y/N has been poked and prodded by several tailors and designers and she’ll be happy once this whole thing is over with.

She’s also had time to think. With Harry’s insistent texts and sporadic calls, she’s felt a little more at ease about the situation, like she was starting to get to know him a little better through the blank messages.

But as she stands in front of the mirror again, her nerves are ten times bigger than two years ago.

Giovanni only told her three months ago that the wedding was being moved forward—that she’ll be a married woman two weeks after her birthday rather than two months.

She didn’t question it, not when by the looks of his face, it definitely wasn’t his idea and he didn’t have much of a say in the matter.

When she found out, a part of her was thankful, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders because Giovanni wouldn’t be able to hurt her anymore. He hasn’t laid a hand on her since the night he found the burner phone.

She stupidly left it on the bed while she showered and Harry had texted her. She didn’t hear the message alert, nor her Father waiting for her in her room.

She did, however, know about the mistake she made when she left the bathroom in a towel and his fist kissed her cheek in a brisk greeting.

A lump rises in her throat at the memory. It didn’t stop there, why would it. She cried herself to sleep that night and every night after for three weeks.

She was unrecognisable for twelve days, bloody and bruised and banned from leaving the house. She tried to end it all that night, after he left her sobbing on her floor, naked and vulnerable.

Maria had stopped her just in time, snuck into her bedroom through the window and held her until she passed out.

She hasn’t looked her parents in the eye since. Gaia had stood by and watched it all, face stoic and void of emotion. Bruno ignored her screams of terror and begs of mercy.

And Gomez?

Gomez was shot in the foot for trying to intervene. She’s only had one thing giving her the will to power through this, to marry a monster.

Fear has no place in a marriage.

Maybe this arrangement will be her escape.

Y/N zones out as Gaia finishes lacing the back of her dress, too busy trying to calm the erratic thumping in her chest and will the pooling tears away. She blindly follows her mother out of the suite and down the stairs, holding her dress gently bunched in her hands.

It’s like everything moves in slow motion and all sounds are white noise. She can hear her heart thumping against her rib cage, can feel the sweat growing between her fingers, the lump forming in her throat as she notices Giovanni waiting for her outside of the chapel doors.

She stands behind him silently, not daring to make eye contact as Gaia takes a side entrance to join the rest of the guests.

They wait, Giovanni watching his daughter with cautious eyes. She’s too busy staring at the dark oak doors, knowing her future is waiting on the other side, another ring to bind her angelic soul to his tainted one.

Y/N feels her eyes stinging with burning tears as Giovanni loops his arm around hers and the double doors slowly open.

“You look beautiful, figlia,” he tells her through a strained whisper, like the words any normal father would shower his daughter with were burning his lungs.

The lump swells back in her throat. Of all her eighteen years of life, he’s never once said something so fatherly.

She can feel her chest aching, the idea that maybe seeing his little girl marry a stranger is hurting his heart like it’s hurting hers, but as she peers up at him for the first time in months, she sees a smile pulling on his lips.

His heart isn’t hurting. He’s just happy to get a power boost.

Y/N doesn’t pay attention to the piano ballad that begins to play softly as her father guides her through the arch of the chapel. She doesn’t acknowledge her family and his standing from their seats and cooing at the gorgeous young woman she’s turned into.

She stares at her feet as they take their first step into purgatory, before her eyes find the devil.

Harry freezes from his view at the altar. Clad in a slick red suit with ungodly curls, his mouth runs dry and knees almost buckle.

She’s fucking gorgeous.

He can feel his heart thumping in his chest as she gets closer, can feel the anger bubble in his blood at the sight of Giovanni’s arm looped around hers.

His hands are tensed into tight fists in front of him, jaw ticking and teeth gritted. But then he glances back at his bride and his heart skips a pulse.

She doesn’t have a veil over her head and he can see just how gorgeous she’s become. He hasn’t seen her in two years and now he feels speechless.

She dodges his gaze as her father kisses her cheek briskly, leaving her to walk the little step of the platform and stand before their families.

She turns to Harry, hands trembling as she picks at her nails. His gaze wavers from her face, drinking her in and as he eyes her generous chest, he notices the little green emerald that sits across her neck.

The emerald necklace he gifted her for her birthday two weeks ago.

Neither of them pay attention to the priest as she looks up at him through fluttering lashes. He’s grown even more attractive in the past two years and it’s intimidating.

She feels small under his soft gaze, but not unsafe. Maybe she just feels uncomfortable knowing what’s to come between them, what will be expected of her as his new wife.

Over his shoulder, Bruno stands tall with a cocky smirk and shimmering eyes. He doesn’t watch his baby sister be sold off to a killer. Instead, his eyes are on a blonde from Harry’s family, a dirty smirk on his lips.

Mike stands behind him, stuck out like a sore thumb. The only redhead in the entire chapel yet he fits right in.

It’s Mike behind them both that catches Y/N’s attention. He’s watching her closely, just like Gomez has for years but there’s something off in the way he observes her; like he’s memorising every tick and nerve in her body.

Her eyes land back on Harry but he’s been watching her the entire time. He doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know his Mother is gleaming and sister picking her nails in boredom. He doesn’t need to look to know how apprehensive Maria is.

Neither of them can focus on what the official says. Y/N doesn’t dare look anywhere besides his face, trying to gauge his reaction, his mood.

He’s stoic as ever but a hint of a smirk tugs at the deep corners of his pink lips and his eyes are twinkling with a thrill of the unknown.

Hers are swimming in tears.

She tries to master his same expression, to prove she feels emptiness––but while her heart thumps shallowly in her chest, her eyes sting with the realisation that this is the end.

“You may now say your vows.”

The words drum through her ears and Harry nods, taking her hands in his open palms. Neither of them look away and Harry knows his Mother is trying to bite back a cry.

She always wanted her boy to marry for love, not for this.

Their official holds a small cream cushion, two pretty bands sitting on the velvet and Harry reaches for Y/N’s, lining it with her ring finger.

“With this ring, I take thee to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love and care, and cherish every inch of your body and soul. I promise to protect and provide and stand by your side through light and dark. I promise my soul and heart to you, to our future children. I promise to love you until my final breath.”

Y/N feels a piece of her heart break as he slides the ring down her finger, greeting the engagement and promising their unprecedented future.

Her facade doesn’t falter and her mind draws blank.

She doesn’t think about her childhood, when Bruno used to carry her around the house on his back, when she and Maria painted each other's nails, when Gaia taught her Italian for the first time, or when Giovanni taught her how to tie her shoes.

Y/N’s mind rolls blank, like the person she was before is dead. Like she’s just been rebirthed into another life.

She reaches for the cushion and takes the band between her fingers, crowning it over Harry’s first knuckle as she looks back up at him.

An arranged marriage takes two, but she knows she’s in this alone.

“With this ring, I take thee to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold, to love and support. I promise to stand by your side through the dark and the light. I offer my heart and soul, my body and mind. I promise to be eternally yours, until my final breath.”

And as she slides the ring past his second knuckle and the official pronounces them man and wife, the shaking begins.

Her body screams, igniting in a blazing fire, eyes frantic in terror and uncertainty.

But Harry gently cups his palms around her soft cheeks and with eyes on her, he kneels just enough to press his soft lips to her full ones and the uncomfortable burning eases into a welcoming warmth.

Her screams are silenced as his kiss offers a sense of comfort, like a mother and child’s first touch.

Y/N Saccaro dies a coward, but Y/N Styles-Delluci is born a survivor.

When they stand outside the chapel, she doesn’t have time to think about anything. She gripped his hand tightly as he led her down the aisle, ignoring the cheers of praise and excitement for the two.

They stand in the little entryway, side by side with Gomez a few steps to her side and Mike a few steps to Harry’s.

Giovanni and Gaia are the first to follow the newlyweds into the entryway, shaking Harry’s hand before moving along a few steps to shake Y/N’s.

Her parents look at her like she’s a stranger, no pained smiles or familiarity in their eyes. They move along as quickly as they came and Maria follows, her Father close behind.

She shakes Harry’s hand timidly before moving to her cousin, eyes watering and chin trembling.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate to pull her into a quick embrace, arms strong around one another and Y/N can feel her cousin’s heart thumping against her chest.

Romero is who pulls them both apart, offering his niece a firm handshake before a tight clasp on Maria’s shoulder pushes her away from the couple.

Y/N’s eyes are glued to them, wild in fear of what will happen to her best friend now she won’t be home to protect and comfort her.

Harry reaches for her hand, notices her worry and loops his pinky around hers, squeezing just enough to get her attention. When she turns back to him, she blinks back tears and her blurry vision settles on three bodies that stand by Harry’s side.

Stefano stands in front of the two women, shaking his son's hand with a proud smirk before he moves along to his daughter-in-law, reaching for her hand and kissing her knuckles. There’s a dirty smirk on his lips and Y/N squeezes Harry’s finger.

“Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re a Delluci now,” he grins.

She slips her hand from his hold and takes a tentative step closer to Harry’s side.

“Styles-Delluci,” Harry corrects him, jaw set and eyes gleaming a fire he’s desperate to burn.

Stefano grits his teeth behind closed lips and walks on, allowing Y/N to take a brief breath of relief before she’s quickly introduced to the rest of his immediate family.

Anne stands in front of the girl, eyes regarding her with concern and kindness. In a cream dress, she reaches for both of Y/N’s hands and smiles kindly at the young woman.

“My name is Anne, I’m Harry’s Mum,” she introduces herself.

Y/N looks back to her mother-in-law; a beautiful woman with kind eyes and a welcoming smile. Every inch of her screams maternal natures, something she’s lacked all her life.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she replies politely, allowing Anne to pull her into a cautious embrace, close enough to ensure warmth, but far enough to not warrant fear.

She squeezes her softly, lips finding her ear.

“You’re safe with him, I promise,” Anne swears and Y/N can do nothing but nod.

When they pull away, Gemma stands by her mother with a gleaming smile and she sticks her hand out for her sister-in-law to shake.

“I’m Gemma, Harry’s little sister… and you're really pretty,” Gemma grins through chubby cheeks, a silent squeal of excitement.

She doesn’t understand the full extent of the marriage, Harry and Anne have always tried to shield the fifteen-year-old from the harsh truths of the world she was born into.

Y/N’s eyes widen and a shy smile tugs at the corners of her pink painted lips. She can feel her heart flutter in her chest and she reaches to shake Gemma’s hand softly.

