"I was just changing clothes, sorry." Pesci pipes from the hallway as he makes his way back to his living room– having changed into a black tank and gray joggers.

"I have clothes that you can relax in if you want.?"

"–its just that I don't imagine your dress clothes are that comfortable!" He very quickly tries to clarify. Prosciutto can tell its because he doesn't wanna cross any boundaries so soon.

"I've got shirts and joggers and–" he sputters on but prosciutto, for a moment, finds herself somewhere else.

She has never worn another man's clothes.

"Thats... very considerate of you..."

Pesci looks at her expectantly.

"Maybe later." She finishes with.

She cant help but notice his let down, hes gotten so good at hiding it now.

"Well how about a drink?"

Now that is something Prosciutto can land on.

"What do you have in there?"

"Beer... light beer... dark beer..."

"-wine.... I dont have any of that hard stuff you like, you know it hurts my stomach." He mulls, the last part he says more to himself.

"Is it red or white? The wine." Prosciutto asks because the answer does matter.

"Both? As in I have multiple?"

Prosciutto sits up a little, elbow resting on the sofa arm as she watches him rummage around in his cabinet.

“Red,” she decides. “If we’re opening anything, open the red.”

Pesci freezes mid-motion, his fingers hovering over the beer's tab he already had in hand.

Oh– right.

Of course she would pick the wine. She is a lady after all.

He places the can back softly and closes the fridge door as quietly as he can, like he’s afraid of disturbing the atmosphere. He stares at the fridge doors for a second longer anyway, the comfort of habit lingering behind those doors. But something in him shifts — a tiny, private thought:

Wine does seem more romantic… right?

He swallows, nodding to himself, and grabs the bottle of red instead.

Pesci returns from the kitchen with the bottle and a handful of two regular drinking glasses—no stemware.

Prosciutto raises an eyebrow.

“…Those are… just cups.”

He shrugs. “They’ll work, won’t they?”

She makes her way to him, reaching out for the bottle, already scanning the table. “Where’s your corkscrew?”

Pesci stops her with a quiet, “It’s fine. I got it.” setting the cups down.

Before she can question it, he grips the neck of the bottle with one hand and lets Beach Boy slide down his palm, hook bouncing on the string as he lets it fall. The little glint of metal sways once—weightless and precise—before dipping straight through the the thick glass of the bottle.

He snakes and maneuvers the hook into and through its narrow neck, the line moving with a fluid, practiced ease. It’s effortless, almost lazy, like he’s threading a needle underwater. The line disappears into the cork, tension tightening along the string as if Beach Boy itself is anticipating the snap.

Then, he begins to pull.

Not rough—hard but controlled—the string taut between his steady fingers. Prosciutto sees the cork begin to shift—just enough—nudged upward by something non-corporeal beneath the glass. The bottle trembles from the pressure, the cork slowly, stubbornly giving way.

Prosciutto’s breath catches.

Pesci braces the bottle against his hip– waving Beach Boy away with it, his two fingers and thumb wrapping around the cork.

The way his thick fist grips the neck… Prosciutto, for a moment, imagines him pleasuring himself…

The thought is too intrusive—too vivid—and it burns hot and low in her belly.

Jesus. Get a hold of yourself.

His jaw tightens; biceps flex, his chest tautens underneath his black tank, shoulders drawing in with slow deliberateness. Veins stand out along his forearm and up the side of his neck as he gives a hard pull.

pop.

The cork comes free. Its over in a moment.

He doesn’t even look at her. He just sets the cork aside, casual like it was nothing, and starts pouring—giving her a heavy, generous amount, then his own. The wine pools dark and lusciously into the plain cups.

Prosciutto takes the glass, stunned into silence.

She’s still staring at his hands. His arms, his chest and trapezius. The sheer size of him.

Pesci just grins— lifts his glass to his lips, and drinks it down like water.

Adrenaline high catching up to him and fast.

He wipes his bottom lip with his palm, totally unaware that the gesture sends heat rolling straight down her spine.

He’s proud. She can see it—he’s buzzing with that boyish swagger.

But underneath that pride is something else, something still sincere.

Did that look manly enough? Did I impress you?

Prosciutto swallows a mouthful of wine to hide the way her breath trembles.

