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Cha Young strides enthusiastically as she carefully swings back and forth the bag containing the cans of beer she’s just bought. She’s exhausted after the day they’ve just had, but also very satisfied. With each day passing, she’s feeling more and more like a gangster and that is an oddly exhilarating feeling. Or maybe it’s just working with Vincenzo that makes her think like this?
Her steps falter slightly, as the thought of his name inevitably takes her back to the museum. She still couldn’t believe they had kissed ; and god, what a kiss. She knows very well that it was for pretend – and yet it felt all too real. And she knows, deep in her body and soul, that part (if not most) of it was actually quite real. Her grasping at the back of his hair and his cupping her cheek, both tilting their heads – what must have lasted for a few seconds had felt like hours back then. And she certainly wouldn’t mind doing it again.
It’s still half lost in her thoughts that she makes her way up to the rooftop, hoping that Vincenzo managed to clear the boxes off already, and hoping he hadn’t made this excuse because of something else. She hadn’t missed the sudden switch in his demeanour, from the slight awkwardness they had both felt in the car to the downright unnatural freeze that had stopped him as they were walking. Then, somewhat out of the blue, he’d asked her to buy beer and had smiling slightly at her answer - a fake stretch of lips that had worried her as sudden unease pooled in her stomach.
She opens the doors and does a double take at the unexpected guests, all three of them lying on the floor. Her heart pounds as her eyes roams the rooftop, until she spots him, and he’s apparently startled to see her, since he blinks at her confusedly as she drops her bag to run to him. He’s kneeling, breathing heavily and holding a hand to his abdomen as blood runs down his temple. Cha Young absentmindedly notes the puddles of dark liquid underneath the strangers’ bodies and the gun lying at her partner’s feet as she hurries to him and kneels to his level.
“Are you alright?” she asks first, although she knows that he isn’t. He looks battered, but that’s not what scares her the most. He’s staring at her almost haggardly, like he’s completely lost, and this look doesn’t suit him at all ; it feels like a punch to her guts.
“What happened?” she presses.
He blinks again, like he’s trying to force himself back to reality, as he answers, “My former boss’s son, Paolo- he sent them to kill me.”
So many questions pop up in her mind at that, but she pushes them away, pushes the panic away, and she takes a steadying breath. “Are there more of them?” she asks, wanting to make sure.
She’ll kill the other bastards herself if she needs to.
He shakes his head no. She exhales, more relieved than she wants to, and takes her phone to call Vincenzo’s men. Calling the police being out of question, she asks them to clean up the mess. He barely reacts as she gazes at him to assess his state ; either he’s way more hurt than he’s letting on, or this impromptu meeting is shaking him up quite seriously.
“Alright,” she starts, nudging the silent consigliere. “Let’s go.”
“Plaza?” he croaks.
“No,” she says decidedly. “You’re coming home with me.”
I’m not leaving you alone tonight, she doesn’t say, but she knows he understands it all the same.
They get up slowly, and Cha Young pretends not to notice the way he stumbles slightly when making the first step. Silently, she curls her arm around his back for support and takes him to the car, where she asks for his keys. There’s no way she’s going to let him drive like this.
The ride is silent, and the female lawyer’s anxiety raises with each second passing. She keeps throwing sideways glances at Vincenzo, which he ends up noticing. “I’m fine, Ms Hong,” he assures her softly.
At least he’s still somewhat conscious of what goes around him, she muses as she nods back at him, unconvinced. He doesn’t try to push, and neither does she. She unlocks the door of her house and guide him to her sofa.
“Sit,” Cha Young orders him. “I’ll get the first aid kit.” She doesn’t wait for his answer as she rushes to the bathroom, rummaging carelessly through her cupboards as she finally manages to catch a glimpse of what she’s looking for. Vincenzo’s indeed sitting when she comes back, and the more silent he remains, the more worried she gets. But now’s not the moment for her to have a breakdown, so she pushes it aside once more and sits next to him, nudging his shoulder so he turns towards her.
Now that they’re facing each other, she takes a cotton ball and soaks it up with disinfectant, before holding it up to his bloodied temple.
“I’m going to start with your head, okay?” she asks him, and her partner hums in agreement. At the sight of the bloodied cotton, she can’t keep the worry from seeping into her voice as she adds, “maybe I should take you to the hospital.”
“I’d rather you don’t, please,” is the answers she gets. She scoffs, unsurprised, but she’s willing to oblige him ; it’d be a hassle to drag him to the hospital anyway, and an even bigger hassle to have to explain everything to the medics and possibly the cops.
“You’d better not die on me”.
That drags a small smile from Vincenzo as he answers “I’ll try” but it feels like a huge victory to finally get a reaction from him. She then remembers that he was holding his stomach back on the rooftop, and she suddenly hopes he didn’t have the absolutely idiotic idea to hide a stab wound from her.
“Let me see that.” She points at where he had his hand back then, unsure whether the blood on his clothes is his or his attackers’. Moving the shirt up, the relief she feels at the absence of an open wound is short lived, as she hisses at the ugly bruise forming there. She’s almost wishing she could go back in time to kick those damn corpses out of the roof.
“I’m guessing there are more,” she mutters more for herself than for him, before adding in a louder voice, “I’m going to remove your shirt completely, alright?”.
Frowning at his lack of reaction, she helps him remove his upper clothes, and finally asks, “What are you thinking about, Mr Cassano?”
He hesitates, and she gives him some time to think about his answer by standing up to prepare an icepack for the bruised areas. She can’t help but inwardly wince at the amount of dark blue and purple on his pale skin. When she sits back, he clears his throat.
“I believe,” he starts, “that I told you once that people in the mafia had to pay for their actions.”
