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mafia, the old country: cesare massaro x female!reader
summary: cesare massaro was never a man built for tenderness, yet he couldn’t resist the pull you had on him. mornings in the market, the warmth of the coast road beneath your feet, the smallest touches and glances — they all lingered in him longer than he would ever admit. that day, the life he imagined with you shattered in an instant, leaving only memory and longing in its wake.
setting: a quiet southern italian coastal village in early spring — the bustling market with the scent of fresh produce and citrus, the winding coast road where sunlight hits the cobblestones just right, and the dim, lamp-lit streets at night where shadows hide danger and the sea whispers through the alleys.
warnings: graphic injury and blood, implied death, mafia-related violence, emotional trauma, grief, intense tension, character in peril, lowercase prose, pre game.
note: for the ones who’ve felt the cruel juxtaposition of ordinary, peaceful moments and the sudden intrusion of violence — the fleeting joys, the laughter, the shared warmth of someone who shouldn’t be theirs, only to have it torn away in a heartbeat.
also: why did i allow myself to write this? i dunno, because now im picturing the happy endings that all the mafia games could have, and it is NOT making me happy. ( it wont be making @beforeroachfalls happy either... told you i was making cesare works though !)
(i PROMISE, fluff is on the way... maybe)
my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡
the sea was still that morning, a rare thing for early spring.
the air smelled of salt and earth, the citrus groves just starting to carry their sweetness down into the village.
cesare trailed a half-step behind you at the market, shoulders squared, coat hanging loose, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he had better things to do. but his eyes stayed fixed on you as you picked through the stalls — slow, deliberate, turning each tomato, testing the weight of the lemons like you were hunting for perfection.
“you’ll never eat all that,” he muttered, voice flat as he leaned against a crate of fish. anyone else might’ve thought he was mocking you. but his gaze stayed steady on your hands, the corners of his mouth tugged just faintly in a way no one else ever saw.
you didn’t look at him, though he caught the quick twitch of a smile as you tucked a lemon into your basket, its skin so bright it looked almost unreal. “that’s because you’ll eat the rest,” you said.
this time you did turn, glancing at him over your shoulder. the market noise blurred for a beat as you gave him a small, easy smile — the kind that didn’t ask for anything, just existed.
cesare’s brow ticked, the usual flat line of his mouth faltering. he held your gaze for a breath longer than he should have, then let the corner of his lips curve upward — soft, fleeting, but real.
he never gave that smile to anyone else.
you walked home together along the coast road, the wicker of your basket creaking with every step. he listened while you talked about the neighbor’s new baby, the goat that kept sneaking into the churchyard, some fisherman’s half-drunk story. he gave you little more than grunts in reply, but he kept close, shoulder brushing yours whenever the path narrowed.
when you looped your arm through his without thinking, his first instinct was to stiffen — cesare wasn’t a man built for softness, not in the life he lived. but the weight of you leaning into him settled something deep in his chest. he let it stay, silent, his stride matching yours.
for a flicker of a moment, he let himself picture it: you, a place of your own, mornings with shutters thrown open, sunlight cutting across a table where your basket sat waiting. no debts. no eyes on his back. no family except the one he could make.
the thought left a bitter edge in his mouth, because men like him didn’t get futures like that.
still, he let the silence between you stretch, carrying it all the way to your door, the ghost of that impossible picture lodged in the back of his mind.
he didn’t know it would be the last time he walked you home.
that night, the town was louder than usual.
shouts spilled from the tavern near the docks, laughter pitched too high, all nerves and no joy. the family had been pressing debts harder than ever — collectors moving like storms through the streets, leaving wreckage in their wake. tension lived in the air, stitched into the seams of every shuttered window and half-closed door.
cesare had been sent out on a simple errand — “quick delivery, ragazzo” — and he’d taken the back lanes, boots steady on cobblestones, mind already drifting. drifting to you . to the way your arm had looped through his earlier, the faint smell of lemons caught in your hair when the wind had turned.
he didn’t see the shadow slip toward your street.
but he heard it — not the strike itself, not the knife cutting air — only the sound after. a muffled gasp, wrong against the night.
his steps quickened. then he was running.
when he turned the corner, the world collapsed to a single sight: your basket spilling to the stones. wicker hit once, twice, before rolling onto its side, lemons scattering in a golden spill. they gleamed almost obscene under the weak lamplight, rolling through the dirt, catching on the edge of something darker. a streak across the cobblestones.
you were crumpled beside them, the dress twisted as if you’d been caught mid-step, now frozen in collapse. blood had bloomed across your side, soaking through the thin fabric, staining the dust beneath you. the cut was deep, messy — made by someone who hadn’t cared if she lived or died, only that she fell.
“no—” the word ripped from him, raw, as he dropped to his knees. his hands hovered uselessly for a heartbeat before he gathered you into his arms, pulling you into his lap like he could shield you from the damage already done.
your breath rattled, shallow, wet. each inhale caught like it was snagged on glass. when your fingers found his coat, they were trembling, slick with blood, curling weakly as though trying to hold on.
“stay with me,” he said, and his voice was a plea, shaking in a way it never had before. “please, tesoro. don’t leave me. not like this.”
but beneath the pleading, confusion tore at him. he couldn’t understand it — why you? you had nothing to do with this life, with his debts, his shadows, his knives. you were untouched by it all, innocent, the only good thing he had left. why would anyone go after his angel, of all people? what sense could there be in it?
your lips moved — just barely — and he bent closer, desperate to catch it, to steal even a whisper. maybe his name. maybe something more. but no sound came.
your hand slipped from his coat, streaking red across the fabric.
the night surged back around him, deafening in its indifference. footsteps somewhere down the street. the groan of a cart wheel. the hush of the sea.
and underneath it all, a sharpness on the breeze — citrus, faint and cruel. it carried down the alley where he sat, rocking you against his chest, your blood seeping hot into his clothes.
when at last he laid you down, it was with careful, reverent hands. the basket lay tipped on its side beside you, one last lemon still resting inside, its skin smooth, golden, untouched.
