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Chapter Text

“Why don’t you visit Octavio’s tonight.”

It wasn’t an offering of recreation so much as it was a brusque demand.

A stack of crisp bills were stationed on the tray between him and the glass that caged in Polpo. This was a delivery task. Tedious, but simple.

“Maybe have a drink, something dry.” He motioned to the dropbox that the cash rested on.

 

“And reward my friend for her diligent work. With my highest regards.” A deep laugh vibrated through the glass, echoing off the walls of the cell into a muted timbre as the door to the dropbox shut.

Had this been anyone else, they would’ve read this mission as a mockery. It could’ve easily been misinterpreted as a dummy task; casually sit in the club, interact with those around it and don’t leave without paying off one of the Capo’s whores to keep quiet or loyal until he saw fit to leave jail. Any amateur thug was capable of completing this task.

But Bucciarati knew better.

It was Thursday, and Polpo had purposefully given him this mission after 11 o’clock at night. di’Octavio was well over a two hour drive away from the prison. Very few clubs were open at 3:47 in the morning- let alone on a weekday. No one would be willing to serve a drink while they were trying to clean up from earlier events, and most dancers were gone by 2.

He had frequented enough cabarets to know that.

 

Albeit, this was no fool’s task.

 

There had been tale of a Passione member who doubled as a performer. A courier and an informant; it is whispered that outside of the cabaret, she cannot be easily sought out. She effortlessly blended into Italy like any affiliated Passione member should, but remarkably so. To be so frequently discussed, to be the one member that was rumored to know everyone and everything, the sole member who transported information, documents, money, and God knows what else personally to countless Capos themselves… yet to remain unrecognizable in a crowd… it was riveting.

Prestige allowed him into the building after hours.

Octavio’s was a pristine Gentlemen’s Club. The dress code was strict, the performers weren’t chosen without abundant experience under their belt, the shows were grandeur and spectators not only had to pay an entrance fee, but were prohibited from interaction without compensation.

Bass from music still thundered against the walls of the building, though without a sea of chattering drunks it felt as simple as silence. Even the glowing neon lights settled into a stillness without dancers to reflect movement from. The click of his soles against the marbled floor mimicked the rhythm of the beat. His toned slim figure trudged over to the stage on the far left deliberately. There was only one dancer here.

Your manicured fingers carefully thumbed through each bill. By now your pile was color coded; deep blue, maroon, and earth toned papers summed up to nearly ₤1,500. It was undeniably a slow night. Your legs draped over the elevated stage, hovering a few feet above the ground. The night had reached a cessation, and the sun dared to break in a few hours time. Many other workers had been long gone, save for the barkeep drying counters and flutes in the back, and the guard who remained looming at the entrance. Below your stage, the figure that had targeted you ever so resolute upon entering finally sat in one of the velvet lounge chairs.
The plush burgundy couch visually contrasted his crisp white suit. Unfazed, you refused to break the contact of his sharp blue eyes. Undeniably, he was a beautiful man. His raven locks framed his jawline without a strand moving out of place; looks alone verified that whoever sent him knew they were sending a diligent man. He bore a seriousness to his demeanor, yet he made no effort to bother you. Perhaps he needed confirmation that you were who he was looking for.

Or was he inspecting you?

You were bare, save for the gartered thong that harnessed your midriff. [B/P] areolas petaled your breasts like lily pads in a pond. Nipples puffed and perked slightly from exposure while the black straps that clung to your waist slimmed your figure and left a trail to the only clothed section on your body. His unwavering expression did not discomfort you; you weren’t shy, and this was your body. It always had been, and it always would be.

“Do you want a drink?” Were the few words you felt necessary to offer the man before you.

“A martini.”

You rose your hand and signaled towards the bartender. Within moments a coned flute was presented, garnished solely with a twisted lemon peel. You watched him lift the glass to his lips and sip at the cocktail. His gaze refused to leave yours, and it was… intriguing.

 

It wasn’t the same hungry stare that you received from businessmen leaving work and stopping by the cabaret before they headed home to their wives and families, nor was it the same possessive leer that gangsters who felt entitled to you held. This look he had hid…

 

Admiration.

 

You sneered.

With a sigh, you set aside the stack of bills and stood.

You weren’t wearing heels, but you could still offer him a show. That had to have been why he hadn’t offered you so much as an introduction. He hadn’t deemed you worthy of one just yet.

He was out of his mind if he thought you’d give him one first.

You rose gently into a releve, emulating the extra height you would’ve received from your platforms, as well as accentuating the length of your legs. A soft clink could be heard as your nails made contact with the pole; soft digits wrapped around it one by one until it was clutched in your palm. It was the one moment you allowed yourself to break his gaze, though with a tilted head and a cut of thick and long lashed eyes, you could see his attention was still all yours. Leisurely, you took a few sultry steps around the pole, hand still holding onto the metal post as you orbited the platform. Now facing away from him, you gave clear view to the rear of your laced thong. Straps cusped your ass nearly tight enough to leave a print upon removal. With slightly pursed lips, your turned your head slightly to view him, a free hand trailing from your waist to your hips, and finally to the hanging garter strap resting at the side of your thong.

One simple tug at the strap lifted the band across your hips, teasing at how easy removal of the fabric would be. You could feel his eyes shifting to follow the action firsthand, to which you smirk. You kneeled, hand free from the pole now releasing the strap and abandoning the task of removal. You finesse your hair free of a ponytail with the free hand, strands now falling to cover your back. As compensation for the natural censor, you position yourself in an angle that gives him side view of your breasts once again. You rose from your kneeled position with a twirl of your head that slung your hair around and back into place.

The timing of the beat couldn’t have been any more perfect.

Bass deepened in the song as you pulled yourself up with the hand gripping the pole. Taking advantage of the song’s drop and the momentum from your pull, you spun with your free hand outreached. Upon near arrival of a complete 360, you took the pole with both hands and performed another series of spins with added flares of extended legs. The strength of your core proved triumphant while you danced, as the mid air sequence of splits and attitude kicks progressed until your position on the pole inverted. Now holding your body up with your legs alone, your arms were free to outstretch. With your head hovering just inches above the ground, you trace your fingertips against your bare midriff up to the tips of your breasts. They find their way back to the pole, and allow you to capsize rightside up again with another pull. You use that same force to swing spin around the post, now bringing up one knee after another as you remove your thong in pace with the song.

It drops to the ground as the song fades into the next, and you coyly continue your performance without revealing the pink between your thighs.

 

After stepping down from the podium, you saunter over to the couch.

His composure was far tougher than you could’ve gave any other man credit for.

You let out a soft laugh, you knew he was the one you were supposed to be on the lookout for- but teasing him had become its own game.

 

“Che schifo…” You nudged your knee between his legs as you straddled his thigh. “You’re hard from just that? It shouldn’t be this easy, bello.”

 

You daintily tilted his face towards your with a single finger, breath taken as you peered into his blue eyes so closely. The finger dropped from under his chin and trailed down his collar to his bare chest. It was warm and firm, and had the bass of the music not been enough to distract you, you might have noticed how fast his heart was beating.

You wished he were a customer; he was too beautiful to not be able to further play with.

“But I know that’s not what you’re here for.” You heard him scoff after you spoke, and watched as he finished off the last of the martini. He placed the glass down on the stand next to the couch.

“True, it wasn’t.” You immediately find yourself in his eyes again, surprised to have heard his voice.

And- was that the sound of a zipper?

His hands graze yours as he puts a thick rolled wad of Caravaggio’s into your grasp. Stunned, you move off of his lap, and remove the band keeping them together. It wasn’t deceit, they were all the same lira note. This stack could’ve bought you a house- it could’ve bought you a home outside of the country.

 

“It was to bring you a gift from Polpo. He wanted to thank you, I’m sure you’re aware why he cannot do it in person for himself.” He rose from his seat,

He flattened out the creases in his suit that sitting- and being sat on had given him, “However, perhaps I should pay another visit here in the future. The drink was incredible.”

 

You scoffed, though you felt as though you saw a smirk on his face before he left.

 

Polpo was a damned liar; this wasn’t a gift, this was a prepayment. A thank you in advance for some pointless task he had mentioned a while back.

And… it was more than the promised amount?

 

It had to have been a mistake-

No.

 

The other half had to have been from him.

 

He paid you for the show.

 

 

He’d definitely be a returning customer.

Chapter Text

The clanging of dishes together and dishwater being splayed in the kitchen did little to drown out the chatter of the restaurant. It was late in the evening, and this lunch arrangement had evolved into a dinner date as the sun attempted to transition into moonlight. The sky’s hues had shifted to a softer blue, the warm and rich reds of the afternoon now fading into the cool pink and purple shades of dusk. The clouds that rolled over the setting sun would soon reveal the moon in a little over an hour’s time; this was one of the louder hours of the day for any public setting. Those getting off of work were now reuniting with lovers and friends alike, enjoying their time together before they parted ways and repeated their daily cycle. It was no different for Bucciarati’s crew- they had planned to meet between 4 and 5, but prolonged missions caused them to gather closer around 7. Regrouping after a long day’s work was a tradition they didn’t intend on breaking, regardless of how late it had become. They might’ve blended into the busy restaurant more, had the team not been competing for the title of most disruptive in the setting.

