#sufficient grounds to conclude it’s about ruby | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

annerly-san · 4 years

Text

Our Happy Ending | Risotto Nero | Chapters 1-7

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862377/chapters/62838787

The warmth aroma of freshly baked bread and the wafting smells of the starting day’s espresso carried itself in the air of Naples.

She inhaled with great vigor before contently letting her breath out with elated content.

It was the smallest things that she appreciated in her life.

Whether it was the sun shining brightly as it peered over the horizon and began its way across the clear blue sky to reach its pinnacle straight above her head, the wind gently ruffling the loose fabric at the hems of her sleeves, or the quiet scratching of pen against paper as she wrote out fantastical stories where she could aptly convey the best imagery and tales that her mind could muster.

A street musician was playing in the background of the patio she sat in.

The server had arrived with a freshly baked cornetto-- a golden brown that shone with the glisten of butter on top-- as well as a cappuccino with a gracefully drawn flower in the foam of the milk.

Her pen inked the final letter of the word she had just finished writing before she allowed for the pen to be set down against the notebook.

Gratefully thanking the waiter, she wrapped the band of the notebook around the cover as to bind its contents neatly together before stowing the book into her bag.

The sensation of light, bubbly foam transitioning to warm, creamy milk and then hot, bitter espresso glided over her palette as she took a sip of her cappuccino. The croissant, not going unattended, was soon picked up, peeled back to reveal its many flaky and steaming layers, and nibbled at.

The solace of this routine gave her an ease of mind as she finished up the last of her breakfast -- leaving her payment on the table before clutching her satchel and heading towards the streets.

She wondered where she would go today.

Perhaps the seashore and the rhythmic clashing of waves could lull her to a new productivity as she put her pen to work on the final chapters of her novel. Or maybe the gentle ambience of a meadow by the orchid of lemon trees and its growing fruits would provide the relaxation to conclude her story with a satisfying end.

Her recent novel about an underdog of a high-crime syndicate working his ends off for his greedy and self-serving superior had been a massive hit with the masses. The most recent book had the gang-member killing his capo in retaliation for the endless bloodshed and crimes that he had stained his hands with by the order of the higher ups.

The story was intense and interlaced with drama and the general reception of the mafia novel had been so well-received that she was urged to write the sequel or a follow-up to the poor man’s tale.

Her mind wandered as she walked down the busy sidewalk-- catching glance of her reflection in a boutique’s window as a strange inspiration struck her.

Maybe she would write to the tale of him returning to his family. A father coming back to see the wife and daughter that he had left behind as a means to keep her safe from the mafia.

The thought prickled at her heart with a gleeful delight and a resonating ache of reflection as she wondered if that was why her father had abandoned her mother so long ago. Her mother had long since passed, but her lips remained still on who her father was and why he had left them. The curiosity of her mind grasped at straws and drew traces in her imagination as she pondered if there was ever a chance she had a father entangled in the mafia.

She found herself smiling happily at the notion and, by extension, the idea of a father leaving his family behind for their safety. The reflection of herself smiled back-- lips parted slightly and turned upwards in a faint smile. But as she stared in the glass, the corner of her eyes noticed a pair of intense red irises surrounded by an obsidian sclera glowing in the background of her reflection.

Alarmed, she turned around.

There was nothing.

Perhaps it was just a figment of her imagination, but she couldn’t not help but feel the quickening pace of her heart and slight shivers running down her back. She turned back to the glass to only see herself and nothing else.

Blinking the remainder of the daydreams from her mind, she turned back to the direction that she was walking in and continued strolling down the street-- telling herself to calm the rapidly growing pace of her heartbeats and the prickling sensation on her back that made her feel like she was being watched.

She found herself at the entrance of an alleyway as she immediately began to panic.

This was one of the furthest places from a shoreline or meadow that she had hoped to be in to continue writing the extension of her novel. In hindsight, the moment she felt some sort of discomfort and indication that she was being followed, she should have immediately gone to a busier place with the police nearby.

She needed to leave.

While she didn’t dare enter the alley, she somehow managed to walk down a more quiet street with less foot traffic. Internally hoping that good luck and fortune would grace her, she turned around only to bump into an invisible force that caused her to stumble backwards from the collision.

She felt herself being dragged into the darkness of the alleyway.

A scream grew in her throat, but before it could leave, a hand almost twice the size of her entire face clamped over her mouth and forced her stumbling backwards in the direction of its force.

Her back was slammed against the brick wall of the building and she felt the stinging press of a thin cold metal at her throat.

A knife.

A jolt of scalding cold blood pulsated through her veins as her body tremored uncontrollably from fear.

The fear that she had hopes to convey in the eloquent words of her novel were nothing compared to the actual reality. No matter how well and fluent she was with her words, they were reduced to simple lines and phrases that bordered on the threshold of incoherency.

“P-please, if it’s money you want-” She looked down at her side and stumbled to grab her wallet from her satchel. “Y-you can have it! P-please! I-I’m just a novelist!”

The blade pressed against her throat with greater pressure as a dull sting broke across the surface of her skin and a disturbing sensation of warm fluid was felt trickling down her neck.