Prosciutto knows she should scold him for being a glutton... A... sexy, show off, glut...

He doesn’t realize he just lit a fuse.

She leans back on the couch, trying to play it off, crossing her legs to stop the steady hum of want building in her stomach. Her voice comes out lower, rougher than intended.

"Where did that come from...” she smiles softly, coyly. Womanly.

He laughs once, short, nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. Already refilling his glass.

“Where did what come from?” smiling sweetly himself, making his way back to the couch to join her.

He doesn’t know.

He has no idea what he looks like to her.

Prosciutto’s eyes linger on him the whole time.

“I forget how strong you must be now.”

She pauses, correcting herself, softer-

“Beach Boy is one thing… but you must be so strong now.”

Pesci just listens, unable to meet her gaze for long. That perpetual urge to deflect her praise flickers across his face.

“It– uh, he does most of the work,” he mutters, cheeks warming from both the wine and her voice. He sets his glass on the wooden end table, seeming to contemplate whether or not to sit.

“Pesci. Sit with me.” She coaxes.

And he does. He sinks down beside her immediately because she asked him to. His size making it difficult to sit without touching one another in some way.

Prosciutto takes two long sips before she speaks again, already feeling the warmth settle in her face.

“I can tell." She's still eyeing his musculature. "You are bigger now. You were so much thinner at the start of our career.”

Our.

The word settles between them intimately and warm.

Pesci just listens for now, eyes a little unfocused. Lost somewhere between the buzz and the sound of her voice. Prosciutto is trying to catch up as she finishes her own glass. She grimaces at the last sips bitter taste– wiping her wet mouth with the palm of her hand– trying to talk through it.

“I remember your blonde hair too– Before the green.”

“Ah! Did-did you like it better?”

He laughs then groans– blushing even harder, while rubbing the back of his neck roughly. “I did that bleach job at home...”

She laughs with him- because of course he did. And he leans in, just slightly, without thinking about it. She mirrors him, like magnet to steel, feeling the heat roll off him. His chestnut roots so obvious now.

"I've had- I have fun with you Pesci." She admits.

"I have fun with you too, Prosciutto. Lots." Pesci says lowly. Sincerely.

And for a moment, Prosciutto’s looking straight past the man he is now- the broad chest, the shoulders, the strength- to the boy he used to be. And to the girl she feels herself becoming again in his eyes, in his arms.

Already hers before either of them had the words for it.

He may have always been hers.

"Pesci?..." as gently as she can. Her nimble fingers just barely grazing his body.

"Yeah...?" Quiet and hoarsely.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Something in her expression makes him go still as his hand finds her thigh.

And he kisses her– slow and wetted from the wine.

Not as shakey as their first time, not nearly. Confidence so apparent in the way he moves now.

Like he finally knows what to do with a lover. With her.

His hand reach up to touch her jaw with the tips of his fingers, the other's fingers hooking into the top of her leg.

Its only seconds and Prosciutto's body is throbbing. Take me! Take me! It screams.

Then he pulls away. Gently, and Prosciutto has to stop herself from following.

"Prosciutto– I'm sorry– did you want me to do that?" Pesci stammers out before he even reopens his eyes. Hes interrupted by cool fingers on his lips.

"Pesci shut up..." She groans.

Prosciutto wants to curl into a ball and vanish into the cracks of the floor.

“I just haven’t had the opportunity!” he hisses, voice pitching somewhere between a whisper and a scream.

The café wasn’t necessarily busy, but there were still enough people around to make him conscious of every decibel.

Melone just blinks at him over the rim of his glass. Not laughing, not sneering—simply... baffled.

“I just can’t believe it. How??”

Prosciutto bristles, rubbing his temples.

“I didn’t go to school like you did, alright? I wasn’t out chasing skirts or whatever it is you people did for fun—and I was never into one-night stands.”

Melone swirls the remains of his 2 p.m. cocktail, pondering.

“I suppose that’s fair...”

A pause, a flicker of thought. Then his eyes widened, drink nearly sloshing out of the glass.

“Wait—does Pesci know?”

Prosciutto is beginning to think this could have been a phone call...

“Can you keep your voice down?” His tone nearly matches Melone’s volume out of sheer desperation, professionalism slipping.

