#jjbap5

The locals were a huge fan of him, you knew that. Whenever he came into local shops that you just happened to be in at the same time as him, bakers, grocery sellers and business owners alike never hesitated in showering him in free goods. His effortless charm and charisma made him extremely popular, you almost felt jealous.

One morning you asked a local barista who he was, and it seemed to you like they stiffened and choked on their words. 

“I have, uh, no idea what Mr. Bucciarati does. He is a good man.” they stubbornly left it at that, no matter how hard you pressed. 

Feeling large rough hands curl over your shoulder, and a deep voice in your ear you jumped. 

“Do you mind if I pay for your coffee today?” 

The voice was deep and smooth, seductive. Like treacle or golden syrup. 

You attempted to turn, but the person with their hand on your shoulder was a hell of a lot stronger than you’d anticipated. Startled, you noticed their hand on your waist and their chest pressed against your back, soft warmth flooding into your skin. He smelt like expensive cologne and gunpowder.

The barista’s face lit up at the sight of the person behind you. 

“Ah, Mr Bucciarati! Speak of the devil!” 

Despite Bruno being so forward with his actions, you had no idea what he wanted from you. He’d appear outside your work place in the evening with your favourite drink in hand (hang on, how’d he know?) ready to walk to you home like the gentleman he was. Gorgeous lush bouquets of flowers would appear on your doorstep, much to your delight, and suddenly all your student debts and loans started to disappear. Funnily enough he always appeared wherever you were, whether it was to run errands, to pick up a new book or check your letterbox. Charming as he was he always laughed it off, saying: “I’m always all over the town, expect to see me often.” At this he glanced at you hopefully, as if waiting to see a sign in your face that you wished to see him too.

“Oh, and you know that male co-worker of yours, m/n? I’ve heard he’s no good, perhaps stop talking with him?” What?

One night you even turned on the news to see the face of a man who’d been catcalling you at the train station on the headlines of a deeply disturbing murder case. According to news reporters, the body was split into segments, as if the murderer had simply ‘unzipped’ their body.

Fast forward to a chilly Monday morning where you turned up at your workplace to find the entire building closed down. 

I’ll have to search for a new job soon, you thought in dismay. 

Calloused hands embraced your waist in a manner too sensual for just acquaintances, and you whirled to face Bruno. 

“Are you free tonight?”

What you were doing at such a fancy restaurant on a weeknight you had no idea, but before you could even object Bruno had taken care of all the details and you had a date with him that evening.

The usually put together man was especially strange that night, going out of his way to be sweet, pulling out your chair for you, lunging in front of you to open doors (good forbid your beautiful hands touch a doorknob), stiffening and tightening his grip on you anytime a male/female walked past (which left deep bruises) and fixing his deep sapphire gaze upon you the entire night as if you were a fairy about to vanish into a cloud of glitter any minute now.

Despite all these oddities, you had a beautiful night.

When he was walking you home, Bruno finally decided to spit it out.

“I can have nobody but you. Please move in with me. Love me please, and only me.”

Shocked, you turned down his offer as politely as you could, stating that you just weren’t ready for a relationship yet. He continued walking with you, but moved with a glazed, pained look in his eyes and with a shuddering in his body as if he was about to break down any minute. Feeling horrible, you hugged him, but he felt stiff to the touch.

“This just won’t do.” He said quietly, gripping onto your arm in desperation. The lovesick glow in his eyes mixed with murderous intent set your blood running cold. “Y-you have to love me.”

“Bruno,” you said, trying to move his hand off your arm. “That hurts. Could we talk?”

You felt a cold feeling behind you and goose bumps rippled on your skin before the sensation of your body splitting in half made your vision go black.

You wake in a luxurious bedroom, with Bruno running his fingers through your hair. Crying and scared out of your mind, you beg him to let you go, but it’s like he can’t hear you.

Over the next couple of weeks, he treats you as if you can’t care for yourself. Cooking you extravagant meals, buying you lavish gifts, even forcing himself into the shower with you to run his hands over your trembling soapy body. 

You haven’t seen the outside world in months now. You can feel yourself going brain dead as Bruno’s obsessive love swallows you whole, making you completely and utterly reliant on him. No matter how humiliated you may feel about these arrangements, Bruno doesn’t mind a bit. 

Completely relying on him. Him as your entire world. It’s exactly how he wants it! 

He doesn’t care for a thing in the world, except your love for him.