Her eyes pressed shut as she retreated back to feeble resignation of being held at the mercy of her aggressor.

Shuddering and forcing her eyes to pry open, she was met with the eyes of the reaper.

Towering above her, she had to strain her neck at an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes. And those eyes.

Haunting.

A pair of crystalline rubies floating in a pool of endless obsidian.

Eerily beautiful.

Had she not been so initially encaptivated by the intensity of his eyes, its contrasting play of colors that elicited fear and radiated threat, she would have sooner noticed the sharp features of his face. His expression was solemn. Nearly devoid of human emotion to the extent where she would be compelled to believe in tales of demons and grim reapers that were sent to fetch the souls of humans to torment in the afterlife. The grim death glare that he had would have been sufficient on its own to send her into a horrible mess of tears and intelligible pleas for him to just kill her quickly as to not have her suffer whatever amount of torture and torment he was capable of.

But with that ominous look on his face, the overbearing presence that radiated off of him to the point of suffocating her, as well as the knife that was drawing blood from her neck, there was simply too much simulation for her brain to handle.

And as often the case in dangerous situations, the fright, anxiety, pain and shock caused the blood pressure in her body to drop. Combined with the quick intake and exchange of oxygen in her lungs as a result of hyperventilation, she felt light-headed.

There was a sudden brightness that there wasn’t supposed to be in a dark alleyway as the sensation of falling flooded into her senses.

She fainted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~END CHP 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto wasn’t sure what to do with the unconscious woman.

He had the orders to kill her.

But from his judgement, the lady seemed to be a completely innocent civilian.

Was the information incorrect?

The orders from his capo were based on an arguably flimsy correlation. The murder of one of Passione’s capo’s by a lower-ranked gang member that had defected was linked to a similar description in one of the recently published novels about mafia drama.

He was ordered to find the author and eliminate her if she was indeed the culprit that spurred the treacherous deed to fruition.

“...It seems that the two occurences just happened to be coincidental.”

He examined her. Having caught her right before she crumpled to the ground and saving her from a potential concussion from hitting her head on the concrete floor.

Risotto made sure to scrutinize her carefully.

There wasn’t a trace of violence or ill-will evident. The way that she passed out at the slightest threat and his appearance was also proof that she had no prior exposure to violence or threats of any kind.

It was either she had no hand in the betrayal and murder of one of Passione’s capos, or she did play a part-- but was unaware.

While the members of Passione were ordered to avoid civilian casualties the best they could-- and Risotto would rather not kill an innocent civilian unless he was forced to-- the prospect of her potentially involved in the capo’s death made him lean towards the choice of gathering more information on her before doing anything decisive.

He took ahold of her a little better-- easily picking her up and holding her body to rest horizontally in his arms. Using Metallica to attract microscopic iron filaments in the surrounding alleyway, he cloaked the both of them in iron to conceal their visible presence before heading off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a dull ache that awoke her.

Her limbs felt weak and she had a strange shake in her hands. There was little to no energy left in her.

Adjusting her eyes and blinking a few times to clear them of the foggy layer that had obscured their vision, she made out her surroundings.

She was resting on a bed in what seemed to be an apartment room. She tried to sit up.

“You’re awake.”

The abrupt sound of a low and deep voice startled her as she yelped in surprise only to flinch at the sudden pain in her neck.

“The cut isn’t deep, but you should be fine,” the voice continued. “I’ve cleaned it and wrapped it already for you.”

She was suddenly aware of the gauze wrapped around her throat as her fingers gingerly touched the wrapping as her stomach sank.

The prickling sensation of eyes staring into her back was present again. There was a reluctance to verify the identity of the person that was speaking to her.

That timbre. That cold tone. It was unfamiliar to her, but she had an inkling as to who it belonged to.

She forced herself to turn around and look at her reaper in the eyes.

There were those eyes again. The eyes were considered the windows to the soul and often the first place where people would focus their attention when they stared at someone’s face for the first time.

Those brilliant red and black eyes tantalized her with coinciding emotions of crippling fear as well as dangerous curiosity.

Her abductor leaned against the wall by the windowsill locking eye contact with her.

She was surprised that she could still speak.

“D-did you need something from me?”

She wasn’t sure if she imagined the slightest quirk of his lips into a smile.

“That’s the first thing you choose to ask?”

She wasn’t sure how to respond, but it didn’t seem that he was expecting an answer from her.

“I want you to write a story for me.”

If he had not taken ahold of her fear and attention by suddenly approaching the bedside to place himself close to her, she would have questioned the absurdity of his request.

Before she had the time to inquire, he already continued speaking.

“What do you need to write? I’d like for you to have it done for me by… tomorrow morning. Does that sound fair? It can be a short story” He seemed to be freely speaking now. The words flowed from his lips naturally as it swayed in sync with his thoughts. “Can you write the story exactly how I ask for it? I want it to be about someone. And I want something very specific to happen to this man in your work.”

She didn’t register his hands enveloping hers as he placed a pen and notebook in her hands.

Going purely off of the texture, size and feel of the items, these weren’t hers.

Where did he put them?

The pen had fallen out of her hand, bouncing off the bed and rolling to a halt on the floor. She was shaking too much it seemed.