Yes, even with the natural bustle of everyday life occurring in the building, they were the noisiest bunch. Despite the people around them finally being able to let loose the laughter they held all day among their coworkers now free to release their true selves, the team somehow managed to outdo them all within moments of their arrival.

He was used to it, by now though. It was just one of the charms of all of their meshed personalities. It felt like they were a family, close-knit, and comfortable enough with each other to not worry about onlookers… Even if it was a little annoying that they couldn’t just sit there and eat there damned food without fucking arguing about everything.

“Narancia, for the love of God, stop fucking guessing!” Well, if he had already been pushed this close to the edge there wouldn’t really be any pulling him back.

“It’s hard! Fuuugo, let’s just give it a rest today! My soup’s getting cold!” There was a pout on the boy’s lips settling that almost had the leader forget that he was the older of the pair.

Had Bucciarati’s pasta not been on the table, he’d been certain Fugo would have knocked the entire table aside in frustration. Luckily, he settled on driving a blow only to Narancia’s end of the table, spilling the contents of his platter all over the floor and shattering the dish. He reached for the spoon and somehow mustered enough strength to snap the silverware in half as though it were made of plastic.

“No, maybe you just need a simple fucking demonstration, it’s my fault for not teaching you like this to begin with,” Narancia let out a winced whimper as the round end of the spoon was pointed a little too close to his face. “Division really isn’t that hard, you see? You just split up the parts that aren’t needed! Like this! I divided this one spoon by two, and got half! Get it? Now do the same thing to the fucking problem on the page.”

With a gulp, Narancia eyed down at the stray paper, to which there were a few scribbled numbers.

 

 

Rivaling their argument, Mista had the nearest server pulled by his collar in one hand, and the menu in the other.

The second eldest member couldn’t really hear, not that he was truly paying attention to begin with, but it sounded like Mista was complaining about the lack of some dolce, presumably strawberry. He made a mental note to confirm whether the restaurant served that beforehand for their next meal, so he could at least minimize one problem. At least they were seated in a section slightly further away from the other guests; it couldn’t have been that big of a disturbance.

Interrupting his train of thought, Abacchio muttered something about a need to drown out the teens’ antics with music, then ushered a few curses once he realized he had left his headphones somewhere else.

Click. Clack.
Click. Clack.

The clatter of high heels echoed over the restaurant’s ambiance.

The sound was nearby- it was headed directly for the secluded sector Bucciarati and his crew had been in.

His dark tresses bounced slightly against his cheeks as he turned toward the sound of walking.

You stood in the entryway, leather-strapped stilettos laced ever so carefully at your ankles. They were the first introduction to your long bare legs. Traveling upward, your skin was free from fabric, save for the ruffled babydoll you donned that flowed just centimeters above the target line for decent exposure. What your dress didn’t have in lack of length, it made up for in cleavage. You had unlaced the front ribbon corset just enough to allow the ruffles that hung off your shoulder to tease at your chest. Of course, the dress could have been worn more modestly,

 

but you worked a full-time job.

It was cute enough to be determined innocent streetwear, but you wore it with enough confidence to leave minds wandering.

A simple golden charm rested in the cavity of your bosom, and you tucked away any stray hair that the wind might have misplaced on your walk into the restaurant with a freshly manicured hand.

Your eyes immediately found those of the squad leader.

Bucciarati- was the name Polpo gave him.

You were never officially introduced, but last night you had become... acquainted enough to recognize him out of the bunch.

He’s frozen, stunned at your arrival- the entire team was.

The first person to react was the server. He apologized for not inquiring about any further parties to the table and immediately seated you.

 

“Recioto di Soave, grazie.” He was off with a nod.

You eyed the contents of the table.

The only untouched plate hosted a pasta of some sort. It would’ve paired well with the wine you ordered, but you weren’t keen on seafood. There was some sort of liquid dripping off the table from an overturned bowl, to which you saw shards and pieces of resting on the ground like an unfinished puzzle. The tablecloth had been nearly torn completely off and the silverware had… seen better days.

You had seen worse.

It was just how the guys of Passione acted around one another, you supposed.

But Bucciarati sat with a calmness that you wouldn’t have expected to source from this room.

The two of you held each other’s gaze again, however before your unspoken dispute for dominance could begin, the hum of someone’s throat being cleared filled the air with sound again.

You faced the voice- a bright-eyed boy with messy raven locks.

“Just who the hell’s paying for that damn wine?!”

You huff out a smile, his charm was definitely rooted in his adolescence.

Taking the glass of white wine presented to you into your lips with a smile, you offered him a shrug as an immediate response.

Dismissing him with a turn of the head towards the suited man on your left, you hummed, “Apologies for visiting on your downtime,” You swirl the contents of the glass as you take a moment to allow the first taste to linger, “To my understanding, you’ve dealt with a few lesser chores for the day- but Polpo has already tasked me with debriefing you on your next assignment.”

You slid an envelope over to his end of the table, resuming your indulgence in the alcoholic beverage almost immediately.

His eyes never leave yours, though he accepts the paper by pulling it closer by its edge.

It almost pissed you off, how sharp and beautiful he was.

There was a goldenness to his skin, a warmth in his complexion that mimicked the decals on his suit and barrettes in his hair. The look of sternness resting on his features also didn’t seem to be wariness of you or distaste for your arrival… but a natural quality. It was as though he had been sculpted right then and there, the way one of his legs crossed over the other and his arm draped alongside the back of the chair.

But you knew this cool demeanor was an act.

The way he twitched and grew under you the night before- the way he had given you extra pay just for the thrill of you fucking with his mind for your own enjoyment--

The silent promise that he’d be back for more.

 

He was a man like any other, and they were weak, simpleminded, and easy to control.

You could build an empire rooted in their feral desire alone.

And that had essentially been what you were doing.

You danced at night and took the willing wallets of men as an offering for just being comfortable enough in your skin to let them have a front-row view. During the day, you passed documents, equipment, and intel to likely the same men for double the pay. Triple, in rare events like last night.

Perhaps he was piecing that together now for himself.

You continued, “Specifics are in the letter, to which I’m sure I need not tell you, but ignite after reading. Any materials you need to finish the job have already been delivered.”

“How can you be certain they made it to their destination safely?” He probed.

“My confidence could be related to the fact that I personally delivered them myself.” You clicked your tongue on your final sip of wine, the dryness and sweet tang of the golden liquid finally protruding.

It would’ve paired well with an almond biscuit.

“When would you have had time to make a delivery?” He flicked the envelope onto its side, the click of the edge meeting the table reverberating in your ears tauntingly.

“Right after I got paid to do so last night,” The glass thuds ever so slightly upon contact with the tablecloth, “You are aware the recipient was the one who provided my payment, correct?”

 

“Or could I be mistaking him for someone else right now?”

There was humor lit up in his eyes that awakened to realization. Of course you delivered it, you must’ve tracked him back to his temporary last night and did it then. It was naive to believe that lump sum was simply hush money; his suspicion that you were the rumored uccelletto was correct.

“Anything else?” Your nail ticks against the glass with a soft ting.

You’d questioned your vision when you saw a smirk tug at the corner of his lips, “What’s your name?”

 

You paused.

Your Passione work was reserved for Capos. It wasn’t unheard of for smaller squads and leaders to know of your existence… but you were selective with how much of yourself you allowed them to know. It was dangerous having as much information you had… but ultimately, misogyny would make men believe you were nothing but a pretty face.

Anyone bold enough to detest otherwise wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you.

Schifoso, as if you’d let them if they tried.

 

“Granita.”

You stood, now certain that the need for your presence had ended, “If you’ll excuse me, Bucciarati,”

His fingertips felt warm against yours, the careful action forced you to return your attention to the squad leader, “Soave is typically served as an apéritif, why not stay for the entire meal?”

Hesitantly, you slipped your hand out of his and continue your trek towards the door, “You and I both know I have a substantial commute ahead of me. I can humor you another time.”

 

 

All eyes were fixated on the envelope, sealed with the markings of a kiss.

Now wasn’t the time to open it.

But the suspense was tugging at each and every one of their minds.

Bucciarati could feel the stares of each member being pulled to the paper. They were fully aware that he wouldn’t go through its contents in the restaurant, but he could sense the yearning to question the previously transpired event thickening in the air.

Bright blue eyes looked up to Fugo, who finally sputtered out the question on his mind-

“You were with her last night?”

Chapter Text

The clarinet was a simple instrument.

