Work Text:
Vincenzo’s cousin Matteo was getting married, and to celebrate, he and his bride-to-be hosted a small party—a gathering of all the cousins. In their family, wedding celebrations meant rivers of liquor, even for those who usually held back, endless wine, music, dancing, and—unlike the grim, bloody world they lived in—pure, unrestrained fun.
Vincenzo and Cha Young were invited as well. Cha Young was especially excited; she had grown close to his cousins, and even more so to the bride, Anita. So when Vincenzo received a call that required him to step away for an hour or two to take care of something, he wasn’t worried.
He kissed Cha Young’s temple and told her he’d be back soon—hopefully before everyone got too drunk and the party wound down—so they could leave together. Still sober and happily immersed in the company around her, Cha Young nodded and told him to be safe.
Given those circumstances, what could possibly go wrong?
The answer was everything.
Because when Vincenzo returned, Luca trailing behind him, their collars were stained and their necks speckled with blood—the party was at its peak.
And he couldn’t find Cha Young.
When he asked around, he was told she had said she needed a break, that she was stepping out to catch her breath.
Vincenzo and Luca searched the hall, and the moment his eyes finally landed on his wife, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and started walking toward her.
“Cara—”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Cha Young was holding a bottle of liquor, nearly half empty. She looked like a thief caught in the act as she hurriedly swallowed what was left in her glass, her cheeks flushed and eyes a little too bright.
Cazzo.
“Cha Young-ah?” he called, the caution in his voice unmistakable as his gaze dropped to the bottle in her hand.
Balkan Vodka 176. Half empty.
He stared at it as though his eyes were deceiving him.
Triple-distilled liquor. His wife had gone through half the damn bottle—
“Santa Maria,” Luca muttered behind him.
Vincenzo took the bottle from her and set it aside with the glasses. Only then did he notice the way Cha Young was staring at him, as if she were seeing him for the very first time.
“She must’ve seen Jupiter by now.”
That made him snap his gaze toward Luca, shooting him a sharp glare.
Luca only grinned. “What? You don’t remember Antonio doing the same thing after the coronation ceremony? He lost all his shits—”
Vincenzo ignored him and stepped closer to his wife.
“We’re going home,” he said, addressing both of them.
Cha Young finally tore her gaze away from him, apparently deciding he wasn’t talking to her at all, and reached for the bottle he’d deliberately placed out of her reach.
Vincenzo gently caught her wrists and helped her to her feet.
“Cha Young-ah, we’re going home.”
“Oh.”
Luca laughed somewhere behind them.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said, starting off on her own. She managed a few steady steps—until she didn’t—and Vincenzo moved quickly to catch her, steadying her while calling back to Luca, who was left behind, to let Matteo know they were leaving.
-
She’s unusually quiet—something entirely new for her, since silence has never been Cha Young’s habit. Once they’re out of the hall and into the open air, she finally speaks.
“Where are we going?” she asks, leaning into him.
“Home.”
She nods against his chest.
“You’re very handsome, by the way. What’s your name?”
There it is.
He exhales softly, and she looks up at him at the sound. It’s the first time she’s ever said he’s good-looking—she’s never needed to; her eyes have always spoken for her. But the question gives her away completely.
“Vincenzo,” he says, and she hums in response.
“I know someone with that name.”
He snorts, tightening his hold around her waist to keep her from stumbling over the uneven cobblestones.
“Of course you do.”
“Do you do marriage?” she asks, squinting at him.
“Yes,” he answers patiently. “I’m married.”
She stops short and stares at him, eyes wide.
Vincenzo lifts her left hand, turning it so the emerald on her ring finger catches the light.
“We’re married.”
Her surprise is genuine as she looks down at the ring, and he keeps an arm around her waist as he gently urges her forward again.
“Oh, lucky me! I knew it!”
He smiles at her delighted declaration, fishes the car keys out of his pocket, and helps her into the car.
Once they’re on the road, she fumbles with her phone, trying to unlock it. It refuses to cooperate—mostly because she’s staring at the screen with her eyes comically wide, completely confusing the facial recognition.
“Keep your face normal,” he says.
“But it says to open my eyes wider.”
“That’s not—”
Fortunately, the phone finally unlocks.
Vincenzo keeps his eyes on the road while she scrolls through her gallery, letting her be—until a video suddenly starts playing.
It’s their wedding day. He’s kissing her, and the crowd around them is clapping and cheering.
He glances at her, catching the way she’s watching the screen with intense concentration.
“What are you—”
“You are a very good kisser. Look at this.” She thrusts the phone toward him.
He gently nudges it away, eyes still on the road.
By the third attempt, she huffs, turns the phone off, and stares out the window instead.
At a red light, she suddenly perks up, pointing at the night sky.
“A pigeon! Look!”
He follows her finger to the traffic light, where a pigeon is perched calmly above the intersection.
“I think the world doesn’t talk enough about pigeons. We really should.”
“They don’t have much significance beyond shitting on everything.”
She nods thoughtfully. “That’s a power.”
“What?”
“Shitting.”
Vincenzo can’t believe he’s seriously being told that pigeon shit is a power.
He looks at his wife—his lovely wife—who is staring back at him with complete seriousness.
“How?”
“If you train them, they can shit on everything you hate.”
He finds himself stealing glances at her again and again.
“Cha Young-ah.”
“Yes?” she answers, suddenly yawning as she shifts and makes herself comfortable in the seat.
“What made you drink half a bottle of vodka?”
“Can you ask another question?”
Vincenzo exhales, shakes his head, and returns his focus to the road.
It’s nearly midnight when they get home. She had fallen asleep along the way, only to wake up moments later, bursting with energy.
“Oh, look!” she shouts. “We have a dog together!”