He let out an almost silent sigh before picking it up for her.

“I won’t hurt you.” His voice made her shiver. His voice was gruff, low and deep. It made the ribs in her chest vibrate with each syllable that he enunciated. “But I need you to do this for me. I also can’t have you go anywhere until you finish either.”

Those intense eyes captured hers again.

She wasn’t sure how to interpret the emotions in his eyes. Was there sincerity? A sign that she could trust him to his words?

The endless black voids of his eyes answered with nothing.

She looked at the pen he held out for her and took in carefully.

This was a compromised situation.

If she did as she was told, it could only increase the percentage of her leaving unscathed. But that didn’t necessarily mean that she was given an absolute guarantee either.

She cautiously uncapped the pen and tried to stabilize her hand over the notebook. The pen pressed against the paper-- leaving a pooling circle of ink on the otherwise pristinely clean page.

She inhaled sharply before letting in an uneven exhale.

Looking at him, she mustered the courage to ask.

“W-who is this person I’m writing about…?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto had phoned Melone and Ghiaccio to uncover more information on the woman before he decided his next course of action.

“She’s a civilian. It doesn’t seem that she’s even remotely aware of Passione, much less the capo’s death,” Risotto reported. “Can you provide me any other information?”

The results were interesting.

The novel that the woman had published was written a good amount of time before the capo’s murder which could only mean that the only possible link would be that the defector took inspiration from the novel a month after it was published and took to betraying the gang.

She was also blood-related to a higher-ranked official of Passione that had passed away a couple of years ago during a drug deal heist. There was no motive that could have spurred her to create discord within the organization.

Risotto hung up.

He’s come across something valuable. He only needed to affirm it.

Walking back into the bedroom of the apartment that he had reserved for instances of missions such as this, he took a quick glance at the bed to see that the woman was still out cold.

Arriving at the nightstand, he cleared away the roll of gauze, scissors, and antiseptic before taking note of the woman’s satchel which he had set on the floor earlier.

Opening it, he noticed the notebook which seemed to be her journal of notes, stories and excerpts that she wrote in.

The outlines were detailed; it listed everything from the characters relationships to symbolism to plot development and even chapter to chapter layout.

He noticed the small movements on the bed-- an indication that she was stirring closer to consciousness. Risotto quickly stashed the notebook away. He would look through it at his leisure later.

As she began to stir awake, he began to ponder the various prospects of her ability.

A novel that correlated to a gang member’s betrayal. A blood relation to a potential stand user.

He needed to test her abilities and confirm it for himself.

Watching her stumble to sit herself up and look around, he leaned against the wall-- spectating with mild amusement. The look of horror in her eyes as she met his, the fumbling of her words as she asked him what he needed something from her made him, and the nervous fidget of her fingers gripping for the comfort of something that wasn’t there drew out the rarest and faintest of smiles from him.

“I want you to write a story for me.”

He would test his theory.

There was a pending assignment for the assasination of a politician that had been lobbying for certain policies that would levy power against Passione. This was a perfect opportunity.

He found a pen and empty notebook on the shelf nearby and handed it to her-- watching as she took it in shaky hands.

She dropped it.

He would need to be a little more careful when speaking to her.

The intimidation that he was so used to pressuring on others always served him well in this field of work. This was probably the first time that it happened to put him at a disadvantage.

Risotto let out a soft sigh as he picked up the pen and placed it in her hands.

“I won’t hurt you.” Given how their first encounter played out, he didn’t place blame on the high amount of guard and caution she put up to defend against him. He tried to soften his tone. “But I need you to do this for me. I also can’t have you go anywhere until you finish either.” He stared at her in the eyes, internally commending her for her ability to hold his rather daunting gaze.

He noted the way she tried to steady her hands almost feeling some penance of guilt for putting her in such a compromised situation.

But he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride and satisfaction for her as she looked straight at him and asked, “Who is this person I’m writing about?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She never liked politics in the first place.

The name of the protagonist that her abductor wanted her to write about sounded familiar, but she wasn’t in touch with the exact details of his office or campaign.

“Have him die of a heart attack or something.” He had told her. “Car accident, anything really…”

The pen was making a trail of flowing ink on her paper as she thought.

She sat at a desk with pen in hand and a blank notebook opened and resting in front of her. Her kidnapper sat in a chair by her side as to watch her write.

Her mind was semi-occupied as to why this man had specifically requested this story of her, and the other part of her mind, the writer’s imagination, wondered how the politician should die, what death he deserved and how to play it out.

Maybe the man hated this politician. Psychologically, a method of coping is to simply project your more unacceptable wishes and desires into other mediums such as art or writing in order to create some sense of ease to cope with an unfair reality.

Regardless of his reason, she was asked to write.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request to demand of her.

“What does he look like?”

Her abductor raised an eyebrow before pulling out a photo and handing it to her.

The image was that of a man in his early thirties with bright eyes and a wide smile. Dressed in a plain dress shirt, he seemed to be in the middle of a political rally lobbying for the good of the common folk.

“...he looks like a nice person…” she commented to no one but herself.

“Does he now?”

She almost forgot that he was there and dropped the image in surprise. The paper floated down and landed against the notebook, and she left it there for reference.