The melodic solo was a refreshing change from the orchestral arrangement accompanying the arietta that recently played on the stereo. Bucciarati loved the theater. Listening to his mixtape of opera while he was in the shower allowed him to envision himself as a member of the audience. The music made his morning routine feel like a performance of its own, thus making the necessity of leaving the comfort of his bed less of a chore.

It couldn’t have even been seven; he had risen early to prep for the breakfast meeting with his team. They weren’t to rendezvous until 9, but he wanted to give his debriefing statement for the team a final once over before presenting it- and review the secondary task you had given him as well.

His hotel room was still.

Other guests would stir in their bed for another few hours, but his obligations bound him to early mornings and late nights.

His fingertips dipped into a small container, a rich cream coating the two digits as he rose them to his face. It’d help prevent any bags from forming, though a proper night’s rest would also do the trick. He smeared the cream under his eyes, massaging in the serum until none remained.

The man in his reflection had wavy hair. It was still damp from the shower, though, with this length, a blowout wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. The towel draped around his waist was the only fabric he donned.

This bareness was temporary, however. He eyed the envelope on his desk before slipping on his clothes and straightening his hair.
A cream-toned pair of tapered linen trousers hovered elegantly above his ankles, pairing ever so effortlessly with a warm brown button-down. He deliberately skipped the first few buttons, deepening the collar of the blouse and exposing the golden skin of his chest. He was comfortable with putting himself on display for the world, though you were a work of art unlike any he had seen. You were a self-sustaining masterpiece. You were on his mind so early this morning, and it was… distracting.

He needed to shift his focus back to the letter you had given him.

In it, you claimed to have delivered him Polpo’s fortune for safekeeping.

His mission was not to keep it in his possession directly but to safely tuck it away for later collection. That would give a reason for the lump sum Bucciarati had been tasked with giving you the other night. It wouldn’t have been ethical to ask you to deliver over a billion lire worth of treasures and not break you off a proper share. You attested that you personally delivered the package to his temporary domain after the exchange… but the letter was the only item in this room that hadn’t previously resided in it. You didn’t come off as a liar or untrustworthy, but how could he have been so sure that you truly completed this task?

For all he knew, you could have put it in the wrong room.

That is if you even knew he was in this hotel.

Could you have really traced him back to this exact room with no complications?

 

 

He glanced over the space.

 

He was a clean person; there wasn’t anything worth hiding or being ashamed of. Anything work-related wasn’t visible to untrained eyes. Had you truly followed him back here?

How long did you stay in the room?

 

He didn’t recall doing anything distasteful- even following the immediate events of your… performance.

 

There was no need to feel invaded.

 

But he wondered what your initial opinion could have been.

 

How had he not noticed you?

 

How could there have been a package in this room if there was not even a trace of you being in it?

 

He sighed; he was not a morning person and trying to figure out where exactly this delivery was felt unnecessarily exhausting.

If you truly hid this package somewhere in this room, then Polpo should have tasked you with hiding the treasure for him yourself. He must have decided to reside in his cell a little longer if he was going through the trouble of tying loose ends like this.

Defeated, he slid the letter back into the envelope and tossed it aside on his desk.

He’d properly dispose of it in a moment, but right now he needed to focus on finding the package.

 

The paper fluttered like a leaf falling out of a tree before it landed on the desk-

 

 

 

Centimeters over the desk.

 

The envelope had landed on… something.

It appeared to be resting on a glass surface, a box that definitely was not visible before.

It was as though the letter was laying on a display; the crystal-like box held an array of gems and golden jewelry. The morning sun shone on them, the reflection of riches onto his face proving them real.

He paused, stunned that the box had been resting on his desk the entire time.

He slowly reached to retrieve the letter, how had he not noticed it sooner?

Upon displacement of the paper, however, the box disappeared from view.

 

Bucciarati is once again stunned into a stupor- had he imagined the treasure?

 

No, that would be ludicrous.

 

He fanned the space where it once was.

It was as if nothing had been there.

 

Bucciarati refused to believe he had been driven to insanity.

He dropped the letter where it once laid.

 

Bright blue eyes widened as the letter hovered above the desk, the box of treasure coming into view once more.

Removal of the paper would make the box vanish, but placing it on the area would resurface it. What was special about the letter?

 

 

Of course.

 

The mark of the kiss you sealed the envelope with was visible as the paper was overturned on the box.

You were in Passione, and this was the work of whatever stand you possessed. The package would only be visible when you came into contact with it- and the envelope with your markings was acting in place of you.

The dark-haired male found himself laughing as his stand unzipped the glass box.

The work of your stand was fitting.

 

This glass box was much like a dollhouse for whatever you put inside. It was on display in the crystal clear case, though you were in complete control of who could and could not see its contents.

 

Passione’s uccelletto… you truly lived up to the standards of your reputation.

Chapter Text

Your Passione work was reserved for Capos.

That prevented unnecessary mixing with soldati, who often got themselves into avoidable trouble.

Working in the cabaret was a gateway into this lifestyle, but you did not allow yourself to be affiliated in any way, shape or form with any one particular squadra.

At least that was the case before you met Bucciarati.

After finding out about dollhaus, your stand, and your knack for inconspicuous intel collection and transfer, he had commissioned you for multiple tasks outside of his team’s ability. He was the leader of la squadra della guardia del corpo. They were better suited for tracking and taking down opposition, as well as escorting people to and from their destination. While completely competent for their given missions, they lacked the grace of discretion that you provided. With a bat of your eyes and purse of your lips, you could have anyone revealing their life story to you in minutes.

This deemed especially useful when the team couldn’t single out who had been tithing swindlers outside of their territory.

Luca was easy to identify as the culprit, though his transgressions against Passione were too minor to consider punishable this early on. His only major crime was considering himself worthy enough to take you out to dinner.

Che schifo, like you would entertain a man like him outside of your paid investigation.

Verbatim, you certified that while in need of close watching, Luca wasn’t so much a threat to the gang as he was annoying.

Sure, he was technically stealing and profiting from unfair practices, but the same could be said for every member of Passione.

As long as he didn’t take things too far, he could be permitted to act as he pleased for another few days.

Bucciarati seemed pleased with your reports every visit, although the boys couldn’t exactly piece together a definitive reason for your sudden assistance. You weren’t a new addition to the team, and you often came and went for your own personal matters. They were actually beginning to believe-

“They’re definitely a thing,” Fugo muttered, a hand holding up his head as he leaned against the couch’s armrest.

He bounced a small rubber ball against the floor, gripping it tightly in his palms with every catch as he sleepily carried on the conversation.

Bullshit. You really think so?” Mista retorted, seated across the blonde on the floor in front of the coffee table.

This hotel was not furnished with a living space capable of housing five boys. It was a hasty buy after a late-night escapade. Of course, Abbachio made it clear that Narancia wasn’t to be left with finding a place for them to stay on any occasion following this.

Fugo was spread across the only couch; the floor wasn’t any less comfortable in comparison.

“I’m older than you, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if our-,” Mista paused, unsure whether his mouth was about to reveal Bucciarati to be a parental figure or older sibling, and too embarrassed to let himself find out, “- er, boss was dating some chick.”

 

Fugo caught the ball mid bounce and sat up, “That’s just the thing, Mista. This whole thing has been going on for weeks and we haven’t even noticed! He isn’t just asking her to help him with any damn investigations or missions, he’s making an excuse to see her every other day!”

The older boy remained silent momentarily as he processed the revelation, though shortly after he spoke to pose a retort, “Well how can you be so sure, eh? Wouldn’t you? I mean, if she works for Polpo and the other capos or some shit, they probably all just fucking send messages through her for that excuse. Doesn’t mean she’s got a thing with ‘em all. She’s just like… their hot secretary.”

Fugo sputtered, “Are you fucking dense? Every week, Bucciarati calls her out here for some stupid task, and she joins in on our meetings. She makes him buy her some fucking wine that’s like, 200 something lire a fucking glass, and he pays for that shit no problem. Then, they get all weird and codey when they talk to each other, and she just leaves in the middle of the fucking day so she can go back to- wherever the hell she comes from.”

Mista shrugged, “I mean, that’s just how adults act, right?”

The younger boy’s nose scrunched with irritation, “No, fuckhead! I mean, yeah, but this is different! If she’s so busy and high in demand for labor, why would she waste her time traveling all the way over here for some shit she and Bucciarati could have just said over the fucking phone?!”

“I- oh my God, man, they are a thing!”

“I fucking told you!”

“But, wait, wait wait. Maybe they aren’t, like maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong angle.”

“What other fucking angles are there?”

“Maybe she’s… like… a Capo herself, and that’s why she’s always here. She’s testing him to see if he can get promoted.”

 

A pause.

 

“No, dude. The test wouldn’t be so stupid and simple. The only thing she really tests is my fucking patience.”

A snicker, “Oh come on, she’s not so bad, you sound like Narancia.”

“Please, don’t fucking compare me to him.”

