Guilty Conscience ~ Abbacchio/Fem Reader

Chapter 23: Crawling from the Grave - Part. 1

It felt like years since she'd last seen him. Centuries even. But standing in front of him, eye to eye, he hadn't changed in the slightest. Finally fully healed, his face was no longer riddled with bruises and his skin was back to its usual soft, milky complexion. His hair was loose and laying neatly over his shoulders, the same way it always had. But now, he wore a sort of hair band on the top of his head, pulling back the loose strands away from his sharp features. It was purple, just like the rest of his outfit. Even his dark lipstick remained the same. Crisp, daunting, luxurious; If she recalled correctly, his lips felt as good as they looked. And oh how she missed that feeling.

His cologne, bold and hedonistic as ever, twirled in the air as he loomed over her. She didn't fight as the thick smell took hold of her senses. Nor did she fight when he took a step closer and leaned down to meet her stare. He was only a few inches away from her face when Abbacchio finally said: "I've never hated you more, Y/N."

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6 months earlier. . .

An extra pair of sneakers and a stack of loose papers crinkled in Y/N's tight grip as she shoved all the loose cash she could find into her bag. No photos, food, clothes or even sentimental belongings could come along with her as she abandoned her once home away from home. It would look too suspicious if all of her things were missing when she was supposed to be dead. Bullet holes riddled the solid front door and left cavities in the floorboards that she ran over, trying to gather the last of what she could before escaping through the window.

Only 15 minutes had passed since Y/N watched her killer's sleek black car drive out of the parking garage and out of view. Only 15 minutes passed since she'd been pronounced dead. It was a strange sensation; being so alive — having the blood in her veins pumping faster and faster as her heart hammered against her ribs — and yet being so dead all at once. She didn't have time to think about what the news headline would say or how her fellow officers might mourn her now that she was gone. Undercover officer — age 19 — dead in apartment; body missing. How unsettling it would be when Y/N would read the report of her own murder.

Y/N rummaged through the last of her cupboards, struggling through the mess Bucciarati made of her apartment. Not a single personal item within the bleak walls of her room was left intact. Not even the walls, as they too were ripped to shreds. And while Y/N tried to convince herself that the mess was made to lead officers to believe that she'd put up a fight before her last breath, she knew that most of the chaos was caused by anger. Caused by the emotions that swarmed after finding out that your family wasn't family at all.

Absolute utter chaos had ensued.

Stumbling over pieces of ravaged furniture, Y/N moved to the window. Panicked cries came from the neighbouring units as she slid open the glass and popped out the damp screen from its hinges. It had begun to rain. Another sob echoed from beyond her apartment's walls and Y/N cursed under her breath. The tenants down the hall were frightened; they must've heard the commotion and alerted the authorities.

Swinging her feet out before her, dangling them out into the open air, Y/N looked down at the seven stories below her. Her hands gripped the window sill as the rain dampened her black boots. Her backpack sat snug against her back as she edged closer to the rim of the window, thinking carefully as to how she might escape this madness before the cops arrived.

"I'm Still Standing," Y/N called into the cool air. The wind whipped around her face, unforgiving and cold as even more rain began to fall from the sky. It was beginning to pour, and the familiar sound of sirens made Y/N's skin prickle. After a moment, her vibrant Stand appeared before her, floating gracefully over the seven-story descent.