Part of her nerves seems to falter around the Delluci women and Y/N misses the way Harry watches the exchange with thin lips but sparkling eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gemma. And you’re very pretty, too,” Y/N tells the young girl, a soft smile on her lips and the youngest Delluci blushes under her gaze, looping her arm around her mothers.

Harry reaches down slightly, bending to his mother’s level and pressing a kiss to her temple before turning to his sister to set his lips to the top of her head.

“We’ll see you both in there,” he tells them.

Y/N watches with curious eyes, can’t take her gaze off him as he stands by her side and their fingers brush again. This time, neither of them link their pinkies.

“They’re nice,” she finally speaks, gaze fluttering to the ground when Harry cranes his neck to look at her.

He hums with a small nod.

He doesn’t say anything else as the rest of the hundreds of family and friends filter their way through the little entrance, shaking the hands of the couple and offering words of congratulations to Harry.

Between great uncles and underbosses, Dante greets the newlyweds again. This time, he isn’t alone. There’s a gorgeous blonde on his arm, tucked in his side with a loving smile as she stares up at The Boss.

“Harry, Y/N, congratulations,” he shakes Harry’s hand first then reaches for Y/N.

He clasps another hand over her knuckles and nods politely. The blonde hugs Harry as he thanks her for coming and she turns Y/N, a bright smile on her lips.

“You make such a beautiful bride!” she gushes. “My name's Daigle, I’m Dante’s wife.”

Y/N’s eyes widen as she’s pulled into a warm embrace and another bundle of relief is whispered in her ear.

“You got lucky with Harry.”

When she pulls away, Y/N’s eyes are swimming with tears of relief and gratitude. The couple congratulates them again as they make their way toward the banquet hall.

As Y/N’s about to say something to her husband, to tell him she didn’t know Dante had a wife, his hand sits at the bottom of her back and pulls her to his side, effectively cutting her off before she can even start.

“Congratulations my boy, what an impressive little bride you’ve got yourself,” a dark voice rattles through her ears and Y/N feels herself coil into Harry’s side.

The man is a little shorter than her husband, dark hair on his balding scalp and a slight podge to his lower stomach. He looks at the young bride with a sickening grin that awakens something in the pit of her stomach.

This is what she’s used to.

The lingering looks from pervy uncles and passers-by. Being subjected to nothing but a pretty face, even since she was young.

“Uncle Salvatore,” Harry greets through pursed lips and gritted teeth.

Salvatore’s eyes are glued to Y/N’s chest and Harry’s blood is boiling, knows he’s going red in the face and the vein in his neck is no doubt ready to pop.

Salvatore reaches for Y/N’s hand and kisses her knuckles, gazing up at her with a creepy stare but it doesn’t make her squirm in discomfort. This is the look she’s grown accustomed to over the years.

She’s mastered her poker face when old men hit on her, touch her. For Y/N, this is the norm. What she isn’t used to and what does make her curl into Harry’s side, is Salvatore’s son.

“Nino Delluci…” he begins, eyes wonton as they reach the bride, “... And you are a sight for sore eyes. What in Hell are you doing with my cousin?”

She doesn’t break eye contact when he smirks down at her with hungry eyes, gnawing on his bottom lip. She doesn’t break eye contact when he reaches for her hand and kisses her knuckles.

Twice.

She only breaks eye contact when he hums something incoherent along the lines of ‘I’d love to make you bleed’ under his breath, while taking her in.

Harry’s grip on his wife’s side tightens.

“Can we go inside now?” she asks softly, a hand reaching up to rest on his chest.

Harry squares his shoulders, eyes firm on his cousin which only encourages Nino’s smug face. She doesn’t notice the small boy that gazes up at her with a lovestruck smile from Nino’s side, nor does she notice Salvatore smirking grimly by the door.

“So soon, baby? Don’t you wanna get to know your new family a little better?” Nino taunts, taking a step toward her but Harry’s quicker.

He gently nudges Y/N behind his towering frame and squares up to Nino, nostrils flared.

“Back the fuck off, Nino.” Harry’s jaw is locked in place, lips pursed.

His cousin chuckles to himself, hands up in surrender.

Gomez and Mike remain still in their positions. They know not to interfere unless it’s completely necessary. Nino walks away, the young boy following as Salvatore holds the door open for them.

Harry doesn’t let his posture fall as they walk through the door, and Y/N lets out a shaky breath, skin breaking out in goosebumps as she rolls her shoulders and twists her neck.

Harry turns back to her, eyes cautious as he tilts his head to get a better look. He knows Nino shook her up, that she’s used to the unwanted attention from older men, but never from men so close to her age.

But what he doesn’t realise is while Y/N heard him raise his voice, her mind was sent into turmoil. Will he shout at her like that? Should she feel safe because she knows he can protect her? Would he use that same tone with her if she doesn’t do what he wants?

“Your cousin’s a little forward,” she coughs out nervously, shaking her head to rid the thoughts. Harry’s heart ticks and he scoffs a laugh.

“My cousin’s a cunt,” he corrects her.

Y/N’s eyes widen as she stares up at him, innocence swimming in her features. Harry forgets again that she’s been raised a young lady, that she’s never been around much potty mouth, and he realises just how much he’s going to corrupt her in this marriage.

As much as Harry wants to protect his wife, he won’t pretend to be someone he isn’t for the sake of an arranged marriage. His potty mouth is just one of the things she’ll have to get used to.

“Stay away from Nino. You may think I’m a monster, but I have my morals. Nino is merciless and evil. He will do whatever he wants and take whatever he pleases. No matter the consequences,” he warns her, his voice timid.

Y/N doesn’t say anything. She thinks her father is the same, so what could someone two decades younger do to scare her?

She listens, though; takes what he said into consideration. Y/N doesn’t have any desire to talk to Nino ever again.

Her fork has scraped across her full plate for almost forty minutes now. She’s not hungry, not even in the slightest.

Harry’s been watching her, peering over to his side and often gently nudging his elbow into her arm, nodding to the plate which only makes her shoulders slump.

Y/N hasn’t listened to any of the speeches from their families, nor has she acknowledged much of what Harry’s said to her all evening.

But Harry has hardly looked away.

He isn’t angry, he couldn’t be. But she’s only eaten a few mouthfuls of the meat and she’s almost drunk her body weight in champagne and rosé. He’s a little worried. Her eyes have been drooping for over fifteen minutes and her vibrant skin looks sickly grey.

The last thing he wants is for her to embarrass them both and throw up all over the head table.

“The potatoes are good,” he murmurs slowly in her ear.

She slowly turns her head to look at him, blinking slowly. She cranes her neck and purses her lips together. He’s handsome, that much she can’t deny, and in her hazy, drunken state, she wonders what her lips would feel like on hers again.

He is her husband now, surely she could just… reach up… connect their lips…

“And now for the first dance!” Y/N sinks back a little more in her chair and she suddenly feels sick for even considering kissing him again.

He’s dangerous and he’s a monster.

He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t care for you, Y/N, stop this!

Harry raises from his seat as all eyes find the couple.. He’s danced drunkenly with his Mother enough times to know how to cover up her alcohol intolerance.

She’s tucked in his side, their fingers intertwined as he guides them both to the dancefloor. The lights are dim, a twinkle from the fairy lights that are wrapped around wooden beams and looped across curtains illuminating the stuffy room.

With her hand in his, he raises it above her head and gently nudges her hip to spin beneath his arm. She falls gently into his chest with a soft ‘oof’ and Harry wraps his arms around her.

Y/N’s head rests against his hard pecs as he slowly begins to dance with her. She can’t keep up, though, the heels are too high in her drunken state and her knees start to buckle.

She feels her cheeks warm in embarrassment and she knows all eyes are on them. Harry hears her whine softly in his chest and with one arm around her waist, he gently lifts her so her feet sit on his.

He guides her arms around his neck, slowly stepping in a slow dance and she dares to peek up at him, innocent eyes and swollen lips. Harry cranes his neck down to meet her gaze, and those gorgeous eyes are swimming with threatening tears.

He doesn’t understand that she’s grateful for something as little as saving her from embarrassment. He doesn’t understand that she can’t understand her own thoughts.

Neither of them pay attention to the beautiful ballad that plays through the hall, nor do they appreciate the piano or string quartet that carries their dance.

Instead, she stares at him like it’ll be the last time she ever sees his handsome face, and he watches her with wonder and curiosity while his heart begs his mind not to break her like he knows he inevitably will.

For a fleeting moment, all of her doubts slip from her mind. She lets herself believe that he will protect her from pain and anguish, that he will love and cherish her, that she will be able to trust him for the rest of her life.

For a fleeting moment, she forgets again that this isn’t a marriage bound by love, but one bound by honour and duty.

Then the music stops and Salvatore takes a step forward, raising a half-empty glass in the air to gain the attention of the other guests.

“You wed her, now bed her!”

And just like that, the entirety of the male wedding party is chanting those same words. The pair pull apart and Y/N’s wide eyes are scanning the crowd for an escape. She knows she can’t run but fuck, does she want to.

“Wed her, now bed her! Wed her, now bed her!”

“Make a masterpiece on those sheets for us, Harry.”

“Make your wife bleed!”

“Wed her, now bed her!”

Her frantic eyes find those of her mothers, but Gaia looks away, head tilted and chin up like she can’t bear the thought of looking in her daughter's desperate eyes. Y/N begins to panic, chest rising and falling in terror and she finds Maria.

Her cousin stares at her in shock, jaw slack and she tries to run for her, to pull her away from Harry but Mike stands in her way, blocking her from Y/N and ultimately escorting her out of the hall.

Gomez watches, swallowing the bile that crawls up his throat. He knew this day would come, that one day Y/N would be married off and forced into a new life she never agreed to.

He just hoped it wouldn’t hurt so much watching it happen. With a tentative hand on her back, Harry leads Y/N out of the hall. The party follows, cheering them on as she holds her dress and wanders up the thick spiral stairs.

Their room is at the very far end of the hall, away from all the others where they can’t be disturbed… or heard.

Her heart thumps sporadically and the alcohol feels like it’s worn off, and she’s far too aware of what’s supposed to happen now.

Because now, she has to give herself to him. Every inch and fibre of her entire being is about to be his, by choice or not, he’s going to take it all.

He closes the door behind them as they wander in and the frantic terror begins, surges of confidence smacking her.