Melone shrinks back, cheeks flushed pink from the outburst.

Prosciutto pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No, I haven’t told him. But I haven’t lied, either. Though, I’m fairly certain he’s not expecting a maid...”

Melone leaned forward, chin in his hand.

“And Pesci is...?”

Prosciutto didn’t know whether to smirk or grimace. The question hit a strange nerve—something between pride and jealousy, both ugly in the same ways.

“He... had a little girlfriend back in secondary school,” he muttered. “He didn’t get far, but... far enough.”

That’s when Melone started laughing, full-bodied and shocked at the reveal.

“You’re telling me, of all people, Pesci has a one-up on you?”

Prosciutto tried not to wince at the thought. The words hung between them—Melone’s laughter fading, Prosciutto’s composure fraying.

He wasn’t ashamed. Not exactly...

It wasn’t about purity or virtue. It was the idea of not knowing, of being unpracticed in something the rest of this world seemed fluent in now.

And worse, that it might matter to Pesci.

Prosciutto stirred his coffee, lost in the reflection he saw warping and reforming with each swirl.

“He doesn’t need to know. Not yet.”

Melone tilted his head, laughter since faded, brows furrowed in a mix of pity and curiosity.

Prosciutto looked away toward the café window, to another somber reflection.

Melone attempts an understanding smile.

Prosciutto just sighs through his nose.

—

By the time she remembers that café conversation, weeks have passed. Prosciutto’s almost forgotten it entirely—almost.

She and Pesci have been steady for a few months now, quiet and careful. Pesci still insists on keeping things under wraps, lest they give their Capo Nero an excuse to “separate” them. Says it’s better that way, for now.

Prosciutto will humor him... “For now.”

She’ll still bring Pesci on every mission—Risotto’s opinions be damned.

It’s not worth dwelling on right now; they’ve got a job to do tonight. Hopefully a quick one at that. In and out, if they can help it.

“And you made sure this is the place?” Prosciutto’s tone is all routine; Pesci has to stay sharp.

“Yes, I made sure,” Pesci huffs, hands tight around the steering wheel. Still so nervous. “I double—then triple-checked. It’s even written down somewhere—”

“Good, good...” She trails.

Prosciutto is only half listening, taking a moment to get a good look at their stop.

In and out...

She cuts him off with a light slap to the thigh. The sound makes Pesci jump; the squeeze that follows grounds him.

“No blood tonight, Pesci.”

“Right...” Pesci breathes.

It’s not a new rule, but hearing it from Prosciutto still settles something in him.

“Come on,” Prosciutto says, pushing her door open. The dull creak and orange car light fill the silence between them.

He pauses just long enough to take Pesci in—how his face looks half-shadowed by the dashlight, jaw tight but determined.

Prosciutto wants this all the time.

“Let’s get this done and go home.”

Pesci freezes at that word. Home? He’s not sure what Prosciutto meant by it—if Prosciutto even meant it—but he decides not to ask. Not now.

He just nods, mumbling to himself, “Yeah... okay.”

—

They make quick work of their little shakedown. Prosciutto feeling very pleased by the newfound weight in her pockets—the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

Pesci seems in good spirits too—maybe too good. Taking more enthusiasm than usual from the “just for giving us a hard time” beatings.

Their client’s folded up into fetal position on the floor, groaning and swearing through his teeth, making any attempt to protect his head from the assault.

He yowls when Pesci’s boot drives into the soft of his belly one good time.

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!”

Prosciutto joins in, all precision where Pesci is chaos.

“You’ll—”

kick!

“learn—”

kick!

“that I don’t like repeating myself!”

kick! kick!

“We won’t ask next time!” she spits, jabbing a finger toward him, digging the toe of her shoe harshly into tender flesh.

The man finally breaks, gasping apologies through the pain.

Prosciutto straightens before she can wear herself out, breathing heavy.

She looks over—Pesci is dripping with sweat, mohawk now plastered to his forehead, chest heaving.

There’s something new in his expression—awkward, yes—but something so raw and unguarded now, something dangerous.

Prosciutto has to look away before it shows.

“You’re lucky you got us tonight.” Back to business.