“That’s Payan, Cara. He’s the famiglia’s watchdog. And please, keep your voice down, amore. If he wakes up, he’ll start barking—and you won’t like that.”
She simply nods, watching the dog with quiet fascination as they walk past.
Once inside, Vincenzo takes her straight to their bedroom.
He pours a glass of water and returns with Advil in hand.
“Take this,” he says, placing the pills in her palm and handing her the glass.
She swallows the pills with a sip of water, then shifts to make room for him, patting the spot beside her after he sets the glass on the bedside table.
“Vincenzo,” she says as he sits down.
He smiles softly and tucks a stray baby hair behind her ear.
“Yes, Cara?”
Her eyes drift to his collar, then up to his lips.
“Have we consummated our marriage?”
“Yes.”
"How about you kiss me again, just like you did at the wedding?"
She doesn't give him a chance to respond. Her small hand slips to the back of his neck, pulling him down as she presses her lips hungrily against his.
She's all fire and impatience, her tongue sweeping boldly into his mouth.
He settles a warm palm on her thigh, and the touch draws a soft, needy moan from her that vibrates against his lips. Only then does he ease back, reluctant, breathing uneven.
"This isn't wise, Cara," he murmurs, eyes fixed on her mouth—lipstick smudged away, lips glistening and fuller now—as his thumb traces slow circles on her thigh.
"Then let's consummate our marriage again."
A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
"We already have."
"I'm quite sure we haven't," she insists, her brows knitting in stubborn confusion.
"We have," he says, voice low and certain.
"Several times. You'll recall exactly how many and how thoroughly, come morning."
He stands, ignoring her quiet sound of protest, and heads toward the walk-in closet to retrieve her pajamas. Barefoot now, heels abandoned, she pads after him.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asks, arms crossed, tone sharp with frustration.
"Taking out a set of pajamas for you."
She glances around the closet, lips pursed in mild annoyance, before snatching the blue silk set—his, clearly—and stalking off toward the bedroom. A low chuckle escapes him as he trails after her.
"Let me help," he offers softly, stepping close as she struggles with the zipper at the back of her dress.
The fabric slides down her shoulders and pools at her feet, leaving her in just delicate lace bra and panties. A faint flush still lingers across her neck and the swell of her chest, evidence of earlier heat.
She slips her arms into his oversized shirt without a word and he buttons it for her deftly.
She pointedly tugs on the pajama trousers herself, then drops onto the edge of the bed with an exasperated huff.
"I'm not sleeping," she declares, shooting him a defiant glare .His smile only widens, warm and infuriatingly calm.
"It's definitely time for sleep, though."
"You're such an ass."
He nods slowly, a patient, knowing tilt of his head.
"Turning down your own wife down like that," she mutters, eyes narrowed.
"You don't even trust me," she presses, voice edged with challenge, clearly fishing for a rise out of him.
"I do trust you."
"You don't." He arches a brow, faintly amused.
"And what proof do you have of that, byeonhosanim?"
"You," she says, poking a finger firmly into his chest, "don't trust me when I tell you we haven't consummated our marriage."
"Cha Young-ah," he murmurs in gentle warning, closing his warm hand around her accusing finger.
"No."
He exhales softly, then leans in and brushes a slow, soothing kiss against her lips—meant to calm, to placate.
She glares at him all the same.
"Time to sleep."
"I can't believe this." She says with a lot of exasperation as she looks at her ring.
Vincenzo wants to say that too. But for a different reason.
"Fine," she mutters abruptly, the word dragged out with reluctant surrender.
"I'm hungry," she adds a beat later, as if it's his fault.
Vincenzo's mouth curves in quiet affection.
"What would you like to eat, amore?"
"Panna cotta." He nods.
"All right. Stay here while I take a quick shower, then I'll make some for you." She gives a small, sulky nod and rolls onto her side, turning her back to him as she settles under the covers.
Vincenzo disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting moments later.
When he returns, hair still damp and wearing similar pajamas, the sight stops him in the doorway.
Cha Young has starfished across the bed in her sleep: one leg kicked free of the comforter, an arm flung over the edge, fingers dangling perilously close to the water glass on the nightstand.
He exhales a soft, helplessly fond sigh.He steps closer to gently tuck her leg back under the covers—and freezes.
His face drains of color.
There, nestled against her waist like a lethal teddy bear, is the pistol he keeps beneath his pillow. The bullets scattered across the sheets in a careless constellation of brass.
For a long second he just stares, heart thudding, before he carefully, carefully begins gathering the rounds with steady hands that betray nothing of the cold dread curling in his chest.
He whispers her name in a hushed, urgent rush as he carefully lifts the pistol away from her side and secures it in the nightstand drawer with a quiet click.
She murmurs something soft and nonsensical in her sleep, her hand instinctively finding his where it rests on her waist, fingers curling loosely over his knuckles.
Once the danger is locked away, he eases onto the bed beside her and turns off the last light.
In the darkness, she senses him immediately. Still deep in sleep, she shifts closer, nuzzling into him until her face is pressed warmly against his chest, her breath steady and even against his skin.
Vincenzo gathers her in, one arm sliding beneath her to cradle her back, the other settling heavily, protectively over her waist.
His fingers weave gently into her hair, stroking in slow, absent rhythms.
He brushes a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there. Then another, softer, against her forehead.
She stirs faintly at the touch, lips parting on a sleepy sigh. Without waking, she tilts her face up and presses a blind, instinctive kiss to his chest—right over his heart—soft and warm and utterly trusting.
His breath catches for a moment, something fierce and achingly fond tightening in his throat.
"You will be the death of me," he whispers against her hair, voice low and grave, laced with helpless love. He closes his eyes, holds her a little tighter, and finally lets sleep take him too.