“Dude, you sound just like him. She seriously just comes in, maybe flirts with Bucciarati in our faces for a while and leaves.”

“You’re only sympathizing with her because her fucking cleavage is always out. You’re distracted, Mista.”

“And you’re just jealous and think that she’s going to steal Bucciarati away from us,” he laughed, “seriously man, she’s fucking harmless.”

Fugo’s cheeks reddened, “It’s not fucking like that. I just don’t get high maintenance bitches.”

“I don’t think you get bitches at all, man.”

“Shut the fuck up and focus. The point’s not that she’s a high maintenance bitch or has a thing with Bucciarati at all. The main thing is just who the hell is she!”

“Huh? Well, I’m pretty sure her name’s-”

“No, fuckface. You’re not the least bit curious about who this girl really is? How can we trust her? I mean, it’s obvious she’s fucking loaded. It’s not all Passione money though, right? Like where the hell does she go off to in the middle of the day? You’re not scared she’ll rob us blind?”

“Fuck, um,” He leaned back and propped himself onto his elbows, “you don’t think she’s just doing more work for the gang when she leaves?”

Fugo bounced the ball off the coffee table and over to Mista, “I mean, at first I did. But the schedule’s too consistent. No matter how late or early she gets to our side of town, she always leaves around the exact same time. She can’t be delivering the same shit to the same person or anything like that. But I definitely remember her saying something about having to work, wherever she was headed to.”

“So it’s a night job, for sure,” He caught the rubber ball and gave it a tight squeeze, “You know, there have been a few times where Bucciarati has left not too long after she did, and didn’t come back for a while… You think he… follows her there?”

“Why would he follow her to work?”

“Dude, I don’t fucking know. Why does she work two jobs?”

“Maybe it’s just a cover.”

“Okay, but for what?”

The two boys catch each other’s stare, as though their thought process coaligned.

 

There was only one way to find out, and sitting here speculating wasn’t it.

 

Dark, soft cherub curls tickled at the older boy’s forehead. His hair was short, but without a hat, he felt exposed. Thick and arched brows furrowed over his dark eyes. The tracksuit he wore was comfortable, though he wanted nothing more than to pull the hood from his cropped windbreaker onto his head. He’d suffice with heaving it zipped up to the collar, though.

“Mista, you’re going to have to take those bullets out of your pocket. They keep clinging together every step you take.”

“Where where the hell else am I supposed to put them?!” His whisper was aggressive enough to be considered a yell, though he managed to keep the volume low.

“Why the hell are you bringing bullets!? We’re following some bitch, not taking her out the fucking game for good!”

“Look Fugo, we’re just following her to see where the hell she always goes. Some fuckass might actually try and hurt her just because she’s in Passione, or us for fucking being too close to her- hell, what if we get murked just for being wherever her job is!? You don’t think they might have guards?”

“Seriously?! Relax, no one will even recognize us dressed like this. You’re too fucking loud,” Fugo pushed the other boy's head down, tucking them behind a car in the parking lot, “And relax, no one will fucking do shit if we don’t get caught. Just act natural-”

“Natural? Dude, we fucking followed her taxi-”

Like six cars behind her taxi!

“-and now we’re hiding behind some rando’s fucking car!! This is a fucking awful idea-”

“Shut the fuck up!!!”

“We didn’t even see her get out, oh my fucki- are we even watching the right building?” Fugo shushed him with a rough nudge to the side and pressed his fingers onto the tinted window of the vehicle, refocusing his attention across the street.

It was a long ride, and to their knowledge, they were in the valet lot for the main building nearby.

There was a lot of activity on the strip. Nightlife brought out an unfamiliar crowd. Groups and couples poured in and out of the restaurants and bars nearby. Honks and passing cars on the nearby highway did little to drown out the chatter of the evening. More notably, the stars on the pitch-black sky dulled in comparison to the neon lights leading up the grand staircase of the structure before them. Blacked out windows reflected the strobe lights on the outside of the building. Pillars elevating the balcony mimicked the coned Cypress trees that lined towards the door in columns.

di’Octavio.

It was the only text on the building.

This place’s crowd was… sophisticated.

At least, as sophisticated looking as the boys could see from across the street.

“Fugo, do you think… do you think that maybe we could just fucking get up and walk around? I mean there’s a lot of people here… We may bring more attention to ourselves being fucking crouched under a ca-”

“Don’t you ever fucking shut up? Trust me, we can get a good look from here. I think-,” Fugo made an effort to point in the direction, though his finger was obstructed by the glass of the car, leaving a smudge upon removal, “I think that’s Bucciarati!”

“Woah, no shit?!” He pushed the blonde over slightly, fingers now pressed against the window so he could better see the club across the street.

 

 

There stood the man, clad in a dark denim suit accented with golden chains and silver decals. He often showed his bust with an unbuttoned collar or deep neck blouse, though this suit put his entire abdomen up for display. It felt… a lot more luxurious than his everyday wear. There was a curl in his hair unfamiliar to the boys; it remained stylized in his usual fashion as though he allowed the natural wave pattern to remain for the sake of the look.

Even dressed up and yards away, he was recognizable.

“Dude, the hell is this place?” Fugo asked, close enough now to the window to fog it with the breath from his words.

“I think it’s... a strip club, man.”

 

 

Fugo turned to face him.

 

“What?”

“Er, I mean that’s the only thing I can come up with.”

 

As if verifying his answer, you walked down the stairs and met with the male of their focus.

 

The tie to your black satin robe remained unfastened, revealing your dancewear for the evening.

“I,” Fugo started, his tongue now twisted with words as he put the pieces together, “she’s a… fucking dancer?”

“Dude, you mean… he’s… always at the fucking strip club?”

“No man... this is a fucking cabaret. Any fucking drunk could get into a strip club,” He paused, “this shit’s… way fancier.”

“... No wonder she’s so fucking high maintenance.” Mista’s eyes squinted as he peered across the street.

 

Your legs were bare again, though the primary essence was centered on your harnessed teddy. The black mesh did little to hide what was underneath, and the neon lights of the building danced off the scattered encrusted diamonds. He felt naked without something covering his head, how the hell were you so comfortable in just that?

Imagination had to fill in the rest, however. From this distance, you were practically censored.

 

Bruno’s hand wrapped around your waist, and his head dipped in towards yours. It was clear he had been waiting for you, though the length of time was uncertain. Had he arrived earlier than the boys, or around the same time?

 

While other important questions certainly resonated in the back of their minds, the boys found themselves staring in silence.

His lips were centimeters away from yours, but your fingers rose in enough time to catch his chin and turn it the opposite direction.

Was it rejection?

 

No, you whispered something in his ear.

 

 

And his attention shifted in the other direction. He was looking at the valet lot.

Was there something behind them?

 

No, it was them.

 

Bucciarati was looking exactly in their direction. He was staring them in the eyes, and it wasn’t friendly.

“Oh my God, Fugo, I think he sees us,” Mista whispered.

“Shit, does he? Fucking duck or some shit!”

 

His sharp blue eyes were glaring, and a frown tugged at his lips. There was no doubt about it, that look was for them.

 

“Fuck, man, he does, we gotta go! Shit, move!”

Chapter Text

You had a quick tongue and little regard for the opinion of others. The world revolved around you and you were quick to desert anyone who felt otherwise. You were cocky, but not obstreperous. His team took on the latter role. You did, however, put on a hard to please persona in front of others. Because of it, people subconsciously went out of their way to appease you.

Bucciarati included.

When you accompanied the crew at restaurants, you ordered whatever you wanted. The price didn’t matter.

He knew you were perfectly capable of paying for it, but insisted you be put on his tab regardless.

When you casually mentioned that you’d be taking a day to unwind and receive a facial treatment and attend your biweekly manicure appointment, it was only natural for him to slide you a few Carravaggios.

If you teased his team members, he’d recognize your passive-aggressiveness as playful banter. You hid affection in your coyness; the mischief in your eyes was not unlike any of the boys’.

You were a woman of luxury, and it did not phase him a bit.

Of course, this was all in the public eye.

Alone, the sharpness of your tongue transformed into whispers of admiration. You were gentle and made your interest in him clear. You managed a nearly perfect professional face around his team, but the nights and mornings spent together allowed you to showcase your true selves. Dates were often brief and spur of the moment; time with one another felt like reuniting after eternities apart. The hidden tension could not have been as ambiguous as the two of you had hoped when around the boys.

Even now, it felt as though your heart was being tugged by threads connected to his own. You were immediately drawn to him. He wasn’t hard to distinguish from the crowd. Weekend nights brought hundreds to this section of the city- party-goers and tourists alike. Laughing collections of friends and intoxicated duos bounced in and out of bars on the strip. Music from di’Octavio gave ambiance for the individuals smoking on the patio. Your heels clicked with every step down the stairway. Bucciarati had implied earlier that he’d make the venture to see you before the night ended, though you hadn’t anticipated him to arrive before you even gave your first performance. It was still fairly early. Curiosity brought you outside to view the evening’s crowd and determine how successful your night may have been. Instantly, the reflection of the jewels on his suit against the Cypress tree he stood in front of drew your eyes his way.