“He doesn’t seem like the type of person that would have a lot of enemies…” she pondered as she stared at the fallen photograph on the desk. She had already immersed herself into thought and paid no heed to the intent onlook of the man at her side.

“What if he got poisoned? Who would poison him? A political rival?” she began to mutter to herself. “But that wouldn’t make for an interesting story, don’t you think? What if he got murdered by someone who didn’t support his campaign?” Her pen met contact on the paper as words slowly started to appear with each loop of her hand.

Unintentionally, her thought processes ran too close to reality. A large hand had grabbed hers preventing her from writing any further.

“No.”

Despite being startled by the sudden interjection, the grip on her pen and the stability of her hand floating above the paper did not falter.

“I-I’m sorry?”

His gaze was unreadable. Despite his overbearing strength and ability to snap her wrist with ease, the hold on her hand was surprisingly more gentle than what she thought he could be capable of.

“Don’t make it a murder. An accident. Do something like that.”

“B-but-” she wasn’t sure what compelled her to fortify her mental resilience to dispute him.

“But?” He didn’t seem to mind the pushback against his commands. She interpreted the slight tilt of his head and the relinquish of his grip on her wrist as an unspoken urge for her to continue.

“...That won’t make for an interesting story…”

He laughed.

She felt her face redden. It was unclear as to whether that could solely be attributed to embarrassment. He had a low pitch laugh that seemed to reverberate in his chest.

The sound caught her breath.

“W-what’s so funny about wanting to write something interesting?” she mumbled to herself. She placed her pen down and placed her balled-up hands down on the desk. “I’m an author after all...”

He let out a couple more chuckles before picking her pen with one hand and her hand with the other. Carefully uncurling her fingers and setting the pen in he asked, “Why don’t we come up with an interesting way to kill him together, hm?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found her intriguing.

“What if you made him jump off a building?” This was the tenth suggestion that he had made for her so far.

The utter look of dissatisfaction that she gave him was enough to make him chuckle again. When was the last time he managed to laugh like this?

“...that’s it? ...you’re unbelievably boring…”

He raised an eyebrow at the whispered comment.

“I’m boring?”

She must have not meant for him to hear that as she flusteredly denied her words and stated that she’ll write about a politician jumping out from the twentieth story of a building.

Risotto grabbed her wrist again.

“How would you go about killing him then?” he asked.

“W-well. I just think that there should be a reason-” her words came out in a stammer. “M-maybe I’d make him drink a little too much and get into a car accident.” The nervousness was out of her tone now. “He kills an innocent pedestrian which makes him lose his favor with the public.” She had turned towards him with a inquisitive look in her eyes-- seeking his opinion. “He then spirals into despair, and flings himself off of the tallest building he could enter! What do you think?”

There was a strange, but alluring, sparkle in her eyes as she poured forth her imagination and ideas to him. He gave her a rare smile.

“I think it’s great.”

The corners of her lips turned upwards into a wide smile expressing her joy. She made a content hum of agreement as turned back to the desk and immediately began to write-- completely immersed in her own world.

Risotto left her to work. The scratching of pen against paper filled the room as he left quietly so as to not disturb her.

She had an endearing smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She didn’t notice the blanket on her shoulders at first as she stirred awake. It slid off and pooled around her waist as she sat up straight on her chair, wiping the drool that had pooled down her cheek while she was sleeping.

Her neck and back ached. It was an all-too-familiar sensation of the times she fell into a trance of high concentration and wrote until her head hit the table from pure sleepiness and exhaustion.

The door creak helped pull her from the morning grogginess and daze.

She blinked a few times at the man who stood in the doorway-- taking a few moments to recollect the events of yesterday.

He walked over towards her, setting down a plate of pastries on the table.

“I-It’s finished-” she began as she picked up the several sheets of paper covered with her writing on it. The last page, which she had denoted with an elegant print of the word ‘finish’, was taken from the top of the stack and neatly placed at the bottom and handed over.

“Thank you.” He gratefully took the story and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. “I brought you breakfast. Eat up.”

“T-thanks.” She picked up a blueberry lemon scone with large crystals of sugar baked into the top and took a bite. The refreshing combination of tart lemon and sweet blueberries tingled in her mouth as she watched him read her work with an intense interest.

She watched the rise and fall of his breaths as he read. Those crimson irises moved back and forth in his dark shadowy sclera as they traced over the lines of her words. She watched as he would raise a brow or quirk his lips as he reached the different parts or climatic events of her work.

The blueberry lemon scone, as delicious as it was, was deprived of her attention as she was solely focused on him reading each penned word.

She watched as he arrived at the last page; eyes lingering on the final word before he shuffled the papers back in order and looked up at her.

“Thank you for this. It was very well written.” His voice was soft, as if he was careful to not break the comfortable lull of silence they had between the both of them.

The praise gave birth to a warm blossom in her chest as elation filled her heart and lungs.

“I’m glad to deliver,” she spoke with a smile.

He captured her attention with his eyes as he leaned in and asked, “Can I ask for you to stay here for a couple more days?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She thought that she would be able to leave by now.

After he had finished reading her work, he keeped content with what she had produced and didn’t ask for her to write anything more.