Harry turns to face her, face stoic as ever and she stumbles over her feet, hands reaching out to steady herself and she shoves at his chest. Harry can smell the alcohol on her breath. He doesn’t know if it’s the first or third bottle of champagne.

He cocks a brow at her bravery and she glares up at him through droopy eyes.

“Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I’ll bow down to your every order.” She slurs, almost losing her footing.

Harry holds her up by her elbow.

He’s shocked by her sudden change in attitude and he has to bite back a laugh. Was this the real Y/N breaking through?

“Is that so?”

There’s an amused grin on his lips. He finds it fucking hilarious. He’s never been turned down by a woman before, but it’s too amusing to watch her in her drunken state for him to take her refusal as a punch to his ever-growing ego.

He was never going to take advantage of her in such a vulnerable state. Maybe that’s why he’s so amused by the situation.

Y/N stumbles again.

“If you so much as force yourself on me tonight, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

It’s an empty threat, Harry’s sure of it. He squints his eyes at his wife, but she doesn’t show any signs that she’s unsure of her own words. He thinks the seriousness of the situation is starting to sober her up and she’s brave, too brave.

“Think you’re forgetting who the Capo is here, princess.” He warns.

She holds her glare as he dips his head closer to her face. He expects her to look away, to cower under his gaze like every other woman, but she doesn’t. She holds her chin high.

“You’re not Capo yet. But when you are, I will make deals impossible, I will run and believe me, I can run. I will burn you and your stupid Famiglia.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and it’s not amusement. He no longer finds her insolence funny. It’s anger. Anger that she thinks she can talk to him like that and get away with it.

But he’s conflicted. He knows she’s scared, that she’s shaking as she grits her teeth and stares in defiance.

“Then I’ll just have to torture you like all the other traitors.”

Lies. Big fat lies.

He’d never lay a hand on a woman, traitor or not. But his blood still boils at Y/N’s stubbornness. He never intended on taking what is rightfully his without her permission.

Y/N coils in disgust, a sardonic laugh slipping past her lips. Her sad smile falls as quickly as it had appeared, and she’s back to looking stoic.

“Do it, I dare you. Because I’ll just keep rebelling. I’ll publicly humiliate us both, just to see you fall.” She threatens, and Harry wants to believe it’s an empty one.

He doesn’t think he’d ever go against his own morals, but she’s beginning to wear his patience thin, not that he’s ever had much of it.

“Then I’ll put a fucking bullet through your skull.” Another fucking lie.

She steps closer, alcohol thick on her breath but she looks as sober as the day they first met.

“Baby, I’ll be pulling the trigger. My life ended the day I was born. Killing me would do us both a favour. You might as well just get it over with.”

Harry regards the girl for a moment as her voice breaks. He tries to read her, to get a glint of any flicker of emotion he can. But there’s nothing. Plain emptiness. He knows that resolve would fall under the touch of a blade or pliers pulling off her painted fingernails.

The thought of someone even touching a hair on her perfect head sends fury through his veins.

He doesn’t notice just how angry the thought makes him until the metallic taste of blood lingers on his tongue, a taste all too familiar. He’s bit into his lip.

“Forget what I said on your birthday. Fear has every place in a marriage and I hope you’re fucking terrified.”

He spits blood on the white sheets, his saliva turning it pink as it soaks into the fabric. “There, you saved your virginity for the night.”

She stares at him, shoulders sagging just an inch as she wobbles on her feet. It’s like the alcohol is making another appearance as she grimaces at him.

“Who said I was a virgin?”

When dawn breaks and light filters through the musty room, Y/N stirs from her slumber with a groggy head and unsettled stomach.

At first, she doesn’t recall the night before, but from the dull throbbing across her temples, she knows alcohol had a strong play in the evening.

It’s when she shifts in the bed, that she realises something is off.

Her bed isn’t this soft… and the sheets in her room are definitely not white cotton. She turns her head, eyes meeting the sleeping face of the notorious mobster, and she shrieks, startling him from his light slumber.

Y/N falls off the bed in an attempt to flee the situation, but when she stands, she realises she’s not in her heavy wedding dress anymore and she feels light.

Bile crawls up her throat at the realisation that she’s in his dress shirt, that she isn’t wearing a bra and while the shirt ends mid-thigh, she’s only got on those sheer panties underneath.

Harry watches her gaze trail over his body–his very naked body, besides his black boxers. She gulps at the sight, shaking her head and trying to ignore his thick thighs and toned abdomen.

Her mind conjures up the worst.

She slept with him, he took what innocence she had left.

Her thoughts are only confirmed when she notices the dark pinkish spots of blood on the sheets and she feels sick, lightheaded – and she knows it’s not from the hangover.

Harry watches her freak for a moment, watches the regret and fear flood her eyes and he quickly realises she doesn’t remember a damn thing.

He doesn’t do anything to reassure her. Doesn’t remind her that he spat blood on the sheets, or that the reason she’s in his shirt is because she struggled too much to get out of her dress and didn’t have any other clothes to change into, so he gave her his shirt.

He doesn’t tell her that he didn’t lay a hand on her, that he waited until she was asleep before laying beside her peaceful body.

“You were willing, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he breaks the silence, voice rugged and he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

She doesn’t dare look at him, arms wrapped tightly around herself and she feels ashamed, so fucking ashamed. She believes him, though. He may be a monster but he’s known to be an honourable man, a man of his words, not a liar.

“And even if you weren’t…” he stands from the bed as an insistent knocking begins to pound on their door.

“You’re my wife now, so I have the right to take what I want.”

He doesn’t believe a word he just said. He’d never force himself on her or any other woman, no matter what. That’s one thing he’ll always stay true to.

Y/N backs into the wall at his words. She ignores him opening the door with a tired grin, ignores the gossiping women of the family flooding through the room and whispering about the frail wife.

Her mind is on such an overdrive that she doesn’t see the truth right in front of her. She doesn’t realise that her thighs don’t ache and her core isn’t tender. She doesn’t notice that she doesn’t have any bruises decorating her soft skin, that Harry’s back isn’t littered in claw marks like it should be.

She believes the worst because it’s all she’s ever known.

They take the sheets with giddy smiles and gushing giggles as Harry steps into his dress pants from last night.

There’s no robe for her to cover herself with and unless she wants to wear the wedding dress that carried her into her new, caged life, she’ll have to go downstairs in Harry’s shirt and her panties.

She keeps her distance from him as they descend the staircase, arms still tight around her middle and she curls a little, just to make sure the shirt covers everything.

Everybody is watching as they enter the hall again, waiting for the bloody sheets to be presented for men to howl at and women to blush over.

Y/N keeps her eyes glued to the ground, wiggling her painted toes and biting back a cry that wants to tumble from her trembling mouth.

She ignores the cheers of pervy uncles and distant cousins, pretends she doesn’t notice the praise Harry gets and the pity looks she recieves with jealousy glares from the women.

It isn’t until the fuss dies down that she dares to look up with tear-stained cheeks and a quivering chin. Gaia still refuses to look at her from across the hall, but Maria doesn’t waste a second to see her cousin when Harry turns to talk to Mike.

“Y/N…” she breathes softly, reaching for her cousin’s arm but Y/N shy’s away from her family's touch and clears her throat, blinking back tears.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she mumbles hoarsely, shaking her head and looking away from her concerned eyes.

Maria frowns, glaring up at the tall man beside her and pointing a jabbed finger in his face.

“Hope you’re fucking proud of yourself,” she seethes.

Harry stares at the young girl. Her hair is blue now and her nose is pierced with a hoop, something he didn’t notice last night. He doesn’t entertain the girl, though. Instead, he shoves a hand in his trouser pocket and reaches for Y/N with the other.

They’re both shocked that she doesn’t cower away from his touch when he rests his palm on the small of her back.

“Let’s go get ready, then we can say goodbye. Jet leaves for New York in two hours,” he tells her.

Y/N doesn’t say anything about a honeymoon, doesn’t question why they aren’t going on one. She’s thankful they’ll only have to be on that plane for 48 hours together, there is no way in hell she could survive two weeks in complete isolation with him.

She gets ready in the bathroom, legs jelly as she changes from his shirt and her underwear. She throws the panties in the bin, not ever wanting to see them again.

She’s about to dress in what her mother packed; a beige pencil skirt and a flowy white blouse with four-inch heels, when she notices another small bag beside it.

She doesn’t need to wonder where it came from, she knows Maria found a way to pack her something more comfortable after a bad night and in preparation for a 48-hour flight.

So instead, she dresses in a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey sweater. Her hair is tied in a quick ponytail and her face is void of makeup and emotion.

She feels shy when she leaves the bathroom, wearing something so simple and looking so vulnerable. He’s dressed in another suit when she comes back into the bedroom, a simple black one with a white shirt and he’s strapping a gun to his chest when he notices her.

She looks tired, simple. She looks normal. He knows for a fact Gaia did not pack that outfit.

“You look comfy,” he mentions.

She swallows visibly and raises her chin, lips pursed as she stares at his forehead. He knows that trick. He knows she’s pretending to look him in the eye. He bites back a smile. She’s trying to hide her discomfort.

“The jet’s ready when you are. Would you like to say goodbye to your family now?”

A leather duffle bag hangs in his hand and her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she shakes her head.

“Um… actually, I don’t… want to say goodbye…” she admits quietly.

It’s silent for a moment as Harry’s brows bunch and he tries to figure her out.

“You know we’re not just going to New York for a weekend away, right? You’re going to be moving there, to live with me. I don’t know when you’ll next see them again,” he reminds her carefully, his words slow like he needs her to comprehend them properly.

But Y/N nods her head and relieves a breath.

“I know,” she tells him, her voice the most confident he’s ever heard and he nods once, agreeing.

“Okay, then let’s go.”

She’s been sitting beside him the entire time, curled up against the window. Neither of them have said a word, both too in their heads.

For Harry, he thinks about how he’s lied to her, how he’s letting her believe he took her innocence. He thinks about her desire to leave without saying goodbye to her family, about what was said on their wedding night, how empty she looked.

For Y/N, she thinks about her new life. She wonders if it’ll be better or worse. When she was at home, Giovanni took his frustration out on her, was cruel and abusive if she or someone else annoyed him.

She wonders if Harry will be the same when they’re back on his land, in his territory. She only remembers one thing from their wedding night. Fear has every place in a marriage, and I hope you’re terrified. She hopes he didn’t mean it.