Slowly, but surely, your days were beginning to blend together. The same stupid routine over and over, and you couldn’t lift a finger to change it. Your gaze rose to the door, which was locked and triple bolted. You were 100% sure that Prosciutto was standing outside, his coolly fuming aura leaking through the locked door. You shuddered, and tried to concentrate on the book you’d found wedged in the cupboard while you waited for your punishment to end. This started six months ago, when you just happened to offer directions to a blond man with a curious looking brother who looked completely lost. You exchanged numbers after walking them to their destination and slowly and surely became fast friends. You slammed the book against your forehead in frustration. Why didn’t you see the warning signs? They were right there in front of you, and you were stupid and ignored all the red flags because Prosciutto showered you in love and attention. Look where being blinded by rose tinted glasses had landed you. “What are you doing in there?” A sharp voice from behind the door makes you start. “Nothing.” You say cautiously. It wasn’t like there was anything to do anyways. “Try to escape again, and I’ll fucking kill you.” Soft and sweetly spoken, but venomous enough to make your skin crawl. Shocked out of words, you hear the door unlock. “Ah. You’ve tried to make your stay here more enjoyable by fishing out a book, hm?” You can’t even reply out of fear, the blond man breathily threatening you behind your ear. A sharp strike to your cheek that sends you reeling onto the floor, head slamming the wooden timber. Stars fly in your eyes as the room spins from the racking to your brain. You feel your ribs rattle when a merciless kick to your stomach makes you vomit over the floor. “Don’t ever try to leave me,” Prosciutto says, grabbing you by your hair and yanking your head off the ground. “I truly will kill you next time.” Sobbing and babbling fearful apologies, he caresses your cheek and kisses your forehead softly. “I’m sorry y/n, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just meant to discipline you. I can’t have my darling trying to run away from me, can I?” Pesci stands outside of the door as you look up and catch his gaze, and he averts his eyes, looking ashamed of how cruelly his brother is treating you. The tall blond straightens and clears out his throat, eyeing the pool of blood and vomit on the floor. “Clean that up, and start making dinner. The rest of La Squadra will be home soon.” Hardly knowing what he just said, you nod. Fighting back tears. Your entire body feels sore and bruised and you just want to curl up into a ball and cry. Later, scrubbing the blood off the floor you hear a bucket full of soapy water slam down next to you, and you jump. No more beatings, please. You pray. A soft voice, not half as cruel as Prosciutto’s. “I’m sorry my brother got so angry, y/n. I’ll help you clean.” The act of kindness nearly brings you to tears again. As the both of you clean up, Pesci speaks again. “My brother really loves you, everyone can see it. So when you try to run, he gets really upset. It’s almost as if he thinks you don’t love him.” How you could expect someone to love a man who kidnaps and beats them, you didn’t know. Dinner went smoothly, thank god. You dug out a cookbook from one of the pantry shelves and dutifully followed a recipe. When the rest of the members were home they were especially happy. Illuso and Melone even complimented you, and Ghiaccio didn’t go on a tangent on how you didn’t cook the pasta properly, which was a huge compliment coming from him. As you were stacking the last of the dishes away and everyone had retreated to their own rooms, you wearily walked back to your bedroom, hoping against hope that Prosciutto wouldn’t want you to sleep with him tonight. You just didn’t know how you’d cope. A large, strong hand grips your wrist and yanks you into the wardrobe you were passing. You’re enveloped into complete stuffy darkness as the wardrobe door slams shut behind you and you feel