The two of them sat at the dining table in silence as she drank her coffee and ate the rest of her scone. He sat across from her reading her most recent novel-- the one about the underdog in the mafia killing his boss. He was close to the end; the book was probably already started on before he had gone to abduct her that day.

Did he kidnap her because he liked her work?

Her mind tried to grasp at any reason without regard to how flimsy the logic was. Why else did he simply kidnap her to write a story for him? There wasn’t any further attempt to maim, hurt or kill her. In fact, he seemed to be extremely civil once she agreed to his request to write him a story of his choosing.

She took a sip from her coffee again as her mind wandered off.

“What happened to him at the end?”

She looked up to see that he had already finished the novel. He was a quick reader.

The tone was inquisitive. She smiled.

“What do you think happened to him?” she asked him back.

He scoffed. “The likelihood of him being hunted down for killing his capo and brutally killed is nearly a hundred percent.” The book cover closed shut with a soft thud. He set it on the table and slid it towards her.

She let herself smile at his immediate response grounded in reality with no leeway for creative freedom. “But that’d be boring, don’t you think?”

“You say that a lot,” he mused.

A faint smile was barely visible on his lips. She couldn’t help her mind from wandering about what his own story was to lead him here today.

It was contagious. She couldn’t help but follow in his steps as her smile widened further.

“But wouldn’t you agree? As close to the truth as reality would have it, a story -- with its infinestinal possibilities that extend beyond the scopes of the real world-- should be interesting!” She waved both hands up to exaggerate her point. “If we can’t live out the dreams that we seek in reality, shouldn’t we at least be able to escape to a world of our creation and mold it however we wish? And that world should be at least interesting!”

She was proud of her speech. It was rare that she could verbally string together words and convey herself beyond the medium of pen and paper.

Her listener was watching her with interest and she felt even more pride swell up in the fact that she managed to provide enough entertainment for him to continue smiling.

“That makes a lot of sense,” he contemplated. She noticed the mild distraction in his eyes as he seemed to be speaking to a different matter.

She let out a sigh, picking at the last of her scone.

“My editor told me to write a sequel for him… I don’t want to do that at first… I always like to leave the endings up for interpretation by the readers. Did he get caught? Did he escape? No one knows, and therefore anything could happen.”

She noticed the small shift in his attention. He seemed to be pondering something.

He finally looked up at her after some time, capturing her attention with those hauntingly alluring eyes. Lips parted, his low voice smoothly articulated his next few words.

“Can I ask you to write another story for me?”

She was surprised that her kidnapper-- an intimidating, gigantic man with red and black eyes-- could come up with something of this caliber.

He sat next to her as he told her about each character to write about.

“Formaggio. He has a buzz cut. Short guy.” His large hands almost entirely enveloped the pen she was holding as he drew a -- shockingly good-- sketch of a man with an easy going smirk on his face.

“His name is Formaggio...?” She wondered how he decided to name someone after cheese. He was more creative and less boring than what she had originally given him credit for.

He continued. “This one is Melone.” He drew a man wearing a transparent mask covering his right eye and his tongue deviously sticking out. “He’s… interesting… says ‘Di Molto’ a lot.”

She resisted the urge to laugh when he was trying so hard to draw and explain these characters to her.

“Ghiaccio… short-tempered… has a problem with metaphors and analogies and gets angry when he takes them too literally…”

She listened attentively as he continued to draw and explain the various cast of characters that he wanted her to write about.

There was Pesci, Prosciutto, Gelato, Sorbet, Illuso, Formaggio, Melone, and Ghiaccio. She found the description of them to be very endearing.

“What would you like for them to do?”

There was a pause as he seemed to gather his thoughts.

“I want you to write a story where they find the man in your novel.” He seemed to want a short one-shot story on the capture of her previous protagonist.

“Ahahaha! How could you ask me to kill my other character off like that?” She burst into laughter as he spoke of his request. “Ok, ok! I’ll do it.”

It’s been awhile since she wrote a more light-hearted comedical piece. This was a good change of pace. There were apparently some fantastical elements that he wished to capture as well. Using a power called “a stand”, each character had their own stand which they could utilize to get the job done. She was told in detail how each of the powers worked.

He stared at her intently as she took notes.

As she neared the end of her complex web of story mapping and outlines, she felt a small poke at her shoulder.

“When they’re done with the job, maybe their boss can give them a raise.”

The pen twirled around in her fingers as she chuckled. “They did do a good job-” The tip of the pen met the surface of the paper again as it was noted down. “But what would they do with the extra money?”

The man beside her was silent. Taking a glance at him, she noticed he looked a little abashed as he mumbled, “...maybe they can get their leader a present.”

She laughed at the unexpected answer. “Which one’s the leader? Is it Prosciutto? Ghiaccio?” She was ready to have the team get a solid gold nameplate embossed with ‘Best Leader’.

She looked at him for an answer.

It was interesting to see him get a bit flustered as he avoided her inquiring eyes.

“...Just have them stop complaining and fighting for a week or two after they get the raise…”

She couldn’t suppress her mirth as she grinned widely and giggled to herself-- writing down that the team would celebrate their pay raise, giving their leader his much deserved credit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 5 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man who caused this entire situation to unfold was still on the run.

