la sicurezza del capo :: giorno x reader

capitolo 19 :: una vittima improbabile

You were doing the normal: sitting down and occupying yourself with the stack of paperwork at the edge of your desk that waited to be completed. Until an officer walked up and said that there was a woman in the interrogation room waiting to see you.

It was the first time you were asked to meet with someone in an interrogation room. The detectives usually did that, but today seemed to be an exception.

Sobs filled the room the moment you opened the door. A middle-aged woman - extremely high maintenance, judging by that dress and that designer handbag laying limp on the table - wipes at her tear-streaked makeup with a tissue. You close the door behind you and sit down.

"Hi, ma'am," you start out quietly, "can I-"

"They've g-g-got m-my son," she blubbers out.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My son!" She grabs both of your hands and looks into your eyes helplessly. "They've gotten my son." She pulls out a piece of paper from her handbag. It's one of those ransom notes made from magazine clippings.

You take the piece of paper and inspect it. "Give me £3,000,000 or you won't see him again", it reads, and underneath those words are the address to the pier.

You look back up at the woman, a smile that says 'I'm sorry' on your face. "Um...well, ma'am, we're a private protection service and maybe you should take this to the police instead-"

"It'll take them years to find him," She stutters, "I was told by a friend that you all take days." That's odd, how would it take them years when the address is right there...

Sliding the ransom note back over to the woman, you sigh. "Ma'am, I'll have you know we can't help citizens. Please, go to the police." This woman just won't give up, will she?"

"I'll have you know," She imitates your voice, "that I'm no ordinary citizen...Sergeant..." She squints at your name tag. "L/N. I'm Don Giovanna's sister."

This woman has dark brown hair and looks absolutely nothing like Giorno, so you cross your arms and lean back into the chair. "Alright. Why hasn't he helped you first?" She freezes. "It's...it's...not important." You raise an eyebrow and she sighs in defeat. "Okay, Okay. I-I'm kind of a big deal in the black market fashion industry-"

You put your hands up, signaling for her to stop. "Woah, fine, before you give anything else away that'll get you arrested, I'll help you, goddamnit." You take out a notepad and a pen hanging from your pocket. "Can I get your name?"

"...Do I have to tell you that?"

You look up at her and mouth a "really?" And she only looks down. "I'll find you later, woman. Just...what does he look like."

"What does who look like?"

"Your SON, woman."

"My son...oh! Well, he's kind of short, has black eyes, sandy blond hair and is just adorable."

You write that down, nodding understandingly. "Good start. How old is he?"

"Technically, twenty-one."

"Technically?"

"Yeah."

"Do they have a reason they want your son?"

She sniffs and shrugs.

"No? Well, I get it. It's dog-eat-dog out here, ain't it."

You click your pen and then rub your temples. "I'll have you fill out a form and we'll get to it."
---
"Are we here?" Asks the woman in the backseat, and you sigh. "I think."

It's obviously a bad idea just to come here with just her. It's guaranteed that you'd get pounced on by everyone the moment you step foot into the warehouse.

You step out of the car and lock it. "Don't come out," you say to the woman, pocketing the keys to the car. She nods and says something back, but you can't hear her. You're already walking towards the building.

The wind by the ocean is cooler, so you shiver as you push open the metal gates. Your boot crushes a piece of wood, its echo bouncing off the walls and your position being given away.

Sure enough, someone comes out from the shadows, and he's tall, lean, forgot to shave this morning and is anything but intimidating. "I'm gonna say this nicely once," you sigh, shoving your hands in your pockets, "bring out her son."

"Who's son?" He asks sarcastically. "I don't know about any son. Unless," he leans in close - "I see three million euros."

"Please," you beg. "I'm on the brink of overtime. Let's keep this short so we can both go home with all four limbs, yes?"

"If you can find her son, you can have her son," he laughs, gesturing towards the thousands of boxes that are stored on the industrial shelves. "Have at it."

"Maybe I will," you scoff, and walk towards a box. You open it and peer inside.

A gun cocks.

You whip around and nearly get shot in the arm. Before you can make sense of what's happening, you feet are already propelling yourself towards the man's body and your hands are already reaching for your own gun.

Both of your bodies hit the ground on top of each other and the fight officially starts. He chokes you. You pistol-whip him. He nearly breaks your nose. You break his. It's a painful game of taking turns.

Eventually, he's beat to a pulp. "I'm surprised," you coo, "I can't believe you did this all by yourself. Good for you!" You wipe some blood off your lip. "Now, where's her son."

"H-he's over there! Just please, don't kill me!" He shakily points his finger over to the corner of the room, where a cage covered with a tarp sits silently. Well, almost. It barks.

That sounds like...a dog?

You lift the cover off the cage. Inside, a little Pomeranian bounces around. Sandy blond hair. Black eyes. Short. Cute. Can't be any older than three human years old.

"What the...?" You whisper to yourself. You run back out to the gates and motion for the woman to come inside. She wastes no time in getting out of the car.

"Paolo!" The woman cries, running into the building. She throws the cage door open and the dog practically jumps onto her and clings onto her dress. She turns to you and smiles wide. "Thank you so much for finding my son!"

Your mouth drops open. "That's your...son?"

"Yes he is! Aren't you a good widdle boy? Aren't you?" She asks the dog, scratching behind his ears. "Say thank you to miss l/n!" And the dog yips in your direction.

You aren't paying attention to what she's saying. As you stare at the little dog in shock, you wonder how the living hell you're going to write a report for this.
--
A/N
Hm. There's nothing here....
-Mom