your face pressed into the muscular chest of Illuso. You try to yell, but are muffled against his chest. A soft chuckle from overhead as you feel hands circle your waist, crushing you even closer to him. You feel soft lips brush yours and you strain against the muscular arms encircling you. “So cruel of Prosciutto not to share such a sweet girl,” he mumbles into your mouth. “You better not speak a word of what I’m about to do to you." Illuso’s lips press hard against yours and you desperately try to pull away, knowing that Prosciutto will murder you if he ever finds out. Unfortunately for you, the brunette is too strong for you to resist. Horrified panic spreads through your body, and in a burst of almost unnatural energy you shove him away, hands connecting firmly with his chest. You hear a crunch and Illuso gags, blood splattering on your cheeks. In shock, you back away from him, falling out of the wardrobe to slam on the floor. Gathering himself, Illuso wipes his bloody mouth and looks at you with a hungry astonishment you’ve never seen before. His gaze travels to the faint but brightly shining figure behind you. “You’re a stand user.” He says in almost disbelief. Bursting out in a chesty laugh, he says, “Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise! Prosciutto’s going to be furious when he finds out you’ve been hiding this from him.” Dread turns your blood cold. Illuso bends down to your shrinking form on the floor, gazing deep into your eyes. “These little get-togethers are going to have to be more regular if you want me to keep quiet about this.” You feel sick for the rest of the week. Every time Prosciutto holds you close, or brings you gifts or nice things home, you want to throw up. His sweet treatment and the loving nothings he whispers into your ears aren’t going to last long, you just know it. You’ve had no choice but to put up with Illuso’s sly kisses and hands traveling your body in an intimate manner for the last week, and are terrified of being There was only one upside to the changes in your life, locked up as the poor darling of a psychotic Passione member. Your new ability, or ‘stand’ as Illuso had called it, was growing stronger by the day. It was little things that told you. If you were particularly set on lifting a pot from the stove, a rush of strength and euphoria would surge through your body and lifting six kilos of steels would suddenly feel like lifting feathers. Shoving away a couch to dust behind it could be accomplished with your willpower alone, and sometimes in the evening when Illuso slipped into your dark bedroom you felt as if you’d be strong enough to kill him. No, you didn’t just feel it. At this point, you knew you could kill him. Prosciutto too, if you felt like it. You were leaving, and had to do it soon, because you knew you wouldn’t be able to tolerate Illuso nor Prosciutto’s suffocating love and attention for much longer. It wasn’t like Prosciutto was oblivious to the attitude you’d been giving him for the past couple of weeks, as much as you’d tried to hide it. He was a mafia member, he read people’s body language and the expressions that only showed in the very depths of their eyes for a living. He got clingier. “Y/n, talk to me.” “Did you want to go anywhere tonight, y/n? I know you get sick of cooking for us all the time.” “Let’s go shopping y/n. I’ll get you anything you want.” His desperation to keep you hooked on him started showing in ways that weren’t just verbal. He’d stand behind you while you were doing chores, arms wrapped around you tightly. You’d be watching something on the couch and he’d sit next to you and drag you onto his lap, not allowing you to get up for hours upon end while he played with your hair. “Sit.” It had now come to days since you’d last met his steely gaze, and Prosciutto was beginning to notice how you tensed whenever he touched you. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” He asked in a hurt tone. Months ago, your heart would’ve twinged in pain to hear him like this, but now you couldn’t care less. “I want to leave.” You found the words leaving your lips before you could even properly process what you were saying.

“What?” Prosciutto’s voice takes on a violent tone. Quickly you find his towering form looming over you, and some of the old dread you used to feel confronting him rushes through you. But it's too late for that. A burst of adrenaline, a sudden will to live surges through you and the shell shocked expression on Prosciutto's face as he scrambles to summon his stand satisfies some vengeful part of you.

His stand’s claw-like hand grabs your wrist with enough force to make it break, and for a second your arm crumples, but bounces back as if it’s been put in reverse. 

Not letting this deter you, your stand takes the opportunity to end the fight.

Risotto had always known he was less of a saying, more of a doing person. Actions meant more than words to him, and he knew well that often he never had to say anything to get his point across. His height, menacing appearance and obvious power spoke for him. 

What he wanted, he took, you included. He decided the best approach was to show you just how much he loved you. He followed you around, made note of catcallers or people who harassed you on the street, and left their razor-shredded bloody remains in a bag on your doorstep, all for you. He knew you would like to walk home safely.

Just to make absolutely sure there were no threats to you, Risotto begun following you around. This man knows no boundaries when it comes to you, and in his eyes, he’s just looking after what’s his. 

His absolute favourite thing was watching you go about your daily life. Watching you wake up, get food, tolerate the crowded commute from your work/school all while keeping his distance or ordering the rest of La Squadra to tail you was his absolute favourite. Absorbing every little last detail of you with nothing to spare, having your beautiful form under the careful watch of his red and black eyes 24/7 is his idea of paradise.

Once he was tailing you in a crowd, and he watched as a shiver ran down your back and you turned to face him in absolute terror. A rush of absolute hunger and love racked his body as he fought the urge not to annihilate the entire crowd to have you all to himself. 

The rest of his week was spent replaying the few delicious seconds he had of your deer-in-headlights expression.

He was upset when one day Melone ceased his rapid-fire typing on his laptop to address him. 

“Risotto, there was a wanted order issued at the local police station a few hours ago.”