It’s only the newlyweds on the plane and sleep comes quicker to her than she expected. The others had taken another jet, insisting that Harry and Y/N needed more time alone together. Really, it was just Anne's way of making sure Y/N didn’t feel overwhelmed on a plane full of Delluci’s.

Harry doesn’t wake her when they stop midway to get fuel. She wakes hours after he sleeps beside her, but she doesn’t wake him. Instead, she observes him for a little while; acknowledges the twitch in the corner of his lip, the little movement behind his eyelids, the gentle snores that tumble through his throat.

She appreciates his dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones, his ungodly waves. This version of him doesn’t look scary, doesn’t look monstrous. This version of Harry looks approachable, soft… dare she think… vulnerable. His jaw isn’t set and his lips aren’t pursed.

She wants to reach forward and caress his cheek, maybe one day she might.

When they land back in New York, a car is waiting for them; tinted windows and bulletproof glass. Y/N isn’t silly. Harry helps her with her bags, piling them into the trunk and they both clamber inside.

A partition separates the couple from the driver as the journey begins again. Y/N is looking out of the window, the soft evening consuming her but she already misses the Californian views.

“I recently had the penthouse redecorated to give you some sense of home there,” Harry tells her and when she turns, his eyes are already on her face.

“I want you to remember that it isn’t just a place that you live in. It’s your home now. I want you to treat it as such,” he says.

Y/N nods but she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say. How do you treat a place like a home when there’s no sense of safety?

“And as for security,” he catches her attention again before she can focus her gaze back outside the window.

“Mike will be your new guard. I’ve known him for years and he’s good. I trust him. If you want to go anywhere and I’m not around to go with you, Mike needs to be by your side.” Y/N can’t help the frown that grows on her face.

Not only is he entrusted with her life, but she doesn’t know him, she can’t trust him.

“Why can’t Gomez still be my guard? Why can’t he come here and guard me?” she questions, brows knitted.

Harry scratches his nose.

“Because while your Father trusted him in his territory, I wouldn’t trust him to protect you in mine. Where you go, Mike goes. No arguments.”

First order.

Neither of them say anything else for the remainder of the drive, but when the driver pulls up to a stop, Y/N’s eyes are wide as she stares out the window in awe.

A fifty story building stands tall before her, tucked between two slightly shorter builds. Her parents' home is massive, but this is something else.

This… this was an apartment building?

Harry doesn’t say anything as he walks her inside the lobby; everything is all white and pristine. The blonde receptionist behind the desk offers Harry a flirty smile that Y/N watches him completely ignore and something flips in her stomach. In the elevator, he reaches for the code and shows her the seven digits he punches in.

“We’re in the penthouse, right at the top. That’s the code. Only a select few know it, so don’t go telling everyone,” he warns, standing back as the doors close.

When they arrive at the penthouse, Y/N doesn’t know what to expect, but softwood undertones and fluffy rugs are not it. He guides her inside as she takes it all in.

The entirety of the first floor is open planned, white walls with gorgeous art hanging across them. The kitchen is huge, black and white and Y/N feels her heart flutter at the thought of all the baking she’ll be able to do.

She isn’t given much time to admire it before Harry leads her through the kitchen towards a staircase.

“There’s a library and a gym up here and our bedroom, my home office is up here too,” he says, leading her up the stairs and into a dark room.

He flips on the light as she follows him inside.

“Our room? You mean we’re going to share the bed every night?” there’s a twinge of panic in her voice.

Harry doesn’t think anything of it other than she’s innocent, nervous about sleeping with his body so close to hers every night. But that’s not it, at least, not all of it.

Really, Y/N doesn’t understand why he even wanted to sleep with her on their wedding night in the first place, and now he wants to share a bed with her for the rest of their lives?

She thinks it’s a pride thing, to have his wife sleep in the same bed as him. That has to be it. Because compared to Harry’s past lovers and flings that Maria graciously told her about, Y/N is repulsive – doesn’t compare.

“Yeah… why? Is that a problem for you?” he asks softly.

Y/N shakes her head quickly, clearing her throat and pulling her sweater sleeves past her hands.

“No, not at all… just didn’t think you’d want me in your bed, is all,” she admits, but she doesn’t mean it in the way Harry takes it. He smirks to himself though.

“You’re my wife, Y/N. I’ll always want you in my bed,” he flirts, watching as her cheeks blush in realisation of how she made her statement sound.

She clears her throat awkwardly and Harry places her bag on the bed.

“Anyway, make yourself at home. I have some business to attend to, so Mike will be around, but remember if you want to leave, he goes with you.”

He brushes past her without another word or a kiss to her forehead like he usually would to his mother or little sister. Y/N thinks nothing of it, she much prefers the space.

It isn’t until she begins unpacking one of her bags that she notices a wrapped gift on her nightstand with her name written on a note that sits on top of it.

You’re not a prisoner anymore x

With furrowed brows, she tears the paper off the gift and opens the box. A phone sits waiting for her, her family’s phone numbers saved along with Harry’s, Mike’s and Anne’s already. She feels tears sting her eyes and with a trembling thumb, she calls Maria.

In the week of Y/N’s new life, she’s grown accustomed to her new place of residence. She’s gotten used to the penthouse by now, knows where everything is if she needs anything.

She’s spent a fair amount of time in the kitchen (after the first few days of refraining from using anything), making cookies and brownies for her and Mike to snack on.

She’s mainly tucked herself away in the library, often draped across the chaise with a soft blanket and a good book.

That’s about all she’s grown accustomed to, though. She hasn’t seen her husband, at least, not properly. She’s been asleep when he gets home and asleep when he leaves.

Y/N tries to consider herself lucky. She’s thankful that she hasn’t had to interact with him, save for the two days in passing when he offers her a tightlipped smile before scurrying out of the door.

She doesn’t know why his lack of presence brings a sense of uneasiness, not after she’s gotten to know Mike just a little bit over the past seven days.

Y/N tries not to dwell on the fact that she knows Mike’s favourite frosting flavour but has no idea what her husband’s birthday is. She doesn’t know why part of her wishes to know Harry better, wishes for some type of emotional intimacy between them both.

Y/N knows she needs to accept the fact that she’s safe with how things are, not wish for possible problems that could endanger her in the long run.

But then, she supposes she’s never not been endangered, so what does she know? Maybe she wishes for the sense of comfortability with her new spouse because he’s already offered her something she’s never had before: safety.

Maybe she supposes safety and comfortability are meant to come hand-in-hand. Or maybe she’s just lonely, craves the intimacy she no longer has with her cousin.

Either way, she doesn’t get that relief of intimacy from Harry. Instead, she learns an odd quirk of Mike’s every couple of days and loses herself in the stories that occupy her mind.

The library has become somewhat of a safe haven. And despite having the means to remain in contact with Maria, Romero tends to keep his daughter on a tighter leash now and Y/N often worries with the wonder if it’s her fault.

She thinks Giovanni may have said something to intervene, and she’s been letting blame sit idly on her shoulders as the week slowly strolled past.

It’s been hard for Y/N. She’s been confined to the many walls of the penthouse, despite having the ability to leave (with Mike, of course, something Harry made very clear). But she doesn’t want to leave her new home with her guard.

She wants her husband to show her around and maybe show a little attention to her. She tells herself it’s because she needs the reassurance that she hasn’t done anything wrong, that she hasn’t upset him.

She needs him to do something that suggests he doesn’t have a reason to hurt her.

It’s fucked and she knows it. That hearing nothing is considered bad news to her. Y/N hates not knowing, hates uncertainty. She should be well used to it by now, that’s all her life has ever been.

But things are drastically different in New York with Harry, even if it’s only been a week and she hasn’t seen him.

It doesn’t matter that she feels lighter at the fact of no longer being in Giovanni’s reach or hold. She needs Harry to communicate. She needs to know she’s not doing anything wrong.

But Harry’s a busy man, has business to attend to and bullets to fire. He doesn’t have the time right now to reassure his virgin wife of anything.

And why should he?

Not only did she directly disrespect him but she somehow, someway crawled under his skin and made him grow defensive of the frail woman. Weakness is something he can’t afford.

But it’s not that he hasn’t wanted to.

Women cowering under his influence has never been something Harry has enjoyed, but she isn’t just any woman anymore; she’s his wife, bound by love and honour and duty, she’s his wife.

Perhaps she’s in the same boat. Putting a label on a relationship tends to force some sense of kindred feelings on people.

A marriage is the union between two undying souls, for kindred lovers and harnessed spirits. A marriage is a symbol of devotion, trust and love. Everything their relationship is not.

Maybe that’s why he silently observes her while she sleeps, making sure her breathing is steady and comfortable, and why she misses his presence when he’s gone and wants to know more.

Stories of other lovers are what seem to take her mind off things best, but also have her brain reeling and mustering up impossible scenarios in the light of day, encouraging them to run wild through her head in the dead of night.

Y/N doesn’t know whether to be thankful of them or not--whether it gives her a sense of false hope or weightless relief.

Today is no different from the past six. She wakes alone with no idea where Harry is or what he’s doing.

After her shower and getting ready for the day, she finds herself in the library, lounging across the chaise with Jane Eyre in her hands, but she can’t seem to grasp the words on the first page.

It’s with a sigh that Y/N puts the book back and allows her fingers to brush against the spines of endless stories and fantasies.

There’s not a speck of dirt on the pad of her finger when she comes to the end of the shelf and she wonders if it’s because Harry secretly loves to read or because a maid frequents.

She can’t help but suppose it’s the latter. The thought of Harry reading is somewhat amusing to Y/N, but she knows it’s not something she can just rule out. She doesn’t know the man.

She’s huffing with boredom when she’s ready to leave the room, but as her eyes flitter effortlessly across the clinically white bookcases, she catches something golden that’s tucked away at the far end of the room, shoved beneath a lip at the bottom of a case.

With a tilted head and gently furrowed brows, she goes to inspect it, pulling out a large photo album.

It’s dusty, looks like it hasn’t come out to reminisce old times in a while and Y/N blows the thick coating of fine powder off. There’s nothing but soft, intricate golden leaves designed and embroidered across the expanse of the outer book and it feels heavy in her hands.

Maybe not the weight of the book itself, but the weight behind it.

She doesn’t know what compels her to leave the library with it wrapped in her arms, what forces her to sit on the couch with it out in the open on the coffee table in front of her.