“Some of our coworkers would’ve left you in pieces...” she mutters, finally slowing to a stop.

She fishes through her pockets for a cigarette and lighter, turning toward the nearest corner.

The now-paced grunts and whimpers behind her fade into background noise as she lights up, drawing in a long, healthy pull of smoke.

Her eyes roll and flutter shut in pure decadence. She’s earned this.

The background noise becomes just that—noise—her head swimming in the nicotine high.

She exhales, slow, smoke curling and dissolving beyond her lips. The moment cannot be relished nearly long enough before she hears a sudden halt in movement followed by a deeply pained groan of relief.

“Shut up—you’re not—you are not even bleeding.” Pesci bleats out, trying to catch his breath.

He shoves the lump of a man with his foot, tiredly, just enough to get another half-conscious whinge.

Prosciutto tries not to laugh—not at his bravado, but the attempt at it. It’s endearing.

She turns toward him, one arm crossed, the other lifted with the cigarette pinched neatly between two fingers. Smoke drifts lazily between them.

Her little toy soldier, her little soldatino.

“You’re a killer, Pesci.”

He just heaves at that, with hands on knees and head hung low, still trying to cool off from the exertion.

“You’re—only saying that...”

Prosciutto just rolls her eyes, taking in another sip of smoke. How very humble...

“Leave him. We’ve got what we came for.”

Smoke curls from Prosciutto’s teeth with every word.

Pesci straightens immediately at the command, stepping over the half-conscious man without so much as a glance.

Prosciutto turns toward the exit, only to feel heavy arms circle her from behind.

A damp face presses into the curve of her neck, sighing in relief at the contact. Fingers, daring and bold, dip into her front pocket.

“Gimme one of those.”

Prosciutto chuckles, half-amused, half-touched. She slides a cigarette between Pesci’s lips and turns to face him.

“Here.” she fits the cigarette between Pesci’s lips, turning within the hold to face him.

In the low light, Prosciutto studies him—how much he’s changed. The once teary-eyed apprentice has hardened into something sharp and near refined.

Once boyish... now—not so boyish...

“Stay still.”

It’s as gentle as she can manage. Her palms cradle Pesci’s face, loving and deliberate. Prosciutto leans in, crossing her eyes briefly to line up the burning tip just right.

Their cigarettes touch with a small hiss, a shared ember—and he breathes in. Pesci mirrors her instinctively, eyes closing at the same time.

When Pesci reopens his eyes, Prosciutto is already drawing back and headed for the door.

“Alright,” she commands. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, the night feels heavier somehow. Pesci can’t stop watching her—the easy stride, the slow exhale of smoke, the quiet that says more than any teasing could. Prosciutto pretends not to notice. She’s having her fun, letting the silence draw the line tighter. Pesci thinks he can tell.

—

Crawling back into the car, Pesci hesitates before putting the key in. The adrenaline’s fading fast, leaving a strange, buzzing feeling.

Prosciutto’s already settled in the passenger seat, tapping out another cigarette like nothing happened.

Pesci clears his throat.

“Uhm—”

Prosciutto doesn’t look up. “Uhm what, Pesci.”

Blunt and tired. The breath of command still in it.

Pesci grips the wheel tighter. He’d been thinking about that word since they left. Home.

Did Prosciutto mean his place? Did she mean theirs? He wants to ask, but the timing feels wrong.

“I was just gonna ask where to,” he mutters.

Prosciutto takes her time lighting up, contemplation on her face.

“Whose place is closer?”

“Mine.” Pesci says automatically. He’s not even sure it’s true.

Prosciutto shoots him a sidelong glance, one brow slightly raised. That look alone makes Pesci’s stomach flip.

He can tell immediately something is happening behind those eyes.

“I remember...” Prosciutto says at last. “It’s just a few turns from here.”

And that’s it. No comment, no tease. Just Prosciutto nursing on her cigarette, smoke drifting out the window as Pesci pulls out onto the road.

The drive is quiet except for the hum of the tires. Pesci keeps his eyes on the street, pretending that’s all that matters.

But with every light passed, he catches a glimpse of Prosciutto’s face in the reflection—composed, unreadable, and miles away.

