Guilty Conscience ~ Abbacchio/Fem Reader

Chapter 22: The Dog That Played Dead

"You can't begin to fathom how much trust I placed in you, Y/N," Bucciarati said softly. "You will never understand the potential I saw."

Knees bent. Chin down. Gun heavy, loaded and aimed at the target. The second threat, standing tall behind the first, is recognized and monitored. Breathing balanced. Chest pounding. Blood rushing. Eyes steady. Heart ready to face to consequences of her own actions. Y/N ran through the motions of her training, reviewing the steps she'd been taught — the procedures, the drills, and the sound of the sergeant's shrill commands. Feet, ready to move. Arms are already tense. Fingers eager. Mind racing. Ribs clenching. Ready to fight. Ready to bite. Ready to bark like the dog she was. She was ready. Her mind and body were one and if it came down to it, she would not hesitate to pull the trigger on her already-loaded gun.

"And to think that I called you my family," he continued. "It makes me sick just thinking about what I once thought you would become; what glorious things you might've achieved."

Avoid his eyes. Look at his lips, his hands, his body language, his hair, his figure or his shoes. But not his eyes, she heard her drill sergeant shriek from the back of her head. The enemy is not human if you don't look into their eyes. You cannot give them the right to their humanity when you put a bullet into their chest. A simple enough task that would keep officers from feeling guilt, regret and sorrow build upon their shoulders after revoking someone from their privilege to live. But Y/N was not an ordinary officer. She would not let Bucciarati or Abbacchio see her looking so weak.

Dark ocean waves, endlessly uninterrupted and ever-lasting, rocked restlessly in Bucciarati's eyes as she held his stare. His heart, like his eyes, was as deep as the sea — enough room for the whole world to take a piece of his kindness with some to spare for any sorry soul that needed a second share. But while he sat as still as silence, amid the broken bits and pieces that Y/N called 'home', the ocean waves rolled in protest, keeping her from having any fragment of forgiveness he might wish to offer. She was no longer welcome in his heart of gold.

And above the man dressed from head to toe in disappointment, stood someone much quieter — much more resentful. With only a brief once-over of his angular features, Y/N met the eyes of a man who lost his spark of hope the second she pulled out her gun and pointed it at his chest. His cruel beauty made her heart squeeze. And the anger that twisted his face into something so sinister made her skin crawl. But behind his mask of aggression and merciless hatred, Abbacchio hid a desperation that Y/N could only see when she held his sorrowful stare. His face, mangled by still-healing bruises and bitter disgust, wasn't enough to conceal the cry for help that lay within the liquid honey of his eyes. He glared back at the Rookie with cheeks covered in dry tears and a lip that shook in outrage and misery. He was more than angry. He was disgusted.

But disgust wouldn't make her budge. Nor would anger or sadness or utter disappointment. The Bodyguard Squad knew Y/N for her dry humour and her quietness; she was something that could so easily blend into the crowd. To them, she was as the sand appeared to the sea: once swept away by the thick, rolling tides, it was so easily forgettable. After all, there were millions more that could replace the grain of sand missing from the vastness of a beach. Because like sand, Y/N was replaceable. She was just like everyone else. Or at least, that's what she'd led everyone around her to believe. Y/N would not give in to Bucciarati's dramatics or Abbacchio's fury. She held her gun firmly, not letting it drop even an inch from where she pointed it at the mafiosos' chests. She was truly ruthless — a wild thing bound by nothing but her morals and her desperate need for justice in the streets of Italy. And she was wild enough to summon her Stnad, readying I'm Still Standing for a fight among foes that once called themselves family.