No one was able to catch him.

After reading the novel and asking the author of the man’s situation once the deed was done, it all made sense.

A day or two after Risotto had asked her to write on the politician’s death, everything played out in the exact manner of the story she wrote.

He was dumbfounded.

It was good foresight on his end to have her stay in the apartment for a little while longer while he confirmed his theories.

He took a deep breath.

The ability to change reality based on writing… It was a formidable power.

It was a power that he should keep to himself as leverage against his enemies down the road-- especially since no one else knew of her ability aside from him.

It was an hour after dawn broke and Risotto knew that she would still be sleeping in from staying awake all night on the story he commissioned from her.

It gave him enough time to do several things.

Upon giving orders to the rest of the team to chase after the man who had killed the capo, Risotto left the base to pick up a few items before proceeding to the apartment.

Passing by the bakery, he picked up a variety of pastries-- specifically asking for blueberry lemon scones. His eyes caught the shining glint of a gold and black metal pen with red crystals in it on display at a store and decided to purchase it on impulse. He asked for it to be wrapped nicely and tucked it into the bottom of his bag where it would be safe and secure for the rest of his trip. Right before he left the shopping district, he picked up a small bag of freshly ground espresso to bring back to brew.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive at the apartment.

Unlocking the door as quietly as he could, the slight creak of the door was unavoidable as he stepped inside.

He set the bags on the dining table before taking a quick peek into the bedroom.

She was asleep in the chair again.

Her face was completely flush against the table with her hand still somehow clutching the pen upright.

Risotto let out a small sigh as he walked over towards her and removed the pen from her grip.

Carefully, he picked her up and placed her on the bed-- pulling a blanket over her as she snoozed through the entire operation.

He walked over to the table and rearranged the papers and tools.

The story seemed finished.

A curiosity and rare excitement filled him as his eyes lingered on the papers that he had rearranged and set nicely on the table.

He shook his head.

He can wait.

Risotto made sure that she was comfortable in the bed before he headed back out to the dining room.

She was out for another two or three hours, and it gave Risotto enough time to run out again and grab some groceries to fill the fridge with.

Since she couldn’t leave the apartment, he asked her what kinds of food she liked so he could at least bring her some sustenance and not leave her to starve to death.

She had told him that she liked to make pasta; it was like making a story since the process is the same but you could make as many dishes as you want by simply changing the ingredients, sauce and pasta shape.

He bought around five different types of pasta.

Arriving back home, he started to begin brewing coffee as he heard her begin to move about in the other room.

He started to put all of the produce away and laid out breakfast on the table for her in anticipation for when she came out.

As he began to put the bags away, he realized that he had left the gift-wrapped pen at the bottom of one of the bags completely forgotten.

He tucked it away in one of his hidden pockets, making a mental note to remember to take it out and give it to her before he left.

She walked into the dining room trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morninggg-” she droned as she stumbled towards her chair at the table.

“Good morning,” Risotto greeted back.

“Oh, a scone! A blueberry lemon scone!” She picked up the scone that he had set out on a plate for her and watched her take a bite at it. “M-mhm! My favorite…”

Risotto let himself smile as he walked over with a just-brewed, hot cup of espresso. “Here. To wake you up.”

The cup was eagerly taken with much gratitude and sipped from. A few blinks of her eyes restored her full consciousness.

“Oh, thank you!” she hummed.

She had warmed up to him considerably in the past couple of days. Given how he had abducted her from the normalcy of her life, wounded her in the process, made her follow through with his requests and refused to let her go home, he was surprised with her more friendly and easy-going behavior.

“Oh, the story you wanted is done!” She got up from her chair and rushed back to the bedroom-- emerging only seconds later with the stack of papers that Risotto had cleaned up for her earlier.

He was handed the pages with an eager look of anticipation. She sat down at the table and picked up her coffee cup again; her eyes didn’t leave his as she seemed to sit at the edge of her seat, waiting for his reactions as he started to read the words she wrote for him.

Risotto rarely laughed.

These past few days were interesting as he found himself letting his more scarce emotions show.

Her story made him laugh several times.

The way that she happened to depict each one of his team members impeccably down to their smallest habits or features made him feel as though he had been by their side watching them bicker in the moments before they stumbled into the man they sought to capture.

It wasn’t before long that he had found himself deep into the fantastical world of writing that she had written; his mind let go of his surroundings for the first time as he completely immersed himself following his men through their journey.

There was a slight frustration at the end when his eyes reached the clean print of ‘finish’ at the bottom of the last page.

His eyes narrowed and he let out a sharp breath.

“U-um-”

Risotto didn’t notice the attempt to grab his attention at first as his eyes began to flip back through the story for a second time.

“U-uh, Signore-?” She was fumbling with her words, but Risotto’s attention was solely focused on the print of the pages. It wasn’t until he heard a small squeak and a slightly louder voice call for him that he realized that she was attempting to get his attention.

“Mr. Kidnapper?”

He quirked his eyebrows at the title she had given him as he looked up to see the interesting expression on her face. Risotto couldn’t suppress the coy smile that grew on his.

Was that what she decided to call him?