—

The car creaks to a stop under a flickering streetlight, the sidewalk stained yellow from the glare. Pesci kills the engine fast, nervous hands fumbling with the keys.

“Here—” he blurts, already rushing out to circle the car.

He opens her door with an awkward flourish. Prosciutto arches a brow, one hand extending lazily for him to take.

“Gentlemanly,” she says, voice low, teasing.

Pesci takes her hand anyway. Her skin is cool, her bones small in his, and when he helps her up, she doesn’t let go right away.

He doesn’t either. Instead, he tugs her into him, arms wrapping around her before he can think twice.

“Oh?” Her voice catches faintly, surprised but not displeased. After a pause, she slides her hands along his bare arms, feeling the heat there, the pulse.

“Oh, mio Pesciolino...” as she reciprocates in gentle fain.

He presses his face into her neck, breathing her in. No traffic, no witnesses, just the sound of his breath and her heartbeat under his lips.

When she finally pulls back, her hands linger stubbornly at his sides, gripping the yellow fabric of his coat like she’s not quite ready to let go.

Pesci laughs, soft and shy, trying to defuse the weight of it.

“You’re so cute, fraa,” he teases.

That earns a low groan and an exaggerated eye roll.

“Ugh. Just get me inside.”

She pushes at his face with a flat palm—light, not angry—and struts toward the door.

Pesci’s grin widens as he follows, still laughing under his breath.

“Yes, ma’am...”

Prosciutto just hides her smile where he can’t see it.

—

Three sets of stairs later, Prosciutto’s legs are screaming for respite, Pesci passing her up over a dozen steps ago to hold open the stairwell door.

“What kind of complex doesn’t have a functioning elevator?” she whines, brushing past him through the doorway.

Pesci lets it close behind them as Prosciutto, on level ground again, takes the lead.

“That thing’s been out of order,” he says, more so venting to himself.

Even after the work they’d done tonight—after the mess and the drive back—how could she still look so clean and put together?

It’s like some strange painting or an old movie he’s seen before: the beautiful, no-nonsense bombshell so out of place in this dirty world.

Some grittier version of The Lady and The Tramp.

...And that must make Pesci the tramp...

“Uh—” he starts. “I’m sorry, Prosciutto,” he fumbles with his keys. “I feel like I made you come to my crappy apartment. I can take you back whenever—”

Prosciutto stops squarely in front of the door.

“I thought I was spending the night.”

So matter-of-fact that it knocks the air out of him.

“I—of course! If you want to—”

His head drops low as he brings his hands up to cover his face, trying to hide his embarrassment. The whole night is catching up to him fast.

“I’m sorry I’m acting so weird, Pro—you’re just so beautiful and—”

Two small hands press flat against his ribs, gliding slowly up his chest.

“And I’m...” he trails...

That gets his attention. He peeks through his fingers at the contact, eyebrows raised, before slowly dropping his hands away.

Prosciutto’s eyes are already waiting for him—steady, softer, knowing.

“Just...” He gestures vaguely to himself, words failing under her gaze. Defeated.

“Pesci, Pesci—you’re too hard on yourself,” she says, voice low but certain. “You did just fine tonight.”

Her hand comes up to rest against his cheek. Pesci leans into it, eyes fixed on hers. She sighs—and he knows that sound—it’s pity, maybe, or something close to it.

“I like you, Pesci. I don’t waste time on anyone I don’t.”

Her head tilts slightly, studying him like a puzzle she’s missing pieces for.

“You... interest me. For good reason.”

Her eyes wander briefly—to his neck, his shoulders—before returning to meet his.

“I do?” He can’t help asking, knowing full well how that sounds.

“You do.”

She says it softer this time, her hand sliding down his face and along the line of his neck.

“Now stop asking me questions you already know the answers to.”

A playful smack follows, then a pinch.

“Ow—!” He laughs, rubbing his cheek.

Prosciutto just smiles up at him, something faint and new stirring behind her eyes. It’s strange. Barely a half hour ago, that man they left behind is probably still writhing in pain—and here they are, acting like teenagers.

Is this what they call the honeymoon phase?

No time to dwell on that as Prosciutto snatches the keys from his hand, twists them in the lock, and pushes the door open.

Pesci all but pours through the entrance, just grateful to be home.