Y/N feels sick at herself for even opening it, she knows old photos are precious past memories that she suspects someone like Harry would not particularly wish to share with his new wife.

It doesn’t stop her from looking, though – doesn’t stop her heart from aching and swelling at the sight of a three-year-old Harry wandering around butt-naked in a backyard with a cheesy grin on his lips and a green bucket hat on his head.

She keeps looking; flipping the pages with a gentle smile but it quickly fades with one of slight confusion.

The only people in the almost hundred photos are the same three: Harry, Anne, and a mysterious man. Y/N’s never seen him before but he looks familiar, she can’t help but see traces of Harry in him.

She supposes maybe it’s Harry’s uncle; maybe even a family friend and Y/N’s just thinking too deep into it. She needs to stop allowing her mind to think everything to be a fucking conspiracy.

She wants to appreciate the pure vulnerability she’s able to see in regards to Harry, even if it is just through photos that are almost twenty years old – older than her.

She doesn’t know whether she’ll get to see a side of him that isn’t stone cold and doesn’t absolutely petrify her.

Knowing some part of him used to be young and innocent offers a sense of relief, a reminder that he has some sanity about him; whether he wants to admit it or not.

She gets to the end of the photo album when she learns the strange man's name. On the back of a photo of the unfamiliar face and Harry digging dirt in the garden, dressed in overalls with a beer in the man’s hand and a sippy cup in Harry’s, there’s a little note written in what she supposes is Anne’s calligraphy.

Danny and Harry -- summer 2000 x

Y/N finds herself mumbling his name under her breath, brows furrowed as she scours her brain. She’s heard that name before, she’s sure of it.

She doesn’t have much time to continue her mindful search before the creaking of the living room floorboards quirk in her ears and Mike is slowly swaying into the room.

He’s dressed in a slick suit, something that Y/N has tried to tell him isn’t necessary and he has ignored, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets with a stoic expression on his regularly threatening face.

“Where’d you find that?” his low voice asks and even though it’s just about audible, it manages to sound through the room and ricochet against the walls and beams.

Y/N nearly jumps in her skin, despite already knowing of his presence.

She feels no threat from Mike--she knows he’s here to protect her and both he and Harry have made that very clear--but he’s still very intimidating in the way his posture holds him and his general blank expression.

It’s something about his eyes. Icy blue but she knows something dark burns behind them.

She clears her throat and quickly closes the book, tucking loose curls behind her ear. Y/N pushes the album to the centre of the coffee table and sits further back on the couch, as if to make a point--she’s just not sure what point she’s trying to make or prove.

She clears her throat.

“Uh, I found it in the library,” she explains lamely and Mike notices she can’t make eye contact with him.

He also knows she isn’t lying.

Over the week he’s been guarding her, he’s learnt all her ticks and tells. Y/N isn’t a liar, she’s just constantly in fear and silently requires the reassurance that she hasn’t done anything to upset anyone.

Mike hums, nodding his head, knows she has more to say; he knows what photos are in that book.

“There’s uh, there’s a lot of pictures of Harry with his Mom and some man… Danny,” she says carefully, articulating her words in a way that isn’t going to seem out of place or something he’ll consider mentioning to Harry to have her scolded and punished.

“That’s for Harry to explain, if he ever wishes to,” he responds cooly, hands still shoved in his pockets but Y/N’s eyes are fixed on the book and she wonders if she has the balls to try and push further.

“It’s just… he looks like him, you know? Looks like he could be a relative,” she speaks freely, though her throat feels like it’s being constricted.

She tries to word it casually, like she’s making an innocent observation but they both know it’s more than that. Mike doesn’t say anything for a few moments, allowing her to understand that he isn’t about to say anything in regards to the photos.

“Are you missing yours?” He asks, her eyes meeting him with a frown and he shifts his weight from his feet, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest.

He clears his throat.

“Your family, I mean… are you missing them? I know it's a long way from sunny California,” he tries to lighten the mood for her sake; he doesn’t particularly want her to grow agitated with him for not telling her part of Harry's past.

Y/N purses her lips and maybe keeping quiet would’ve been a better idea but Mike tends to run his mouth before really thinking out situations that involve sad emotions.

“Not really. I feel safer here than I ever have back in Cali,” she admits through a pathetic laugh, like she’s trying to cover up the hurt.

“Your Dad?” he asks in a gentle tone, one she’s never heard before but she’s only known him a week.

She smiles weakly, nodding her head and Mike hums, adjusting his suit as he stands taller. Y/N’s gnawing at the inside of her cheek and picking at the skin around her nails -- nervous habits, Mike’s come to learn -- so he takes a step closer to her and clears his throat once more.

“Come on. Let me take you for lunch and show you around New York a little,” he offers, a hint of a smile on his lips but Y/N thinks she might be seeing things.

She isn’t used to this type of kindness from men of any ages. She frowns harder.

“Is that a good idea? Won’t Harry be mad?” she twists her hands nervously.

“Harry entrusted me with your life, Y/N. I’ll always keep you safe when he’s not here. And you’re not a prisoner anymore. He’ll never treat you like one.”

It’s a little after three when Harry feels a nervous twitch in his cheek and a tick in his fingers. He’s been gnawing on his bottom lip for the past twelve minutes and both Gemma and Anne have noticed.

His mother is concerned for him while his younger sister offers a look of disgust and is five seconds away from chastising her brother about how chapped his lips will be.

“As much as your sister and I want to stay, Harry… we can’t. You’re going to have to prove to Stefano that you can do this. We believe in you.”

Her gentle voice tries to coax him back into the room but the only thing that does is when the elevator sounds just seconds later and he stands from the couch.

Harry doesn’t fucking know what’s gotten him in such an aggy and irritated mood. His palms are sweaty and he doesn’t know why. He tells himself it’s because Y/N’s never been out before and that she and Mike have been gone for almost three hours.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust either of them; he trusts Mike with his life and he trusts that Y/N won’t try something stupid. Ideally, Harry would have liked to have been the one to take Y/N out first, maybe to prove something to the people watching his every move, he’s not sure.

Part of him feels a little guilty. He hasn’t seen her for more than five minutes since she moved to New York and he feels a little bit sick. He’s taken her from her family and everything she’s ever known.

As her husband, it should be his duty to care for her and ensure she doesn’t feel alone in this transitioning time. But Harry has to remind himself that this isn’t any regular marriage and there are no loving feelings shared between the two beneath their label.

But that doesn’t make it easier for Harry to try and understand why he feels the way he does about the matter.

When the elevator doors slide open, she’s got a shy smile on her lips and her shoulders are drooped in a relaxed state. The sight is a jolt of relief to Harry.

Wife or not, he never wants a woman to feel unsafe or intimidated in his presence or his men’s. He takes a brief moment to quickly get a good look at her.

She seems a lot lighter in the way she carries herself since she arrived at her new home. In a pretty beige pinafore with a ribbed white turtleneck underneath, she looks pretty -- very pretty.

Her hair falls in loose curls that sit just past her shoulders and her plump lips are painted pink with a subtle gloss.

When her eyes flitter up from her feet, she finally notices him watching her, a warmth rising to her cheeks and she shuffles in the penthouse behind Mike.

Her eyes are too glued on Harry, worried she may have done something wrong, for her to notice the presence of Anne and Gemma.

It isn’t until Anne is cooing at her and pulling her into a motherly embrace that she breaks her nervous gaze on her husband and shakily returns the hug to her mother-in-law.

“Was worried we wouldn’t see you before we left, love. Mike took you out for lunch, Harry said,” she smiles warmly, holding the girl by her shoulders and Y/N nods, lips pursed inwardly.

“Before you left? Where are you going?” she asks, ignoring the latter part of her question but she doesn’t mean to… she wonders if Harry will scold her for it when they leave.

Anne lets out a soft huff.

“Back to England, love. Now you’re married, Harry’s got his trial period as Capo to prove himself in the event Stefano is no longer able to reign as Capo,” she explains briefly, hands waving a seemingly dismissive manner, like she doesn’t much care for the topic.

But Y/N sees the glimmer of fear in her eyes.

She nods her head and smiles softly at the youngest Delluci who’s already gleaming up at her. Y/N doesn’t know what it is, but knowing Gemma appears to like her makes her feel a little more at ease.

“Will we be seeing you soon?” Y/N queries shyly, wondering if Anne can sense her need of having them around.

She does, and she reaches for the young girl's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“I hope so, darling.”

She zones out as Harry kisses their cheeks goodbye and sees them to the elevator, she’s too busy twiddling her thumbs and preparing herself for the numbing loneliness she'll be forced to face again tonight.

“Mike, you’re off for the night,” Harry’s low voice squeaks in her ears and Y/N’s head perks up, brows furrowed with sweaty palms.

“Do you not have work?” she blurts out before she can even think about what she’s doing.

Her face pales, head lowering as her gaze fixes on the floor. If she spoke like that to Giovanni, he would’ve kicked her to the ground by now.

Harry hates the way she quickly reels into herself, a vile taste on his tongue at the thought of her thinking he’d ever lay a hand on her like that.

He shakes his head and lowers his voice to a softer tone, ignoring the squinted look Mike gives him.

“Not tonight, I figured we could spend some time together,” he starts, dipping his head slightly as Y/N slowly raises hers to look up at him through mascara-coated lashes.

Mike bites back a smirk. In all his life, he’s known Harry to only ever use that soft tone with the women of his family: his mother and sister. He leaves the couple without another word and when Harry hears the elevator doors close again, he continues.

“I feel bad for not spending any time with you and leaving you all alone since we got here.”

Y/N feels part of her heart swell at his confession and she feels her cheeks blush harder than before. She offers a shy chuckle and shrugs her shoulders.

“Not all alone, Mike’s kept me a little company,” she’s nervous and she wonders if this is actually his way of making sure he gets laid tonight.

She doesn’t want to sleep with him again, doesn't want to go through the pain of remembering it this time.

She can feel herself beginning to panic, the sweat in her palms increasing by the second. Maybe if she plays along it won’t hurt so much, maybe he won’t be so hard on her.

She doesn’t want to think of him as such a person to do such a thing, but he’s a Made Man and Y/N is his wife. Her permission doesn’t matter.

He seems to notice her apprehension and takes a tentative step closer, trying to sag his shoulders to make himself look smaller; less intimidating.