This was the most of his skin you had ever seen.

His complexion was warm and paired well with the suit. His hair was soft to the touch, and he wore a cologne that you prayed would linger on your skin long after this embrace.

Quanto mi sei mancata.” His palm found its way to the small of your back, drawing you in closer.

A soft smile graced your features as you shut your eyes. His beauty was beyond words, and the softness of his low voice made you wish for time to still. Though you were both aware the other was bound to their obligations.

“Stay with me for the week, you should take a break from working this often.” You remained silent at his offer for moments.

It was tempting.

Coming from him, at least.

“And would you provide for me the way my work does?” There was redundancy in your inquiry.

“You know I’d give you the world and the stars,” His head tilted and leaned in towards your ear, tickling it ever so slightly as he continued, “but we both know it isn’t the money keeping you here.”

You shifted your gaze to the passersby; he could read you with ease. It was… humbling.

The two of you knew you couldn’t resist him for much longer, no matter how tough a facade you displayed.

Passione alone provided you with ample enough funds to live and then some. The true reward at di’Octavio was the worship you received. Being able to make a living off being on display was empowering. Numerous people came in and wished they could own you for themselves; the stage was their wishing well, and tossing their change onto it was synonymous to uttering prayers that’d never be answered.

Just viewing their hungry eyes made you feel control that couldn’t be filled anywhere else.

 

“I can provide that same attention acquired here, without a doubt.”

You rose a brow, “And who’s to say I would permit you? There’s not a single man on earth worthy of having me to himself.”

You felt him smile against your neck, “I’d drag my knees against the pavement until they were scarred crimson if it meant being blessed with your presence for the brevity of even my final breath.”

Your lips parted slightly as you made an effort to oppose his statement, but no words dared escape. Men begged all the time; it was human instinct.

It was all lies.

People lied to obtain what they wanted… but Bucciarati was no liar. He was an honest man, and would sooner admit defeat than resort to such levels of humiliation for something he wanted. Such a beauty like the man before you offering to degrade himself to be with you felt hard to believe. Or were you the fool, for believing him?

You needed to rid yourself of his embrace before you allowed yourself to indulge any longer- yet it was impossible to pull yourself away.

His lips nearly found yours, you supposed in an effort to prove his devotion in the public eye, though your index pressed against his chin before he could make contact.

“Even in front of your boys?” You turned his chin in the direction of the lot across the street.

 

It was obvious the pair had been following you for the majority of the day, however, this was the best time to point out the fact that they were getting a front-row seat to your and Bucciarati’s relationship.

He frowned against your hand while his brows furrowed into a glare towards the duo across the street. They scurried off within seconds of catching the scowl; you wanted to laugh at the leverage he held over them with a simple look. For a man who could persuade anyone into his bidding with as little as a gaze to want you the way that he did... It reinforced how much the feeling was mutual.

But you couldn’t allow yourself to fall into this trap.

“I’m on shortly, Bucciarati.” You wouldn’t even allow yourself to kiss him goodbye.

 

 

 

The night’s first performance didn’t even bring a bead of sweat. Your focus was elsewhere.

You took a moment to freshen up again in the washroom, though you ended up spending more time there than you had anticipated. Stepping out, you were surprised to find that the automatic lights in the locker room had already shut off. They only came on whenever someone passed the sensor at the entrance.

Perhaps you’d give your stage to a newbie tonight and host or serve instead. Dancing felt… boring, without a particular audience member.

You cut the corner of the hallway and went to your locker. Fingers slowly rotated the combination before opening the metal doors and pulling out a cell phone. Conflicted thumbs rubbed over the buttons of the device. You wanted to send a text and check on Bucciarati’s trip back, but it wouldn’t have made much sense, considering you sent him away not too long ago. You settled on checking the time instead.

 

The door to your parcel shut, though you hadn’t made an effort to do it yourself.

You looked up with surprise, expecting to see the face of the owner questioning why you weren’t performing but were surprised to see the familiar face that had been on your mind instead.

The room was only lit up by the neon sign pointing towards the exit ramp towards the stages. His eyes captured the light and intensified the stare he held upon you.

“B-Bucciarati,” You whispered before checking behind him and yourself, “what are you doing in here?!”

He did not falter, “I’m not going to leave without you,” his voice was hushed, “the time we’ve spent so far apart has run its course. Even if it’s not for long, I need to wake up and see your face- I need to feel your skin against mine before I sleep at night. You’re on my mind every second of the day, allow me the luxury of being with you a little longer.”

Your eyes rolled back before you could stop them. With a few steps backward and rise onto the balls of your feet, you elevated and seated yourself onto the vanity countertop.

“Fine, if you feel ever so inclined, then beg, Bucciarati.”

Behind you, mirrors lined the entire wall. There were lights on them to assist you and the other performers when prepping to go on stage, though they were not activated.

The sign above the door remained as the only source of light in the room after you clapped the flip phone together and set it aside. Your leg crossed over the other and a brow rose as you spoke again, “Why should I go with you, Bucciarati?”

His golden chains clinked together as he leaned over you, smudging fingerprints against the mirror as his head tilted and pursed lips hovered just over yours. The thought of the other performers arriving instantly crossed your mind. Would either of you hear them with the bass of the music echoing into the locker room the way it was? You doubted it… but his lips were pressed against yours, and you didn’t want it to stop.

 

Almost.

There was a pull at your lips from his own; he wanted entrance, and nothing more than to deepen the act.

You turned away slightly, gentle hands taking his chin softly and pushing him away.

 

 

“I didn’t say you could kiss me, Bucciarati.”

 

Your fingers combed through the soft wavy tresses of hair covering his forehead, pushing the bangs back and letting them fall while you watched him look to you for approval. This yearning in his eyes was not unlike the act of begging itself. You pressed down slightly, pushing him down into a kneeled position before you.

“At least, not there.”

You were unsure if you saw a grin on his face as he tucked his head down, but were more astonished when he took the base of your heel and pressed his lips against it. He peppered the ball of your foot with kisses, lingered momentarily at your ankle and trailed up to each digit.

“Then am I permitted to do as little as this? I’d oblige happily, if so.”

 

This was a new experience. He looked… grateful to perform an act of devotion to your body.

But you wanted to regain control.

You removed your foot from his palms and tenderly drove his face backward with it.

There then revealed a clearer view of his face. There was lust in his eyes.

A soft laugh escaped your lips as you observed him, “Schifoso. You’re enjoying this, Bucciarati?”

You could see the outline of a bulge forming in his trousers; it was motivation unlike any other.

“How annoying, are you always this easy to arouse, or am I just special?”

“You’re a work of art, mi tesoro. I’ll do anything in my power to be able to see you when the sun sets and the moon rises, and anything beyond those little moments.”

 

He was good with words.

What was really putting you over the edge, however, was the power you were holding over him. You lifted your foot over his shoulder, pulling him in closer between your thighs.

You allowed yourself to comb through his hair again. The look of longing in his eyes almost looked desperate, but he wore it with pride and refused to stand down. He could do so much with just a look; without even a word, he was begging to touch you. You drew your hands away from him and peeled each strap of your teddy off your shoulders. Pushing yourself up slowly using his shoulders, you were able to pull it off a leg and let it drape onto the other. You were bare, though he had seen you this way before.

“Actually, I think I’ll give you permission to kiss something else.”

 

Within seconds, your legs were wrapped over his shoulders. Small pecks were pressed against your inner thigh, but he wasted no time in dragging his tongue against your entrance, spreading it open with his fingers while it slicked apart. The feeling of his lips closing over each other as he sucked your clit was enough to bring a curl to your toes. You did your best to swallow a moan as he lapped at your labia, though his hot tongue dripped with a mix of your own pleasure and his saliva exposed your suppressed desires.

You felt yourself arching into his touch while your nipples perked into stiff mounds as they reacted to the cool air passing over them. With your back against the mirror, you lifted a foot onto the countertop, allowing his tongue to find an entrance inside of you. You couldn’t get enough of the feeling on his breath against you; your fingers gripped into his hair and gently pulled his face closer.

You huffed out a moan, shielded only by the music blaring from the speakers outside the room.

Looking down, you still had a view of his beautiful features. Sharp blue eyes looked up momentarily to share your gaze, though he dipped his head back in for another taste with a gratified groan. Two fingers dug into you, pushing in and out as his tongue circled your clit and his lips suctioned up the wetness.

You gasped at the sudden penetration, though the sound of you squelching against his fingers was proof that it wasn’t unwelcome.

 

No man could have ever touched you the way he did now.