How this could possibly involve him Risotto didn’t know, but he answered Melone anyways. “Yes?”

Fighting back a giggle, Melone answered him. “It’s for stalking a civilian, and it’s your exact description. Over 6 foot, male and with red irises?” Risotto felt a murderous rage surge through his body. He’d done all this for you, protected and showered you in love and this was how you repaid him. As he allowed his emotions to wash over him, he debated over what to do. It wasn’t like the police could do anything anyways, Passione had them dangling on puppet strings.

                        _______________________________________________________

It was late at night, and you were hiding under the shelter of a shop veranda as you waited for it to stop pouring. 

“Excuse me.”

 You heard a deep, course voice behind you. The hairs on your neck stood up and you felt a shiver run down your spine. It suddenly struck you just how close the voice was to you.

How did they get so close? Did I not notice them coming?

You shook your fear away as you forced yourself to face the stranger, and immediately wished you didn’t. It was the exact man you’d rushed to the police station to report, after weeks of him following you. Ever since the stalking had started you hadn’t been able to sleep properly, always petrified with the fear that somewhere he was watching.

Y/n’s instincts were spot on. Risotto had been watching you sleep for the past month.

Craning your neck to look him the eyes, you said, “Yes? Did you need help with anything?” He simply shakes his head.

“What are you doing out here so late?” He asks quietly with a rough, smouldering voice.

“I was just coming home from work/school.” You answer meekly, shocked at how quiet and submissive your voice had become.

“I see. Where are you going?” “I’m sorry? U-uh, just -” “You should be heading home. I’ll walk with you.” Before giving you time to answer, one of his strong muscular arms wrapped around your waist and wheeled you around, walking you in the exact direction of your own home. He smelt metallic and like smoke, the grip of his rough hand on your waist drawing you closer to his side with every step.

“It’s okay, I can walk home by myself.” In a pleading tone you attempt to escape his iron cast grip with no success. 

As if in answer, he slides one hand down your thighs to scoop you up into his arms, your face pressed against his warm muscular chest. In some type of intrigued terror, you realise it’s pointless to struggle against him.

Risotto quietly walks through the rain, saying little, enjoying the feeling of your soft cheek slicked with tears pressed against his chest.

You must’ve fallen asleep, because when you wake, you’re seated at your dinner table and Risotto is dutifully watching a pot simmer on the stove. The beautiful smell reminds you of how hungry you are. 

How did he even let himself in??

Ladling the contents into a bowl, he picks up a spoon and proceeds to spoon feed you your dinner. Humiliated and half asleep, you try to push him away to no avail. 

“Shh,” he says, putting a finger on your lips to silence your protest before lovingly feeding you like you’re a sick child.

By the end of it you’re so scared and confused thin tears are running down your cheeks, and Risotto frowns at the sight of it. 

“You’re probably tired.” he says decidedly. Pressing you against him once again and carrying you to your bedroom, (how come he knows your house so well? Nothing could surprise you at this point.) he undresses you and lays you on the bed, showing obvious signs of restraint, a hot flush rising on his cheeks as he slides you out of your clothes and into your pyjamas.

Before crushing your exhausted body in the iron-cast grip of his arms, he nibbles at your neck whispering sweet nothings.

“Leave this place. Come stay with me. Forever.” he breathes.

What?

It’s too late to argue. He slides a hand across your stomach and brings your form closer into him, making you the little spoon. Sleepily you drink in his body heat, thinking idly that if it could be like this forever, maybe you wouldn’t mind staying with this horrifying man.

Champagne glasses clink, and your fiancé's eyes sparkle in the warm candlelit glow of the expensive Italian restaurant he’d chosen. 

“How’s the food, y/n?” He asks anxiously, eager to please. “I know you have a thing about Italian cooking sometimes, but I hoped this place would be the exception.”

The food was amazing, you had to admit. Even the bad memories that somehow came along with the idea of pasta and your history in Italy were forgotten in the light of this lovely restaurant and the unwavering love of your fiancé. 

“Ma’am?” 

You hadn’t even realised the waiter was standing over your shoulder.

“Oh, my apologies.” You say, turning to face them, but a chill freezes your body when your eyes meet the waiter’s. Something about his sunray-blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes that said I know something you don’t, set you off. Goosebumps rose on your arms.

Did you recognize him from somewhere?

Without breaking the steel-hard eye contact he’d suddenly established, he asked: “Would you like me to refill your champagne glass?”