“I thought maybe we could cook together? Get to know each other a little more,” he suggests and with a brief second of her gnawing on her inner cheek, she agrees.

They settle for making pizza. Harry’s kneading the dough as she stirs the tomato puree in a small bowl. She’s cut the pepperoni and mushrooms, a little plate full of peppers and spices ready to be sprinkled on when the dough is thick enough.

Y/N takes her time to admire Harry.

He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie long forgotten on the couch and the first few buttons by his collar are undone, dark and sparse chest hair peeking through.

He looks good, she can’t lie about it. And there's something about seeing an easy smile on his lips that makes him seem all the more normal, she finds herself feeling comfortable in his presence, safe.

In the hour of prepping, they’ve learnt little bits of information about each other. Harry learnt that Y/N’s favourite colour is yellow because it brings her a sense of light. She told him that her favourite movie is Romeo and Juliet, “Cliche, I know,” and that ever since she was little, books have been her little escape from how bad her home life has always been.

He learnt about her relationship with her brother when she was growing up and how it all fell to shit when he was initiated, when he sided with their Father and left her alone.

It isn’t all one sided with learning new information. Y/N learnt about Harry’s ability to hold his breath for seven minutes, how he taught himself to play the guitar at a young age, and as much as he was tempted to tell her he once killed a man with his guitar string, he didn’t.

He lets her revel in the innocence he offers her in sheltered childhood memories. Like how he used to read Gemma bedtime stories and train with Mike and Jeff every evening.

It’s when he mentions how he once made homemade pizzas with Anne when he was younger and she thinks he’s opening up to her.

She doesn’t understand that he only tells her these things to make her feel a little more comfortable. She mistakes his consideration for trust.

“I uh, I found some old photos in the library this morning. A bunch of ones of you and your Mom,” she begins in a shaky tone and Harry hums, sprinkling the cheese over the tomato based path she created for him.

She dares to snatch a peek at his face, fearing the worst -- but he’s calm and concentrated as he evenly distributes slices of pepperoni in the cheese’s wake.

“And there was a man in them, too. You look kinda like him, you know,” she continues, fiddling with a couple of olives between her fingers and she’s too caught in the way they roll against her fingertips to notice his mood falter and body stiffen.

So she continues.

“Is he your uncle? I didn’t see him at uh, at the wedding,” she cranes her neck just enough to wince at his reaction and he’s sprinkling chopped onions and mushrooms with a little more force than he did with the cheese.

Y/N swallows.

“No. He was my father,” he tells her.

His voice is rough and short -- a quip, less than a casual reply. Y/N frowns at his bluntness and the new information, dropping the olives in the ceramic bowl and twisting to face him.

“What?” she asks, brows furrowed. “But I thought that—“

“That Stefano is my Father? No, my step-father. Why else do you think you and I are Styles-Delluci?”

His replies are short and blunt and he doesn’t miss the way she sinks into herself out of fear and embarrassment. Nothing more is said on the matter, Harry opting to change the subject and attempting to lighten the mood to the best of his ability, but Y/N doesn’t budge.

He’s come to learn that when she fears she’s upset someone or gotten herself in some kind of trouble, she tends to bottle herself up and doesn’t allow forgiveness upon her.

Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t believe the forgiveness is ever genuine and Harry starts to wonder if she’s ever even been forgiven before. The thought rattles something unsettling within the pit of Harry’s stomach.

They wait for the food to cook in silence and eat in silence, opposite ends of the dining table. Y/N keeps her gaze on her food while Harry keeps his gaze on her, but neither says a word.

Harry cleans the dishes while she showers and as they climb into bed together for the first time since she’s been there, their backs stay faced to the other as sleep consumes them.

omg please do let me know what you think so far of the series? the next part is out next week and it's another long one, too. feedback is massively appreciated!!

#fic rec

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westcoastrry · 3 months

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AYO WHAT WHO TAUGHT U HOW TO WRITE LIKE THIS💳💳💳💳💳💳💳💳

Hunger

summary: harry reflects on a relationship that's long over

words: 6k

Candles burnt down to the floor, wearing less than you were before, shoes sitting by the door, never put them on. We would stay in the house for days, spilling breakfast on pillowcases, your stuff don’t taste the same, now that you’re gone.

Harry sat alone in his kitchen, his fingers clasped around a pale blue mug. The lip was chipped and the paint had visible streaks on it. It stood out against the rest of his collection of pristine, white and navy blue mugs, but his hand always reached for the same one that he should’ve thrown out by now.

The high-pitched shriek of the kettle startled him away from his thoughts, though he wasn’t thinking so much as staring blankly at the pair of little initials and the date scribbled on the bottom of the mug.

He prepped his tea, his movements mechanical as he relied on muscle memory to guide him through his kitchen. When he finally slumped back into his seat at the kitchen table, he looked around. He used to think the table would one day be surrounded by high chairs and littered with sippy cups and homemade placemats. The fantasy was so clear in his head it felt real.

Now he felt nothing.

Harry took a sip from the mug and grimaced. He didn’t know why he still had this flavor of tea, he’d always preferred something more floral. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. She always insisted on having a box of it in the house at all times. Harry always secretly hated it, but now he was drinking her tea from her favorite mug.

Each sip brought back a new memory; puzzle pieces fell into place until four years worth of a relationship laid itself out in front of him.

“Don’t go yet,” he said.

The morning air prickled his bare shoulders, but he didn’t bother with clothes. He hoped they wouldn’t be necessary in the next few minutes.

“‘Don’t go?’” she repeated. “I haven’t been home in three days.”

The last few days replayed in his mind like an achingly sweet summer melody.

Harry had always loved the beginning of a relationship. The giddy uncertainty, the easily flushed cheeks, butterflies that thrived all the time in lovesick bellies. He never thought anything could beat the initial euphoria of a budding romance. It was a practically perfect feeling.

“I want to make breakfast for you,” he said, not realizing the words were true until they were out of his mouth.

Her movements stilled. She’d been slowly slipping back into her clothes, had just been about to put on her shoes, when Harry made his offer. With one boot dangling from her hand, she seemed to consider her options.

“It’s not gonna be, like, beans on toast or anything like that, is it? I can fake a lot, but I don’t know if I can fake enjoy eating that.”

Laughing at her admission, Harry shook his head. “No, I will not make you eat beans on—Wait a minute. Did you fake anything the last three days?”

Her responding grin was coy. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You Americans are so brutal,” he said, clutching his chest as if he’d been wounded. “But now that you’ve said that, I simply cannot let you leave. I must rectify any ill performances on my part.”

He wasn’t actually upset by her teasing. He liked to think he was humble, but he also knew if he hadn’t been anything less than satisfactory, she wouldn’t have stayed at his place for three days.

Harry watched as the boot slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. His grin widened when she came over to him and straddled his waist on the bed. Her kiss was soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that wasn’t rushed or feverish because they had plenty of time. It was the kind of kiss that gave him a feeling he wanted to chase for the rest of his life.

Carefully, he flipped her over so that she was on her back. With one last peck to her lips, he said, “Now, make yourself comfortable again and I’ll bring breakfast up for the two of us to share.”

“You want to eat up here?” she asked him. “We’re gonna get food all over your million threadcount, hand woven, personally delivered Egyptian sheets and pillowcases.”

“Oh hush.”

Since seeing and feeling his bed for the first time, she gawked at how cloud-like it felt and had teased him mercilessly when he rattled off a brand name and description that sounded about as expensive as the bed probably was. Harry put up with it, had found it funny, even. Her laugh was music to his ears and her smile was even moreso. She was beautiful in every possible way, and he wanted to keep her in his bed for as long as she would let him.

Sliding out of bed, Harry put on a pair of briefs and a robe before going to make breakfast. Something quick and easy. Not because he couldn’t do anything else, he just didn’t want to be away from her for so long.

Harry had never felt like that before. There was this indescribable insatiability he developed when they met. He simply couldn’t get enough of her.

Thinking back to the first few stanzas of their epic, Harry waited for butterflies to flutter so much it made his head spin. But they didn’t come. The flame on their candle had burned out a long time ago. Now all he felt was the harsh reality of her absence.

I guess I’m prone to overthinking. One thing goes wrong and I can’t adjust. I’ve lost the taste for the good in us, and I’m sorry.

“So, Harry, tell me how you’ve been.”

Harry shrugged, looking down at the scuff marks on his shoes. “Fine, I guess.”

“I’m gonna need you to do a little better than that, Harry.”

He didn’t really have anything to give, though, so he just shrugged again. The woman sighed, and though he wasn’t looking at her, Harry imagined his therapist taking off her glasses to rub the lenses with her sweater.

He’d been seeing her on and off for the last few years, so they knew each other quite well, which did not work in Harry’s favor at the moment. She could tell he was hiding something, and she was patient enough to wait him out until he eventually told her what was on his mind.

But they only had an hour, and he could use a little push in the right direction.

“You’ve been thinking about her again.”

He shrugged again. “A little.”

“What about her?” she asked.

Confused, Harry looked up for the first time since the session started. “What do you mean?”

“Are you thinking about just her as a person? Oe the beginning of the relationship? The end?”

Harry’s foot began bouncing rapidly. “The end, I guess. Why it ended.”

“And why do you think it ended?” she asked him gently.

“I let my fears get the best of me, of us, I suppose.”

“So you get to live your dream, but I can’t live mine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying! I’m just asking you if you really thought about this. Japan is a big deal.”

“Have I really thought about this? This is what I’ve been waiting my whole career for! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and it sounds like you want me to turn it down.”

She was a journalist, trying to make her way in the fashion industry. When Harry met her, she was taking some no-name publication and rebuilding it from the ground up. She made it trendy and worth reading, and was praised for her work. But when an offer to be a head editor at Vogue Japan was made to her, she couldn’t believe how well her hard work paid off.

And all Harry could do was ask if this was really what she wanted.

“Come on tour with me,” he said desperately. “We can be together and you’ll get experience—”

The emotions on her face switched from frustration to disbelief to anger when he made that suggestion. “That’s your solution? Giving me a handout?”

“No, of course not! I just want us to be together. Is that such a bad thing?”

“I—I can’t believe this. I thought you would be happy for me.”

“I am, darling. Please, I only meant—”

“I need some air,” she said suddenly.

Grabbing her keys off the counter, she left, not saying if or when she’d be back.