In all fairness, he never did once tell her his name. And he did indeed kidnap her.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat before he set the papers down to lock eyes with her.

“Risotto.” He watched as her eyes widened and she tilted her head just the slightest bit. “My name is Risotto.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were a few times in her life that she was left speechless and without the constant distraction of her mind running amok with how to phrase, describe or speak of certain things that happened around her.

This was one of those times.

Her kidnapper typically would read her story and comment on certain things after he finished reading-- providing her a great joy in how he would relay his appreciation of certain characters, plot choices and decisions she made throughout the work.

Perhaps the singular instance of his feedback on her work, a rare instance in which her reader would tell her their thoughts on the story, made her feel needy to garner his thoughts immediately after he read it.

To her mild horror, he didn’t say anything and started to re-read through her pages again.

She knew that this man didn’t express much emotions, so she took immense joy at the instances in which he would let out a small chuckle or show the faintest smile on his lips.

The chair must have turned into pins and needles as she watched the very evident dissatisfaction and annoyance grow on his face near the end of the last page; he had immediately turned the page over and started to re-read the entire thing again.

“U-um-” She wanted to ask him what was wrong.

Did she write an unsatisfactory ending? Was there something that he didn’t like?

Her anxiety spun uncontrollably as the mere thought of him being dissatisfied made her stomach uncomfortable as she could nearly feel the blueberries and coffee churn in the pit of her abdomen.

“U-uh, Signore?” She tried to get his attention again. She could feel the trembles and shivers of anxiousness manifesting itself in physical form as she failed to get him to respond to her yet again.

He didn’t tell her his name. How was she to call for him.

Without thinking too much, she said the most immediate thing that came to her mind.

“Mr. Kidnapper?”

He finally looked up at her.

Did that actually make him respond to her. A mixture of shock, embarrassment and satisfaction at finally getting him to look up must have made for the world’s most silly face.

The small upturn of his lips into a coy smile and the tilt of his eyebrow in mild amusement obliterated any coherent thought from her mind as her ears were enveloped with the sudden thundering of her heart.

The low chuckle that resonated in the silent room sent radiating shivers down her spine.

To her, it seemed like an eternity before he decided to speak.

“Risotto.”

Risotto? Her eyes widened and her head tilted in mild confusion.

“My name is Risotto,” she heard him speak again.

“R-risotto,” she felt his name annunciate on her tongue.

He smiled at her-- interlacing his fingers in front of him as he leaned in slightly towards her. “Yes?”

Despite her lips moving to mouth the words she wanted to speak, her voice came out unsteady and the only thing that could be heard was a jumble of mumbles and stammers that lack comprehensible composition.

“It was a good story.” He seemed to already know what she wanted to ask. “I thought that there would be more to the end, that’s all.”

Ah, so that was it.

She was still flustered. Her cheeks were still hot as she marinated and stewed her emotions.

Tucked away in a corner of her notebook was a small blurb for the story’s ending. She had left it out of the sheets of the story that she had presented, but wrote it to give her some amount of closure and peace of mind.

Walking back to the bedroom and finding the folded sheet of paper that she had tucked away in the nightstand, she handed it to him shyly.

The change in his expressions were encaptivating as he saw his eyes glimmer with faint amusement when he took the paper from her.

But before he had the chance to open it and read the contents, his phone rang.

She watched as he quickly stood up and left the room to answer it, slightly bothered by the postponement of watching him read and react.

She barely heard his voice in the other room, but it didn’t seem as though he spoke much. He soon came back.

“I have something to attend to, but I’ll be back to check up on you in the evening.”

There was a slight disappointment that befell her as she felt an irksome prickle in her chest that closely resembled annoyance.

“O-oh ok-”

“Do you need anything? I brought you some groceries earlier this morning, but if you want, I can get you whatever else you’d like.”

He had put his phone away and was preparing to depart.

A small portion of her mind wanted to ask him if she was allowed to go home finally, but there was a strange reluctance to form that thought into words.

“N-no, I’m alright. Thank you,” she managed to say instead.

She watched as he made his way towards the door-- an uncomfortable feeling clenched at her chest.

“Ah.” His grip on the door knob slackened as he turned around to face her. “I almost forgot this.”

Reaching into a nearly unnoticeable pocket on his coat, he pulled out a meticulously wrapped parcel and held it out for her.

“I got you this.”

Her eyes widened as she took the gift into her hands with pleasant surprise.

“O-oh! T-Thank you.”

He smiled before turning back around and closing the door shut behind him.

There was almost no time for her to react otherwise.

She stood there for a few moments, simply staring at the door before she was brought back to reality.

A smile found itself onto her face as she clutched the box fondly.

She wondered what he got her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 6 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto was surprised to get the call from Ghiaccio telling him that they managed to catch the guy.

He had just read the story detailing their mission just moments prior and was shocked at how quick the execution was.

“AND WE FINALLY GOT THAT FUCKIN’ PAY RAISE-!” he heard Ghiaccio scream to him over the phone. “IT’S ABOUT TIME WE GOT SOME FUCKIN’ RECOGNITION FOR ALL OF THE FUCKIN’ WORK WE DO!”