 

His nose met your vulva as he pressed his tongue into you, replacing his fingers for it. He enjoyed the taste of you. Any cream he drew from you with his fingers, he swallowed before it had time to dribble down. With every lick, his head bobbed, and you moved each curled strand of hair out of his face to allow him to do as he pleased with no obstruction. At this stage, you could no longer suppress your moans.

He sped up his process, his face now lifted as he circled your clit with his thumb and fingered you with his other hand.

 

“Hh-- fuck, right there, Bucciarati!” You cried as he pressed on, massaging your insides and drawing out the messiest sounds from your body as his fingers were coated with a thick white cream every time they entered you.

You rocked into his touch as he continued; you felt the muscles in your abdomen tighten with satisfaction with every motion. He retracted his fingers, however, and paused to lick the substance off each digit and glazed knuckle. You whimpered softly at the pause of his actions, but he gave you no time to complain, as he instantly dove back in to lap up the remaining fluids dripping out of your core. The sensation of his muscle spiraling your vulva made you even more sensitive to his touch.

The act alone was exciting, but you found pleasure especially knowing anyone could walk in at any time.

They wouldn’t find you at the mercy of a man, but him on his knees in his embellished and custom-tailored suit, giving you everything you deserved.

A few damp strands of his hair escaped your grasp and clung to his forehead. His face was steamed and reddened, and every look he sent you for approval sent chills down your spine as you allowed yourself to vocalize your blessings. A trail of wetness connected his lips to your pussy as he took a breath of air. Your felt yourself tighten before him, knowing you were just moments beyond an orgasm. He knew it as much as you did, but he wanted to slow down the process as much as he could. He gingerly pressed his lips against your vulva again and slowly trailed his tongue up to your clit. You felt his two slender fingers rest under his jawline as he sucked at your clitoris as though it were candy. The digits slipped back into you, pumping out a splash of your juices and drawing a squeal from you that you did your best to muffle. You felt yourself contracting against his tongue as you rode out your climax against his face.

Dazed, you allowed him to continue tasting you until you cooled down, though the look of hunger in his eyes remained.

With your breathing now stabilized, you pushed his face back to view it completely.

You could see his erection indisputably.

“You’re not allowed to come until I say so, Bucciarati,” You press him up against the lockers behind him, “don’t even touch it.”

Stable fingers unclip his blazer in a swift motion, dragging against his now bare chest down to his abdomen.

You’ve wanted to touch him like this for a long time. His skin was so beautiful and golden- it even gleamed in the dimly lit room.

Watching him throb from your contact brought arousal to you again, but you kept your composure.

You sat on the bench across from the lockers he stood against.

With a sly smile, you spoke, “Che schifo. You think I’d touch that thing with my hands?”

You lifted your foot and traced it from his thigh to his groin. The warmth of the member against the ball of your foot was endearing. His breath became labored the more you massaged him; you knew the two of you would enjoy it more had there not been the barrier of fabric.

“Take it out.”

“Of course.”

 

You watched his cock bob out of his pants, and the tint on the other’s face deepened as you observed him.

His length was admirable. It was just as gorgeous as he was. The slight curve to it rounded to his tip; your digits toyed at it until a clear fluid dribbled from it. You took his member into the smalls of your feet, leveling yourself with palms pressed firmly against the bench as you stroked him.

“Does it feel good, Bucciarati?” You already had your answer.

His back was pressed against the lockers and his torso was pushed out towards you, stretching enough to allow you to stroke him from his pelvis to the very tip. Your digits delicately stimulated his balls and you push up his dick against his stomach as it throbbed. His chest bobbed as his breathing sped up, while his eyes rolled back and a moan was drawn from him.

He was on the edge, though within a few more moments of you stroking against him, you could see he was seconds away from coming.

“I want you to come for me, Bruno.” You whispered.

 

With an exhale of relief, a few hot streams of thick white fluid pumped over his abdomen onto your feet.

 

You laughed, “Schifoso.

 

You had half a mind to make him lick you clean, though your thoughts were interrupted by the clicks of heels against the marble tile.

The sound was faint, but the flickering of the lights adjusting back on was a clear sign that performers were making their way down the ramp and into the room.

Immediately, you jumped to pull on your robe to tie it and grabbed a towel from the countertop to clean the two of you off.

 

Still a little drunk from his bliss, you took the initiative to pull back on his suit and guide him towards the back exit.

“Fuck, you shouldn't get caught here, Bucciarati.” You switched off the alarm and opened the back door.

The sound of chatter became louder, though you didn’t want to part with him.

You're stuck looking into his blue eyes as the wind from outside blows in.

 

“Come with me.” It wasn’t a question, though there was still desperation masked behind it.

 

You wanted to, more than anything.

 

But you felt safe here.

 

Instead of an answer, you pressed your lips against his. The kiss was firm and lingered longer than it should have. You wanted everything he wanted. To wake up to him, to go to bed in his embrace.

 

More nights full of pleasure not unlike this one.

 

Your tongue interlocked with his, allowing you to taste yourself from moments ago. The kiss bridged the gap between romance and eroticism. You were still longing for his touch, but he pulled away to utter another plead,

“Per favore.”

 

 

Your heart nearly beat out of your chest.

 

He looked down at you longingly, awaiting your response.

 

 

 

I think I will.

Chapter Text

Courting you was not a sport for the weak. Men often grew impatient being toyed around with. They found it cute initially, but their feigned endearment with your strong will almost always transitioned into annoyance. They each wanted to be the one to crack you; they wanted to be in possession of your existence and tote you like a trophy around their neck.

You loved the attention, of course-

but no man had ever rightfully earned yours.

Women, alternatively, were fun and easy to adjust to. They were hyper-aware of every sensitive spot on your body and you could connect with them mentally and spiritually so much easier.

 

But men were much more worth toying with.

They felt so naturally entitled to your body. They believed they deserved every show you put on and they were certain you performed to fill some void of insecurity only satiable through their approval.

They never once thought that you genuinely enjoyed dancing. Men automatically assumed your love for the stage was rooted in familial issues. Their form of flirting was attempting to psychoanalyze you while simultaneously looking down on your profession. The same profession they paid a fee to be able to be in the presence of. The same profession that they gawked over and emptied their wallets for.

The same profession that had been keeping a roof over your head and your bills paid while they had to explain to their wives why they’d be short on rent for the month.

 

Yes, men were so much more fun to toy with because their entire existence had been so heavily rooted in belittling yours.

 

While still a man with the same carnal desires as any other, Bruno was different.

 

You’d bleed a man dry if he let you- but Bruno was financially above all of the other men you had come across.

Perhaps he managed his money from Passione better than the other thugs and businessmen. Perhaps he just shared similar expensive tastes, and providing for your was simply not a hassle.

 

You weren’t shy about your desires. He’d dine you at the finest restaurants, he’d adorn you with whatever jewels your eyes lingered on longer than he deemed simply browsing, and he left your favorite bottle of wine wrapped in a velvet casing on the silk sheets of the bedroom last night.

 

Now, you did not seek out Bruno with materialistic intentions.

 

You took pride in opening your own pocketbook, pulling out an array of lira, and counting in a painstakingly slow manner the total for whatever purchase you were about to make because you earned every slip of paper.

 

You followed Bruno in a haste.

 

It was hard to reject his striking blue eyes, his golden features… his soft and silken voice, which hearing alone was likened to a luxury foreign to even yourself.

Everyone revered this man for all his righteousness. He had a pure heart and a stern soul. People greeted him everywhere you went. What kept you on his side was seeing that these people genuinely respected him; it was not the fear that the lower street thugs of Passione beat into others. That respect, that humility… the genuine justice he wore ever so proudly…

It was as much a reason for him to stay tied to Passione as yours to di’Octavio.

 

Spa trips were reserved to busy you throughout the day.

 

Dinner dates were booked with gifts in place of him on the seat across you.

 

He assured you that you deserved every moment of relaxation you could get.

 

His schedule, however, prevented him from ever spending those moments with you.

 

Passione was very demanding of him these days, and you knew it annoyed him just as much as it did you that he couldn’t enjoy you not being an entire commute apart from him. He finally had you so close within his reach— yet his responsibilities kept pulling him away.

You knew that him taking on Giorno and having to fulfill so many missions back to back wasn’t expected. Things got pushed into overdrive, but that was neither here nor there.

 

 

 

 

As beautiful as he was, you refused to wait on a man for attention when there was such a high price on yours.

 

 

Of course, you could have easily picked up more work from Passione yourself———

 

but it could never give you the feeling of bliss you had now.

 

Bucciarati hit it on the nose when he said it wasn’t the money keeping you at the cabaret.

He was giving you everything you asked for and more.

 

But there was still so much more to desire.

Him pining for you was no act, yet there was so much that he couldn’t give while tangled so meticulously in his ties to the gang.

 

You wanted him to hold just a fraction of that animalistic desire that other men held when they looked at you. You wanted that same voice that begged you to leave with him to sneer and demand you to stay if you tried to abandon him.