“But that’s not when you broke up, is it?” his therapist asked him. She’d heard bits and pieces of Harry’s relationship in previous sessions, but not enough to paint a full picture.

“No, but that was the beginning of the end. She took the job and moved, and I convinced myself I couldn’t do long distance. We’d done it when I went on tour and she had to stay behind and work, but this was different. More permanent.”

“And what about her? Could she handle the long distance?”

“She was willing to try.”

His therapist didn’t say anything for a while, considering her next questions and waiting to see if Harry would offer up anything else. He didn’t.

“How do you think you would respond now, if you were in that position again?”

“Wh—Why are you asking me that? It’s over. She hates me now.”

“Do you really think that?”

He wasn’t ready to answer that question. He didn’t want to consider the gut-wrenching possibility that she hated him. So he did what he’d been doing in these sessions lately. He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he answered her original question.

“I would fight for us,” he said. “I would do everything I could to make it work.”

Not mentioning how he ignored her other question, the therapist said, “So you still love her then.”

Harry hung his head and mustered a small nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I still love her.”

We had a hunger then, only each other then. Couldn’t get enough when we started. Always a hunger then, now it’s just emptiness. We were in love, we were starving. We had a hunger then.

Harry’s heart pounded as he gripped the mic stand. He’d played shows in stadiums packed with tens of thousands of people, he’d stood in front of a room full of the world’s most beloved artists to accept awards, and he performed at the Grammy’s. How was this performance more nerve-wracking than any of that?

He was at a friend’s wedding, and a few months back, the bride and groom asked if Harry would sing the song for their first dance. He’d said yes, but now that the time had come, his palms began to sweat in a way they hadn’t since his early One Direction days.

“And now, please give a round of applause for the bride and groom!”

That was his cue. Curtains drew back, revealing Harry to the rest of the wedding guests. He’d been there for the ceremony, but his performance remained a secret until now.

His eyes immediately searched for hers, the way they always did. She was always able to calm his nerves like no one else could. She was his rock.

Finally, he spotted her. Her eyes were wide with surprise like the rest of the wedding guests, only when she regained her composure, she narrowed her eyes at him as if to say, “I can’t believe you hid this from me!”

Harry grinned, then looked back down at his lap to make sure his fingers were in the right place on the guitar before quietly counting, “One, two, three, four.”

“Woah, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch. A long lonely time. And time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much. Are you still mine? I need your love, I need your love. God speed your love to me.”

His eyes found hers subconsciously as he sang. They always did. This time, though, Harry searched her face to read her reaction. “Unchained Melody” was one of her favorite songs. She hummed it often while they were in bed reading together, in the kitchen while they danced, in his dressing room after a show. “I’ve always wanted someone to love me like that,” she explained to him once. “To have someone hunger for my love. Doesn’t that seem like a bad life, does it?”

Harry was more than willing to be that someone.

As he sang, he looked directly into her eyes. He wanted her to know that this—this performance—was hers. The song was for his friends to dance to, but his performance was dedicated to her.

“Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the open arms of the sea. Lonely rivers sigh, ‘Wait for me. I’ll be coming home. Wait for me.’”

“God, I love you so much,” she panted, pressing him up against the door of the hotel ballroom’s bathroom. Neither of them could wait to go back to their room, so they snuck away like two teenagers at prom.

“I love you too,” was all Harry could muster. He prided himself on being more poetic with his declarations of love, but her kiss was dizzying and left his thoughts muddled.

There was no need for words after that, anyway. Her lips detached from his neck and found his again, her hands finding purchase in his hair. Harry’s hands were all over the place—the ends of her hair, her cheeks, eagerly gripping and caressing whatever he could, the noises she made only spurring him on.

Taking advantage of the flimsy straps that held up her dress, he pushed them off her shoulders and watched it fall in a lacy pool at her feet. He was quick to get on his knees, kissing up her leg and stopping at the high point of her thigh. He sucked a spot into her soft skin.

“H, come on, please,” she whimpered, a tremor running through her body.

“Don’t worry, angel, I’m coming to take care of you,” he mumbled against her, dragging his lips up, up, up before lifting her leg over his shoulder.

She whimpered again, but not so much at his touch. She never said it, but she loved when he called her angel. "You are to me," he told her once. "The closest thing a man can get to heaven on earth. You're heaven. My heaven."

It was safe to say neither of them left the confines of his bedroom that day.

Harry raised his eyes to meet hers. “I love you. You want me to show you just how much?”

“Yes, please. Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Harry paused, a grin twitching on his lips. “Oh no. Can’t rush work like this. We’re gonna have to stop if we don’t have enough time.”

She pouted at him, clearly not amused with his teasing. He enjoyed it, though, loved how desperate she became when he dangled himself like a carrot in front of her. When she was seconds away from stopping her foot out of frustration, he kissed her inner thigh again.

“I’m only teasing, angel. I’ll make sure no one notices we’ve been gone too long.”

She huffed, but there wasn’t any more time for pouting. She gripped his hair, harder than she normally would, as retaliation for not giving her any warning, but he was only loving on her the only way he knew how, with his entire being. Ardently. Unequivocally.

We could ruin a perfect night. On my birthday I made you cry. You told me you learned to drive, I guess you lied. I could never get sick of you, I just bit off more than I could chew, and as one year turns into two, I’m still not over you.

Harry left therapy in a daze, his head still dredging up memories from the past. He seemed to be stuck reliving all of his worst mistakes. No amount of time had eased the ache of regret. So much so that he tried not to keep tabs on her anymore. When they first broke up, he would spend an unhealthy amount of time on her social media, just so he could see her smile. It had been so long since he’d seen it.

He wanted to reach out so many times, but he never did. No one would let him. His sister held his phone hostage at night for a month, his manager eventually changed the passwords to his social media accounts, and his mother simply helped him see reason. Their breakup was final, and both of them were hurt in ways that would take a long time to heal. Contacting her before either one of them were ready wouldn’t do any good.

So for a whole year, Harry was miserably alone. He hardly slept, and even when he did, tears soaked the pillow. There was no more breakfasts in bed, no more dancing in the kitchen, no more anything. His house was glaringly empty.

All he could think about was the past, where he pretty much lived for the better part of a year. Harry dwelled on their best and worst moments, torturing his guilt, picking at the scab on his heart instead of letting it scar. He thought about that night, especially. The one that ended it all.

Harry didn’t always have a party on his birthday, but this year he thought why not.

She came, of course she did. They’d hardly spoken the last few days, their busy schedules and differing timezones limiting them to a couple of texts. But she was happy, she was so, so happy. Harry could tell through her texts and the phone calls. She loved her job, she loved her apartment, and she loved the people she worked with. She was filled with so much love for her new life in Japan, that Harry sometimes felt that she was leaving him in the dust. She wasn’t, of course, but there were moments where Harry feigned being tired or pretended to be asleep when she called because he missed her too much.

It was crazy to think about in hindsight, but he never claimed to be an expert at relationships. Harry loved her more than the day they met, but the physical distance between them allowed for bitterness to sink its nasty claws into him. And when she’d told him in advance that she wanted to bring a friend from work, and Harry told her it was fine, but all that did was make him even more paranoid.

She was so happy to see him despite the palpable tension and unsaid words between them. And he had been happy to see her too, had spun her around in his arms and reacquainted his lips with hers in a kiss that made him want to send everyone home. For a minute, nothing was wrong. For a minute, everything was as it should have been. They were together again, everything was going to be fine.

And then she introduced him to her friend.

Looking back now, Harry had the common sense to know that that was all he was to her, a friend. But Harry from the past thought differently.

All night, his vision grew redder and redder as he watched her flaunt her “friend” to everyone at the party. She laughed loudly, stuck by his side, bragged about his long list of accomplishments, shared anecdotes and inside jokes. With each drink Harry knocked back, Harry’s anger took root, grasping onto every pre-existing doubt and fear he had to form one monstrous knot in the pit of his stomach.

“A toast,” she said when everyone had gathered around at her request. “To my beloved, the only person in my life worth traveling thousands of miles for. I love you more than words can describe. Happy birthday, baby.”

Everyone awwed and clapped and raised their glasses. Everyone but Harry. How could she say things like that when the man she was cheating on him with was in the room with them?

Raising his own glass finally, he gave a toast of his own. “My girlfriend, the liar, everyone.”

His words caused the chatter in the room to cease as all eyes turned to the two of them.

“What are you talking about, baby? Is everything okay?” she asked him, her cheeks flushed.

“You really didn’t think I wouldn’t figure it out? You’re fucking him,” he spat, nodding his head angrily at her colleague.

Shock came before anger, but she didn’t say a word, which only served to make Harry feel more vindicated in his accusations. “You’re not even going to deny it? Not even gonna try to give me some lame fucking excuse?”

“You’re drunk,” was all she said, shaking her head bitterly.

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong! How could you do this to me?”

A frustrated tear rolled down her cheek, but at that moment, Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. He was just so furious.

People started coming up with excuses to leave, and they slowly trickled out of Harry’s house until it was empty. Her friend was the last to go, muttering under his breath that he was going to his hotel. She simply nodded and gave his arm a squeeze.

It wasn’t until they were completely alone that she spoke. “Are you really that insecure to think I would cheat on you?”

Her voice was calm, thinly veiling her anger. Harry was the complete opposite, too many drinks in to be anything but loud. “What am I supposed to think? I hardly see you, you spend all your time with him—”

“You’re supposed to trust me!” she cried, her limits finally reached. “You’re supposed to have faith in me because we love each other and we’ve been together too long to think that someone could come between us!”

“You were all over—”

“Do not even finish that sentence, Harry Styles, I swear to God,” she warned. “He doesn’t know anyone here, I was being a good friend. And besides, you were the one whose been hiding behind your fucking liquor—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault, is it? I’m the one who screwed up here?” he said, not backing down. He should’ve, but he didn’t.

“You were the one who decided to let drunken stupidity think for you, Harry. He’s my co-worker, we work on a lot of projects together, of course we’re close. Do you know how many times I see or hear that you’ve cheated on me with some actress or model? But I’ve never believed any of that bullshit because that’s all it is. Because I don’t think so little of you.”

She wouldn’t look him in the eye, she couldn’t. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and as Harry’s fog of fury dissipated he wanted to reach out and wipe them away. He’d been so wrapped up in himself, he never thought about what the distance would be like from her perspective until it was too late.