She nods.
“Back then, for a moment…” He interrupts himself, avoiding her eyes. “I thought it was time to pay for mine.”
Cha Young goes cold at this, fully understanding what he’s implying here.
I didn’t want fight back at first, he’s trying to tell her. I almost let myself be killed.
“Did your change your mind, then?” she questions, voice raw and heart throbbing.
“I guess so,” he smiles weakly.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes finally lock with hers.
The “For you” goes unsaid but she still hears it perfectly.
She wants to cry. She wants to get angry at him for being so stupid, for almost giving up, for almost leaving her. But the relief that he’s alive washes over everything else and instead, she nods stupidly before returning her eyes to the ice pack she’s pressing against his abdomen. That’s when she notices the scar, silverish and slender, seated just above his heart.
“This is old. How did you get it?” she whispers more than she asks, after a few moments of looking at it and memorizing its shape.
His eyes follow her fingers as her thumb ghosts over the scarred tissue.
“I had more foes that friends, back in Italy,” he evades the question, but she gracefully lets him. “Rightfully so.”
She hums in disagreement, and he frowns, one rare flick of emotion passing like a flash in his eyes as he stares at her.
“I have blood on my hands,” he insists, and Cha Young knows he’s not speaking about the literal specks of sticky red on his palms, “Probably more than you can imagine.”
He’s telling her this as if she’s supposed to be disgusted. Scared.
Scared, she is. But she’s never feared him, even when she barely knew him. Especially now, even as she knows about who he is, who he was, he’s never made her feel unsafe.
Afraid for him, though? That’s another story, tonight more than any other day. But at the same time, she realizes that she’s not the only one who’s scared; she can feel that the little bit of irregular skin above his heart is nothing compared to the scars that litters his soul. She knows, now more than ever, of the doubts that cloud his mind ; how he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be cared for. To be loved.
Unable to hear her inner turmoil, Vincenzo watches her attentively, like he’s waiting for her to recoil from him. She stares back, and suddenly she knows what to look for and where to look.
“Ms Hong?” he asks softly, and as he speaks, she finally spots the doubt, the fear in his eyes. The longing.
It was strange, somehow, that such a man would fear himself more than he’d fear a corrupted, over-powered corporation trying to destroy them. Yet it made sense.
“I know that you tried to convince me that you’re an irredeemable villain. I’m aware that you killed people, but again, so have I now.”
He tilts his head, listening attentively to her.
“So, you trying to convince me that you don’t deserve happiness, that you don’t deserve love? That you should rather live in pain and regret, or even die to pay for your actions? That’s bullshit.”
He flinches, startled at the sudden vehemence in her voice, and she takes his cold hand in hers to ground him -to ground herself.
“I believe I told you,” she echoes his previous words, “that we’re partners. That we should share everything. The blood, the pain, the fear.”
She eyes the scar, fingers leaving his hand to brush against it once more. Vincenzo shivers, but it might be because he’s cold.
“We should share our scars, too,” she adds softly, and driven by an sudden impulse, she puts her lips to the discoloured skin to kiss it.
She feels more than she hears him breathe sharply at the contact, not pained but surprised. She then sits back to her initial position, and it takes her a few moments to realize what she just did ; but instead of being embarrassed about it, she straightens her stance and glares challengingly at him, as if daring him to say anything. He remains speechless for a handful of long, terribly long seconds, before he snorts softly.
“I certainly don’t deserve you,” he mumbles, but it’s more a joke than self-deprecation, and she can’t help but grin.
“No one does,” she quips back. “Luckily for you, I decided that I’d stick with you. I like guys who drench my interns-turned-enemies in pig blood during public presentations.”
He smiles, a truly genuine smile, and Cha Young’s heart soars. “I’m glad you do.”
Then he cups her face with his hands before kissing her. It’s slow at first, and he’s giving her the time to push him back, to say no if she doesn’t want it. But once the shock passes, putting a stop to this is the very last thing she wishes. She kisses him back, putting her arms around his neck to assure him that yes, she wants this as much as he does, and she all but melts into his hands. But the kiss doesn’t pick up speed ; it remains slow, languid, and loving, which is exactly what they want- and what they need. Their hold on each other tightens as they get impossibly closer with each second passing. They’re pouring their feelings into this, quenching the parching longing they’ve felt for each other during these last weeks. Both lawyers exchange physical contact instead of words, yet their message remains the same.
I love you. I need you. Don’t leave me.
After what feels like hours, when they finally break the kiss, they open their eyes to look at each other. Their noses are still brushing, and they’re both panting lightly.
Inside her chest, Cha Young’s heart is beating like it’s going to explode.
“Tonight, we heal,” she murmurs. “Tomorrow, we fight. No more hesitations. We’re here for each other.”
He nods, taking her small hands in his to run his thumbs over her skin. Boldened by the contact, she steals a peck at his lips, and another at his scar, almost laughing at the surprised expression he makes. The sight of the scar, though, reminds her that Vincenzo is very much almost naked in her living room, and that despite the heating it’s clearly not warm enough for him to stay like this.
“I’ll go find you something to wear,” she decided. “You’ll catch a cold if you don’t wear anything, and your clothes are too dirty to be used again.”
“I’d definitely feel warmer under your blanket,” he declares, and she snorts at this, inwardly glad that he’s finally snapping out of the strange, worrying haze he was in.
She throws him a playful wink. “That was smooth, darling.”
She stands up almost regretfully and smiles again at the consigliere before stepping towards her room.
Then, she comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the living room, and groans. She turns back with a grimace to Vincenzo, who’s sending her a curious look.
“What is it?”
“The beers.” she complains. “I forgot them on the roof.”