Risotto had to hold the phone several centimeters away from his ear to avoid going deaf as he continued to listen to Ghiaccio explain the success of them being able to trace down the traitor. The boss, surprised that the team had gone out of their own accord to hunt down the traitor for him, wired a good sum of money straight into the team’s account alongside an email expressing his thanks.

Risotto was sure that good fortune such as this would have never graced them if he had not an external force in play.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” was his response.

He hung up the phone and made his way back into the dining room area where he saw her anxiously looking at him to ascertain the situation.

“I have something to attend to, but I’ll be back to check up on you in the evening.” He avoided looking at her and kept his words brief.

The cold and calculating side of him spoke words of reassurance that he didn’t need to feel anything for tricking her into doing stuff like this for him. She would technically be dead by now if it weren’t for him.

But those words did nothing to console him as a strange guilt rooted itself in his mind.

Her stuttered words imbued with confusion nagged at a conscience that he had thought he lost many years ago.

He found himself with his hand on the door and ready to leave before he knew it.

Right as he began to turn the knob, he could feel the slight press of a box against his leg.

Her present.

“Ah. I forgot this,” he muttered to himself. He let go of the doorknob and pulled the present out from his pocket. “I got you this.”

He watched as her expression morphed into appreciation and gratitude as she took it from him-- happiness evident on her face.

Risotto felt a smile unconsciously manifest onto his face. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t stick around for too much longer.

He opened the front door and left.

He watched as his men cheered and celebrated around the center table.

Risotto had taken out the whisky-- pouring it into the rarely used glass cups that was only taken out for extremely special occasions.

“Let’s make a toast to celebrate our achievements today.”

Glasses were raised as everyone took a swig of the strong alcohol.

“Pesci, Pesci, Pesci, you got to learn how to drink.” “I’m sorry, bro!” Pesci was already queasy when he took the first sip and Prosciutto was already criticizing him for it. “It burns my throat…”

Formaggio laughed as he pat Prosciutto on the shoulder. “Cmon, don’t give Pesci a hard time! We’re supposed to be happy! It’s a celebration!” He was on his second cup already and had gotten twice as loud in his festivities.

Prosciutto sighed as he leaned back against the couch, leaving Pesci to swirl his cup around and watch the amber drink race around the clear glass.

“Fine.” He ran his hand through his blonde hair, careful to not undo and mess up the tight braids that held his hair neatly back. “This is a rare celebration. To think that we were the ones that caught the bastard…”

“Right?” Illuso smirked as he leaned forward to input his fair share of the gossip. “All the other teams that the boss sent couldn’t catch the guy. But we-” he put heavy emphasis on the ‘we’. “We did.”

“OF COURSE WE DID!” Ghiaccio slammed down his glass on the table. “WE’RE BETTER THAN ALL OF THOSE OTHER BASTARDS! WE’RE THE HITMAN TEAM! THE BOSS SHOULD HAVE SENT FIRST!”

“That is our job, after all,” Sorbet mused as he poured Gelato some more whiskey. “I don’t know why he chose to send every other team besides us?”

“He doesn’t trust us, probably,” came Gelato’s begrudging answer. The lighter haired man stared at the whiskey in his glass with distaste. “This turn of events definitely helped us though.”

“Wouldn’t that mean Risotto telling us to go catch the guy was rather risky on his part then?” Melone mused as he reclined back in his seat.

Suddenly all eyes were on him.

Risotto took a sip of the whiskey in his glass and didn’t answer.

He couldn’t tell them that he made things play out in this exact fashion. He had already sent them out to gather information on the man yesterday afternoon before he had even commissioned the story. From having the man successfully evade the other teams that the boss had sent, giving Risotto the ability to gain permission from the boss to send in his team, and having his team flawlessly capture the target leaving the boss completely satisfied with the work done, everything played out perfectly.

He smirked as he pondered over the thoughts.

His team took that for an answer as they all looked at him in awe.

He knew that he had his secret little author to attribute this success to. Risotto would get her something nice later.

Speaking of which, despite thoroughly enjoying the celebration of his team’s success, he wanted to get back to her as soon as possible.

He excused himself from the room and proceeded up to his office to finish up some paperwork before heading off.

He entered the office quietly, noting that there was something on his desk for him.

It was a small, wrapped parcel waiting for him on his desk, and he wondered if one of his men had left it there.

Unwrapping the parcel, he was met with the sight of a mahogany name plate with the words, ‘Best Leader’ embossed on the gold plate.

Risotto let out a perplexed chuckle wondering if this event had any correlation to the writings that had essentially dictated his day thus far.

Pulling the small sheet of paper out from his coat and unfurling it, he looked down at the neat print of the paper tucked in his hands and read:

‘Together, the team put together their funds and before their leader arrived back at base, they placed their present on his desk for him. In the best wrapping job that they could muster, the nameplate that they had picked out for him to commemorate their success. This would be the one of their first steps in attaining the respect that they deserved.’

Risotto smiled as he tucked the paper away and arranged the nameplate to a good spot on his desk.

“You could have had them just shut up for a week,” he mused.

~~~~~~~~ END CHP 7 ~~~~~~~~~~

#Risotto Nero #jjba fanfic

6 notes · View notes