 

He didn’t see you tuck away into a taxi, though, so the scenario proved itself impossible from the start.

There were still traces of glitter on your glistening chest as it bobbed while you tried to steady your breath. Your heels were nearly nine inches high. The crystal platforms were heavy and made dancing feel like you were dragging chains on your ankles. Because of the clear straps, your feet appeared bare; they made lines of sight trail up your smooth legs towards your hardly covered body. The hungry stares from guests were left with no choice but to admire your figure as the flickering neon lights danced off your diamond playsuit.

The skirt set was custom made. Each crystal was as damned close to flawless as they could get.

It was made to just barely censor you, though you danced with enough eroticism to insinuate otherwise. The crowd of drunks whistling and clinking their glasses together softened into a mute through the bass of the music.

In the glare of the strobe lights, you could escape your body.

Outside of your current self, you were wrapped in his arms.

 

He whispered how happy he was to be with you. He reminded you how proud you made him.

 

You could hear yourself intentionally scraping the base of your platforms against the stage as you circled the pole. Colors danced off your playsuit like the stars that twinkled in the night sky. It was a brand new set. The tags were still in the bag backstage.

“I’m not leaving without you.”

 

Lira littered the stage as you resumed your series of elevated rotations on the pole.

 

“Come with me.”

 

 

“per fervor.”

 

There were hundreds of eyes on you and none of them are his.

 

“Be mine, even if it’s just for a moment.”

 

You belonged to this stage.

 

If he wanted you to be his, he would’ve made it so.

 

“Dance for me?” He often begged to see you perform,

but this is where you belonged.

 

This stage was your home-

even though this performance was entirely for him.

Chapter Text

A fleck of light bounced off the light fixture and onto your hand mirror. With a soft pucker of your lips, you were able to focus the blur of your reflection back into a distinguishable shape. You were primping a lot earlier than usual; it was a distraction from the man you left in Naples.

A glow from the device buried in the sheets on your mattress reminded you that the distractions would never be enough. Running away from any feelings that tied you to him was a lost cause.

What were you hiding from, uccelletto?

The number on the screen wasn’t saved, but you knew it was his. By now, there was a distinguishable pattern to how often he’d change his number. He’d always make sure you could pair a face- or another feature you were ever so familiar with- to those ever-changing digits whenever he did so.

Bucciarati made sure you could reach every disposable he got his hands on. He’d call you in the middle of the night after a mission- he’d text you an obscure message always worth decoding right before the day could break. He’d go out of his way to show that he wanted nothing more than to prove how much he yearned for your trust and acceptance. Despite his physical presence being so minuscule due to his obligations to the gang, he made a conscious romantic effort to win you over in every way possible, and yet-

 

『 You refuse to answer me? 』

 

This had been going on for days.

It was his first time commenting on it, however.

It was his first time being so direct about your unmatched commitment.

Passione had been strict with how much of his time they consumed. Playing the waiting game for how long he’d be away before he could be with you became boring fast. You were quick to abandon whatever housewife position he wanted you to play the moment realization reared its ugly head. Of course you were ignoring him, you thought as your pinky traced the lining of your lips, removing any excess of product.

What was the fun in waiting for a man to give you the adoration you wanted?

You were busying yourself with something that mattered. At least at the cabaret, you got paid to pretend to care.

With a tsk, you allowed your fingers to comb through your hair. You’d talk to him after work.

The immediate sound of fabric being undone by a metal clasp pulled your attention to the bedroom wall in response. You felt your face contort into an inquisitive scowl before relaxing into a slightly annoyed expression of defeat. The man so heavily resonating on your mind had quite literally undone the seams of your wall.

He had watched you purposely ignore his message. The irritation was prevalent in his beautiful features.

“Ah, so you want to act like a brat this week?”

Eyelids dared to shut as you squinted in retort.

A brat?

As if reading your mind, the man stepped out of the makeshift entrance and sauntered closer, “It would appear so, anyways. You’ve been absurdly spoiled. You’re only good for drinking wine all day and dancing all night, it’d seem.”

You felt your heart sinking, or was it butterflies fluttering up towards it? You felt vulnerable, and for once, naked in front of him as he took slow strides toward you. You were clothed only in your dancewear for the evening- and the two-piece set left little to the imagination. He had seen so much of you, and yet you had never witnessed him look at your body with such an expression. The feeling of his unreadable leer was indescribable. You felt as though you were being preyed upon, yet no part of you wanted to shut him off.

“You can’t even offer me as little as a goodbye kiss before you decide to run off and perform- no, you couldn’t even offer me as simple as a damned goodbye text?” He growled, his slender figure now towering above yours as he cupped your chin in his hand.

The gesture was lewd and sentimental. There was no sinister resentment in his tone, but a… hunger, that you were unused to from him.

With what little reserve you had, you turned away with a sneer, “And why would I do so? Sei mio padre?”

His chest vibrated with audible displeasure as he gripped your chin tighter within his palm, forcing your gaze into his eyes as he spoke within a low tune, “No,” his forehead pressed against yours momentarily as his sharp blue eyes cut deeply into yours, “ma tu mi appartieni. Sei mio, and for some reason you seem to be unaware of that.”

You felt a warmth rise to your cheeks as you struggled to pull yourself away from his strength. The fight within you was aching to suppress itself, however.

“As pretty as you are, it’s such a shame you’d forget how to behave so early on,” His lips eagerly pressed against yours in a desperate repetition as he whispered in between takes, “Don’t you know how fucking annoying it is knowing I have to share you with all these other men? And for you to be in such a hurry to put on an exhibition for them without even letting me know, don’t you know how bad I wanted to cut my assignments short so I could give you a piece of my mind?”

Your gasp for air after his sudden kiss transitioned into a yelp of surprise as his lips left yours and pressed against the small of your neck. The shock was soon blurring itself into a state of arousal as you felt the kisses on your skin harden into more aggressive nips. Even so, you wanted to offer your best attempt at regaining control over the situation with a plead,

“B-Bucciarati, I’m a performer,” Your fingertips dug into the mattress as he sucked at your soft skin, “everyone already knows I’m yours. They don’t have to see it in such an obvious way-”

He cut you off, “Oh? And this outfit? Do they know I bought it for you, and that I haven’t even had the pleasure of seeing you in it? The stage you were about to parade upon, have you ever even considered that I’ve earned a show of my own from you? But I’m to respect the wishes of a dozen drunk patrons?”

The palm of his hands drew a whimper from your lips as they pinched the flesh of your thighs while he pressed himself against your skin.

“How else would they know you’re mine if you’re so quick to abandon me?” The markings of his teeth and the loving bruises his kisses drew from your skin began to feel more and more deliberate with their placement. Even in your most modest attire, the branding blemishes against your neck and peppered on your chest would take careful concealing to hide.

“How else will you remember for yourself who the hell you should be coming home to,” With a single action, he had you onto your palms and knees on the bed, “unless I punish you?”

 

The air against your entrance sent chills up your spine- he had yanked your attire down your thighs in such a speed that you hadn’t had time to anticipate the change in temperature against your slick warm slit.

Had his sudden authority really done this to you this fast? It was almost humiliating. The squad leader was down on his knees for your own sensual gain just days ago, yet here you were at his disposal. Bare and on fours like an animal, he had positioned you into a form you couldn’t have even dreamed of.

You could feel yourself throbbing with excitement.

 

Was he admiring your wetness, or was he finding humor in how your body was denying the performance of rejection you attempted to display?

 

A loud clap echoed off the walls of your bedroom as he struck your rear. With a muffled cry, you felt yourself tensing at the sting. Nipples stiffened into supple mounds and your entrance pulsated into a round of contractions as the suited squadra leader blew another series of welts onto your now reddened hind. You couldn’t help but picture his long slender fingers and veined hand drawing back to strike you again in anticipation. You ached for him to do so to the point where your whimpers of pain softened into cries of lust- much to his indignation.

In mere seconds, you felt the sensation of his hand replaced by the presence of a long and hardened member. Its tip caught the trickle of your own juices that slipped down your entrance. To this, you were humbled.

 

At what point had he managed to have you soaked to the point of your cum daring to dribble onto the sheets?

 

The throbbing returns as he lines your slickened labia with his cock, circling your clit as he refuses to give you the satisfaction of insertion.

 

“This thing against you, as you have previously titled it… Allow me to recall your phrasing… Che schifoso—— is that not how you would describe what I’m doing to you right now?” Your cheeks burned with mortification as he spoke, “Yet, look at how much you want it, you’re even trying to take it in by arching toward me.”

His low and sensuous sneer nearly drove you mad.

 

He made it evident what he desired of you.

 

With a jerk of your hair that was now intertwined in his palm, he snarled out, “It’s just disgraceful, how silken your hair is after an appointment that I booked. Yet you're too good to let me run my fingers through it,” You shrieked as he offered another tug, this time hard enough to pull your head far enough back to see him, “Acknowledge me when I speak. Aren’t I worthy to hold those perfect little hands in the daytime if I paid for the fucking manicure?”