You and your fiancé sat awkwardly as he pours your champagne, golden liquid fizzing and crackling in crystal glasses.

“Are you engaged?” The waiter suddenly asks you in a low tone, eyeing the sparkling diamond ring on your hand. You find yourself struggling to meet his gaze, the somewhat familiar scent of his cologne making your brain turn to mush.

Overhearing the question, our fiancé beams at the waiter. 

“Yes, and we’re getting married in a week. We thought we’d have the wedding in Venice once we finished our little holiday here,” he says, taking your hand and gazing at you lovingly.

You smile tightly at him, feeling almost as if that was the wrong thing to say.

In a strained voice the waiter replied. “Congratulations, sir.”

The honey-blond moves to collect your plates but with his shaky, veined hands he sweeps your glasses off the table, where they shatter with a delicate tinkling noise.

“I apologise profusely.” He says, placing two new glasses on the table and filling them up with fragrant champagne before cleaning the breakage. With a final steely, desperate glance to your way and a filthy glance at your fiancé, the waiter is on his way.

Gripping your glass extra hard, you try your best to calm yourself.

What about that man was so unsettling? Why did he make your skin crawl?

Choking noises from your finance jerk you out of your thoughts. The couple on the table next to you are screaming for help. With each hacking cough, blood splatters the creamy white tablecloth.

“Y/n,” the love of your life gags. “I love you.”

Tear struck and horrified you rise, knocking back your chair with a crash. The old rush of adrenalin surges your veins, and your body takes on a hot glow as a humanoid form materialises behind your fiancé. Sinking your stand’s abilities deep into him, you search desperately for the poison.

There.

Your stand vaporises the poison and with one final hacking cough he meets your gaze before passing out onto the blood-stained tablecloth. 

“It’s all alright! Just took too big of a mouthful -” You raised your voice for the restaurant. 

A sickening realisation washes over you as you take in the old, wrinkled and raisin looking bodies of everyone in the restaurant, bent over tables or lying lifeless on the floor.

“I missed you.” A deep voice breathes into your ear.

Whirling on the voice and immediately summoning your stand you turn to face the waiter who really wasn’t a waiter at all.

Drinking in your appearance like a man starved, The Grateful Dead standing beside him, is Prosciutto.

The very man you fled Italy from, is here before you once more. 

“Y/n.” He says. “You knew I’d tear apart the entire planet just to find you, and still you keep running. You know no-one will treat you better than me.”

Gesturing at your passed out fiancé with disgust, “This is what you chose over me? He can’t provide for you properly. I can.”

Before you can even blink, The Grateful Dead is clutching your fiancé's body and it ages before your eyes. Wrinkling, shrivelling and then crumbling to dust on the floor as hot tears burn your eyes.

Rough hands cup your cheek and soft lips kiss your forehead.

“Shhh, don’t cry y/n. This is just a necessary evil. You can’t blame me for wanting you all for myself.”

Prosciutto takes a step back. “This is really all your fault. If you didn’t leave me all those years ago, I wouldn’t have had to come and find you here and kill everyone in this restaurant.”

Pull yourself together. 

“What? My fault?”

Astounded, Prosciutto opens his mouth to laugh but before he can breathe a single word your stand’s fist sinks into his jaw and with a gruesome crack his hands fly to his jaw. The Grateful Dead is in your face before you can blink. Feeling your skin sag and raisin, you summon your last dregs of determination to beat the shit out of this stupid stand. Ducking behind a table before the murderous blonde can stand back up, you collect your breath and wonder how the hell you’re going to escape from this restaurant alive. 

It hits you. In the front reception room there should be a phone. 

Who would you call though?

Dread collects in your stomach as you realise that the only person capable of stopping this was you. You’ve have to finish it now, or run from this monster forever.

“Prosciutto!” You scream your lungs raw. “I’m giving you one last chance. Leave me alone, or I’m going to kill you.”

The only reply you can hear is the pained gasps of your stalker from behind a crushed dining table. 

You rise, shattered glass tinkling as it falls off your beautiful evening dress. 

“I’d rather you kill me,” pants the blonde. “If I can’t live a life with you, I really see no point in living at all.”

You feel sick. As horrendous as this mafia member is, it’s disgusting clear how much he loves you. Could you even bring yourself to kill him? His huge clear eyes stared at you with the desperation of a dying puppy, until it became too painful to maintain eye contact with him any longer. 

“Please, y/n-”