“Angel, I—”

“You just humiliated me in front of all of our friends over something that isn’t even true,” she said, a little astonished that he’d behaved like this. “And you know what? Maybe he and I are good friends, but H, you’ve been so distant. You hardly call, you’ve skipped out on FaceTime dates. You iced me out for no reason. All over something we could've resolved if you just talked to me.”

Harry did reach out to her then as another tear fell, but she stepped away from him.

“How could you do that to me? To us?”

“I’m sorry, I—I know you would never cheat. I don’t know why I would—”

“We were designing something together. For you. That’s why he came tonight. I wanted him to see your reaction in person,” she said, her voice steadier now than it had been since the argument began.

Sighing, she reached for his hand and kissed his knuckles. It should’ve felt relieving, but it didn’t. Somehow, he knew they'd reached the end. They both did.

Harry would live to regret that night for the rest of his life. Before, the issues they were having could’ve been fixed. She could take time off, he could call more, visit more, but he’d done irrevocable damage, and now he had to pay the price.

A year after they broke up, Harry went to see her to apologize. He was a wreck without her. Life just wasn’t the same when she wasn't in it. So after a year went by, he hoped enough time had passed where they could talk things out, possibly test the waters of their relationship once more.

But he was in bad shape, and she wasn’t in a place where she could fix him. She was still in love with him too, but she also wasn’t ready to forgive him yet. So she sent him away, and it fell like they’d broken up all over again.

All Harry could do was cry in the weeks that followed. That goodbye felt final. She didn’t want him back, and he could only blame himself for being alone.

We had a hunger then. Now it’s just emptiness. Couldn’t get enough when we started. Always a hunger then.

Harry didn’t really want to come to this event. There were too many people with cameras and questions, and too much socializing that he wasn’t really in the mood for. He had no desire to wear a smile he didn’t feel and make small talk with people in the industry who only wanted to talk to him just to say they did.

But he came anyway, was practically forced out of his house by his manager. So he was here, but he was keeping to himself. Anyone that wanted to talk would have to come up to him, he wasn’t about to go out of his way. The red carpet entrance alone was exhausting. People asking for his next album or single or anything. He just gave a close lipped smile, resisted the urge to fidget with his rings, and stepped inside the event space.

He was at the back of the room, counting down the minutes until he thought it was appropriate to leave. The dinner was fine, having sat next to people he was familiar enough with. An Italian designer, a director and his wife, two members of a band, and himself. He let his table do most of the talking while he picked at his food and sipped on his sparkling water, and having picked up on his somber mood, they pretty much left him alone.

The members of his table cleared out after dinner to get more drinks or talk to other guests they recognized or to make their way to the dance floor. Harry stayed where he was for another fifteen minutes before deciding to head home.

“Harry?”

That voice. The one that haunted his dreams at night and kept him company in his daydreams. Part of him thought he really was losing his mind when he heard his name, but then she called out to him again, and he knew it had to be real.

Turning around, he silently prayed his knees wouldn’t buckle.

She was radiant, she was Venus emerging from the sea. She looked the same, yet different, like she’d done a lot of living since the last time she saw him. Harry was happy that the last two years seemed to have been kind to her.

“Hi,” he finally managed to say, his voice barely discernible above all the others in the room.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised to see her here. It was some event put on by Vanity Fair, so it would make sense that she would be invited. Harry had to be forced out of the house by his manager tonight, but now he couldn’t be more thankful. Just seeing her again made him feel just a little bit better.

She stepped closer to hear him better, and he could only hope she wouldn’t notice the bags under his eyes. To Harry’s surprise, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Too shocked to process what was happening, he hardly felt it, his arms remaining awkwardly at his sides.

“How are you?” she asked.

The truth simply wouldn’t do. She didn’t need to know that he was still catastrophically in love with her, even after two whole years of them being broken up. So, giving her the same line he gave his therapist two days ago, he said, “Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?” she asked, a playful smile on her lips.

Harry blushed. “Yeah, it’s just—it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, like he didn’t know the exact number of days since they’d seen each other.

“It has,” she replied, but he didn’t sense much in terms of fondness or nostalgia in her voice. Whatever feelings she had or didn’t have, she was doing a much better job of hiding them than he was.

He probably shouldn’t have, but he found himself saying, “I—I’ve missed you.”

The room they were in was much too loud, but Harry swore he heard her breath hitch. Other than that, though, she didn’t really react. Harry took her lack of response as his anser. His conversation with his therapist had been on his mind, and in a stroke of courage, tried to extend an olive branch, and he only ended up looking like a lovesick fool.

Harry mumbled some kind of goodbye and excused himself. He hated that he was still in love with her and she wasn’t, that she’d been able to move on and he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. He just wanted to be loved again and—

“Do you—Do you want to dance?”

Harry froze in his tracks. Slowly turning back on his heel to face her, he said, “You want to dance? With me?”

She nodded and held out her hand.

So now they were dancing. A hand on her waist, one on his shoulders, two joined together as they swayed back and forth to the music. Other couples had their heads rested on their partners’ shoulders, but she stayed standing up straight. She wasn’t rigid, just keeping enough distance between them so as not to confuse things further.

Harry didn’t really know what to feel. He was over the moon, of course. He’d wished and waited and hoped and dreamed and prayed that an opportunity like this would present itself, and it finally had. Only he never accounted for the confusion and uncertainty. He didn’t know what their shared dance meant. Was it merely a dance or was it a door opening to more? He couldn’t be sure, and since she didn’t say anything, he didn’t either, settling for enjoying having her in his arms again in this small way.

She smelled divine, the familiarity of her perfume a punch to the face. Memories of them tangled together—a picnic date that ended with Harry sleeping on her lap, him rushing her to the Emergency Room when she slipped and fell trying to reach a salad bowl on the top shelf, their first “I love yous,” the last time he saw her completely bare—flashed across his mind as they danced. It all felt nearly perfect. If it wasn’t for the uncertainty of how this dance would end, it would’ve been.

“Can I confess something?” she asked out of the blue.

“Of course,” he said, trying not to sound too eager.

“I can’t—I can’t remember the song,” she said.

“Can’t remember what song?”

“The song you sang when you washed my hair that one time. I—I can remember the shampoo you used, and I can remember what you were wearing, and what color nail polish we were wearing, and I remember you humming a song, but I don’t remember which one.”

For a moment, Harry’s heart stopped beating. He remembered the day, thought about it often. He just didn’t anticipate her bringing it up so plainly like that.

“You’re not getting in with me?”

When she had particularly stressful days at work, Harry liked to run baths for her. It was a way to help her relax, but it was also an opportunity for them to spend time together intimately too. He usually sat behind her and just listened as she said whatever she needed to get off her chest, or talked about random things until she eventually fell asleep against him. He’d rub her shoulders, kiss her neck, feed her grapes, do whatever he needed to until the tension was released from her body.

Used to their bath rituals, she expected Harry to climb into the tub after her, but he stayed where he was. He hadn’t even removed a stitch of clothing.

“No, I want to try something different, if you don’t mind,” he said.

Kneeling next to the tub, Harry took a pitcher and ran the faucet, filling it up all the way to the brim. She watched his expression closely with curious eyes, noting the concentration etched into his face.

“Tilt your head back for me, please.”

Realization dawned on her, and she did as he asked, her eyes closing as Harry poured the water down the crown of her head. His fingers were feather-light as he moved her hair around to soak it thoroughly, his touch sending happy little tingles from the top of her head down to the rest of her body.

Neither of them said much, though sometimes he asked if he was being gentle enough, and she quietly gave him pointers on how to properly care for her hair. It was peaceful and comfortable, both of them content to just bask in the other’s presence.

“Tonight you’re mine completely. You give your love so sweetly. Tonight, the light of love is in your eyes. Will you still love me tomorrow?”

Harry’s voice was so soft, she could hardly make out the words, but she was just able to. The words, his hands in her hair, it filled the room with warmth, made her love him even more than she already did. She’d never met anyone so loving, so eager to express their love in ways that were unique and personal, as Harry. She knew from that moment on that it was a privilege to love and be loved by him, and she vowed she would always reciprocate that kind of love for him.

“I remember,” he said quietly, his eyes darting down to make sure he didn’t step on her toes. How could he not? "It was a Carole King song."

“I think about that night often,” she admitted.

Harry couldn’t quite believe the conversation they were having, couldn’t believe they were having it in a room full of people. But he was too scared to alter this moment in any way, so he didn’t suggest finding somewhere more quiet to talk. He worried that the tiniest of changes would ruin it. All he could do was be thankful that the music was loud and people seemed to be in their own worlds and not paying them any attention.

“Y—You do?”

She nodded. “I—I feel like it’s the only time I hear your voice these days. Why—Why don’t you sing anymore, Harry?”

“I write now mostly,” was his non-answer.

How could he admit to her that he couldn’t stand to sing the songs he wrote because he cried every time he tried to? Every lyric was a tribute to the passion they shared, the love between them, how he ruined everything. The songs he wrote relieved and punished him at the same time. He felt like Tantalus, who was always within reach of food but could never eat it, cursed to starve for eternity. Harry was tormented by these songs, starved of living the life he had in them, but knowing he never could. So he sold them off or kept them to himself instead.

“Oh,” she said. “Are you—Does that make you happy?”

“Are you happy?” he asked her.

He needed to know if she was as starved as he was. If she wasn’t, if she was happy without him, it would possibly kill him, but he wouldn’t admit that he wasn’t over her. Her happiness meant everything to him, he wouldn’t ruin it again.

“I—Yes. Yes, I’m happy.”

Tears were coming, he could feel his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. The hand on her waist curled in on itself so that his nails were biting into his palms. Harry tried to focus on that pain and not his heart shredding itself into tiny, irreparable pieces.

“Good. That’s—That’s good. I’m happy for you,” he said around the lump lodged in his throat. He began to pull away, not caring if it made his true feelings obvious to her. He needed to get away before he really made a scene. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Harry tried to turn around, to turn away from her, but she grasped his hand before he could, her thumb soothing over where his nails had dug crescent moons into his palm. Raising their joined hands, she kissed his knuckles, the action alone powerful enough to bring him to his knees.

“I’m happy, but I—I could be happier.”

He tried to find the words, any words, but he couldn’t. His brain was short circuting. All he could do was rest his forehead against hers, tears of solace falling silently as they continued to sway to the music.

#put this person in Barnes in noble IMMEDIATELY

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