 

“Y-yes Bucciarati, you are.” You cried out in breathy stutters.

 

“And this stage costume that I had custom made, were you earnestly going to dance for all those drooling animals before you even put it on for me? Are you serious, you think you deserve to wear that right now?”

“No, Bucciarati.”

“Of course you don’t,” In a determined maneuver, the fabric was torn off of your body, rendering your flesh completely exposed and the article unwearable.

You winced with every action he made, knowing that he no longer had the mercy of tenderness. He was lubricated solely by your own doing; feeling his length against you was enough of a reminder that he was waiting for you.

 

Desperate, you tucked your face downwards as he released your hair before you moaned, “Bucciarati, please, please just fuck me.”

 

“Why should I?”

“Please,” Your voice nearly cracked into a sob, “please, - Bucciarati... Please, non lo me merito, but please,”

 

His laughter was bright, and the sensation of his length being enveloped by your tight walls was enough to leave you breathless.

“Maybe you don’t deserve it, but who am I to deny such a beauty her wishes?”

 

Feeling him inside of you felt long overdue, and you struggled to maintain your composure as he pounded into you with no remorse.

 

Just how was he able to keep his head level, how could he not falter over a single word, let alone coerce you into begging for his touch so collectedly as you whined for mercy?

Through huffs, you grew exasperated as his forearms grazed against your bobbing breasts. Just as you requested, his dick dipped deeper and deeper into your stretching hole. The sound of his skin creating a rhythm against your own was stimulating, though you found yourself anxious to reach the finish line. Your fingers tucked underneath yourself in an attempt to caress the pair beneath his length while you rocked gingerly into his pulse.

To this, he issued a grunt, “Did you forget that I’m the one fucking you, not the other way around?” His hand takes your wrists into a hold beneath your back, “You don’t get to speed anything up.”

 

His pace then deliberately slowed, forcing you to indulge in every inch that he pushed into you. With his free hand digging nails into your hips, he pressed himself into the softness of your prostate. The sensation of an orgasm building up within you sent your eyes rolling backward, while the familiar sound of cream building up around his cock proved you were nearing your limit.

To this, he pulled himself out of your entrance with an annoyed grumble, “And now you even have the gall to believe you deserve to cum.”

 

Now turned upright onto your back, you could see how his hair clung to his golden face. He wore an expression of soberness; his composure was magnificent. You wondered how you appeared in his eyes, with your hair astray and tear-filled eyes. Your lips pursed, prepared to beg his permission to finish in his divine presence. Every mark on your body was his own; he had reduced you to a desecrated temple.

 

He refused to let you further speak. Tender lips held themselves against yours in a sudden display of devotion.

 

A soft pink muscle lapped at your own, his mouth clicked together as he pulled and nibbled at your lips, smearing ever so softly a faint transfer of color onto his own. Watching him felt intoxicating, and in a mesmerized daze, you rose your thumb to his lips to further spread the blotted hue away, succeeding only in spreading it to his cheek.

 

In the arduous moment, you had nearly forgotten the buildup of excitement that bubbled in your abdomen. His eyes shut in bliss as he allowed himself inside of you again, to which your arms draped over his back to deepen the sensation. Your climax echoed over the room as the tip of his cock continued to tickle at the deepest center of your core.

 

Your heart fluttered with every continued thrust—- your ears tingled with joy as you heard his low grumble,

 

 

“Tell me,” a sultry whisper resonated.

 

 

“Who do you belong to?”

 

 

You smiled at the feeling of him buckle into you as you responded,

 

You, Bruno.

Chapter Text

A trickle of condensation slipped down the face of the mirror. Thick air struggled to ventilate throughout the powder room after the hygienic ritual. The record player mounted on the granite countertop stuttered just momentarily over a scratch in the vinyl. You were not there to see the needle falter.

You were atop Bruno, just meters away in his grandiose suite.

 

His body, bare and warm, brought a tingling to your fingertips as you traced circles onto his chest. The sun has left you a reminder that he is also hers. His skin radiates effortlessly; curtains were drawn and yet this bronzed figure continued to glow. Perhaps there was an aide from the shower he took.

There was a freshness about the room that stimulated all of your senses. Where was the root of it all? His wavy, towel-dried tresses that he allowed you to push away from his forehead? His damp torso that you straddled whilst in his favorite set? The summer air that pulled the window’s drapery into a waltz?

You do not allow yourself to fixate on the source, for fear of missing every bit of this moment. Bruno’s body shifts just slightly under your weight, though his palm cusps your back to steady you onto him. There is intimacy in his silent gesture. He doesn’t want you to depart… it’s comforting.

 

Your heart picks up a steady pace as you recognize this… unrecognizable feeling swarming into your chest- into your mind. It’s a peace that you’ve only known alone, a safeness you haven’t associated with any man it’s… known more commonly as a single word, but you won’t allow yourself to name it.

 

Instead, you relish in his beauty.

He is wonderful, raven locks sticking ever so deliberately to his golden skin.

“I yearn to take the fruits of the vine to your lips one by one. I pray you’d permit me to taste any juice that escapes from the plump, crisp harvest had it strayed from your own vessel,” You whisper, fingers now lingering at his chin as you envision the act.

“You favor a white wine, I’d imagine your fruits in your vision mimic that. Though there is already a red berry enclosed within this lace that is to my tastes, yet it remains tucked away in such delicate packaging,” His finger loops into the band of your panties, offering a slight tug for emphasis as his solemn expression remains unchanged.

He is devious in perhaps the most elegant way possible.

With realization, you laugh, forcing a smile to tug at his lips, “You really feign such a sophisticated demeanor in front of the boys but you’re undoubtedly more perverted than they ever could be.”

“Certainly you understand the time and place for work and play.”

“Mm,” You agree, taking your hand again to his cheek to caress, “It's a charm, I would say. One of hundreds, you possess so many.”

His now warmed cheek settles into your grasp as his head tilts into your touch. A low grazie is uttered in an airy gratuitous mumble.

Within the muffled static of the record from the next room, you hear a singer performing a melodic aria.

Bruno is everything you are not.

 

He is pure-hearted, loyal— he is patient.

 

Patient with his young teammates who were pitted up against a world they don't even understand, patient with the villagers who look to him to solve all of their problems.

 

Patient with you, and unmoving, as well. While initially hesitant, you now knew you couldn’t pull yourself away from him if you tried.

It was this exact sensation you dreaded.

It was euphoric.

 

 

Did you deserve it?

 

You don’t want the answer.

As though distancing yourself from emotional confrontation again, you found your lips pressed against his once again. The kiss is a tender revival of all your senses. You experience them all, distinctly.

The warmth of his smile against you as he indulges in the suddenness.

 

The light aroma of the cleanser lathered into his skin.

 

The taste of him blending into your mouth, and the click of the tip of his tongue slipping away from yours.

 

The pure bliss in his eyes as they flutter open when you part for breath. The breakaway was meant to be temporary, but your fingers found their way into his hair, and your gaze matched with his own. He flushed as your intense marveling went on.

 

“What’s wrong?” There is a concern about his tone.

You shake your head to reassure him, “Nothing, just…”

 

There was plenty on your mind.

 

“--Promise me you’ll come back first thing after your mission. I have my suspicions that the boss is heavily involved with this one… I’ve heard a lot,” A frown digs into your expression as you attempt to convert your doubts, “but I know you’ll return a Capo.”

“We can celebrate together,” you finish.

 

He grins at your prediction, “Really? And how will we do so?”

Your smile was soft, “Well, for starters, you could hire a personal assistant. You’d have to interact with other capos a lot more,” You walked your fingers up his chest as you fantasized, “Maybe you’d even want to work your way even higher. You’d need someone reliable to do your dirty work for you.”

 

He hummed, “I think I have the perfect person in mind.”

A giggle escaped your lips as he played into your daydream, “Yeah? That’s perfect. Of course, as soon as you get back, we could take a little weekend trip together. Picture this——- a cliffside retreat,” You shifted onto his abdomen, an ear now pressed to his pittering heart as you romanticized his return, “You, me, the ocean… And no one to hear you fucking me senseless.”

He laughed, just barely masking the skip his heartbeat made, “So on my own victory, I have to do all the work?”

You feigned annoyance by rolling your eyes, “Of course not. You want me on top? I’ll do whatever my capo asks of me,” you cooed.

“That sounds like an offer needn’t dare refuse.”

You turn to peck his cheek, “And you won’t, I’ve already booked our stay… I’ll miss you, while you’re away.”

 

Bruno didn’t hesitate to find your lips once more, earnestly and in reverence to your anxiousness.

 

His final kiss that morning was gentle, “You won’t have to wait long, uccelletto,”

 

“I'll be back before you know it.”