Guilty Conscience ~ Abbacchio/Fem Reader

Chapter 19: Holding onto Daydreams

The night had finally slipped in through the cracks of the busted doors and broken window frames, sending cool air into the bar. The damp chill touched every creaking stool, broken bottle and still body, lacing each surface with the kiss of fresh rain that danced in the mind night wind.

The atmosphere in the empty lounge cooled, no longer hot with laboured breaths and strong beating hearts. Now, only two remained in the once chaos turned calm. Two sets of warm bodies standing equal distances from one another. Both looking, but not speaking. And while one stood tall and still like a mountain of hidden feelings and muscle, the other danced.

Y/N spun, flipping her hands in the air and her head to the ground, tapping the soles of her heavy boots to the soft melody that came to life from the corner of the bar, where a single radio sat. She twirled, stretching out her arms as if she had someone to hold, swaying her hips to a song she barely knew, and dancing with the feeling of familiarity which was herself.

Holding a gun was something she hadn't done in months, let alone using one in combat. Protecting herself — the feeling of letting her heart guide her actions instead of the mind that told her to play the role of the gentle woman like she'd been instructed over and over again — had felt so freeing. It was not her place, she was told, to fight. Gathering intel, sneaking behind backs, being a traitor; that was what she was here to do. Not fighting.

But when she didn't have to pretend to be unsure of herself — when she could act without thinking twice about how her boss might punish her — she felt good. Really good. The years of training she'd endured at the academy were not spent for lurking out of sight and hiding in the shadows. Her schooling, her failures, and her many months of practice were for this: for protecting herself and the innocent people of Italy. And it all felt like bliss.

It was an honest mistake; a mess-up in the moment. She didn't intend to pick up the gun or point it at the men that turned their backs to her. Even when the creature that called itself I'm Still Standing told her to breathe, to focus, to act. She never planned on listening to that thing. But when she saw him, fighting an impossible battle — a boy who called himself man, lost in a sea of bloody fists each pointed in his direction — she moved. She moved for the gun and the trigger and the fighting version of herself she was told to hide. She moved for the soft golden eyes that played dress-up all too often, pretending to be hard and cold and mean. She moved for the boy she didn't really know. The one she said she'd learn to hate, but was hate what she'd ever truly achieved? Instincts took over when she saw the memory of Abbacchio bloody and broken in Bucciarati's bathtub. She hated that boy. Hated him so much that the thought of him leaving her sent splinters into her heart.

Without him, who would she hate?

So Y/N took hold of the familiarity that was herself, hidden behind walls she was instructed to build, and protected the mafioso she was soon to betray. Why? Because it was what her heart had told her to do. And now, with nothing but that feeling of warmth in her fingers and toes, and not a thought about betrayal or her job or her magical abilities or the bodies around her in mind, Y/N danced. She danced like she was living in her most perfect daydream. A daydream she would do anything to hold onto.

"Thank you."

Y/N froze, her hands stuck in the air and her hips unmoving, as if to wait for a new melody to begin, but the soft thrum of music never stopped in the first place. She turned nothing but her eyes, sliding her gentle gaze across the room to find Abbacchio standing loosely, slouched over — a sight she knew she probably wouldn't see again. He was so relaxed. Or maybe it was just exhaustion finally taking over.