Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The panic room doesn’t have a sense of time.

No windows. No shifting light. Just the low hum of reinforced walls and the soft glow of artificial lamps that never quite dim, never quite brighten. It’s a space designed for survival, not comfort.

And yet, Giorno made sure you had both.

A bed that actually felt like one. Clean clothes. Books. A radio. Small luxuries that felt almost out of place in a room built to withstand betrayal. Mista came and went like clockwork, bringing food, updates when he could, and, most importantly, letters.

Always letters.

You sit on the edge of the bed now, one of them unfolded in your hands, the paper softened at the creases from how many times you’ve reread it.

Amore mio,
Progress is being made. I have identified inconsistencies in the testimonies against you.
Stay where you are. Stay safe. I will come for you soon.
—G

Your fingers trace the ink absently.

Soon.

He always writes that.

You exhale, leaning back slightly, staring at the ceiling. The room feels smaller today. Or maybe it’s just you, restless, pacing more than sitting, thinking too much.

You haven’t seen him since that night.

Not his face. Not his hands. Not the way his voice drops when he says your name like it means something more than just a word.

Only ink.

Only paper and promises.

A soft knock breaks the silence, two quick taps, then one slower, Mista’s pattern.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it.

The door unlocks with a heavy, mechanical click, and Mista slips inside like he always does, casual, but careful. He carries a bag in one hand and an envelope in the other.

“There she is,” he says, flashing you a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still alive. Still not murdering the furniture. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of relief in your chest. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, kicking the door shut behind him. “Blame your fiancé. Guy’s been running me all over Italy like I’m his personal courier service.”

Your gaze locks immediately onto the envelope.

Mista notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he says, holding it up just out of reach for a second longer than necessary. “You’ll get it. He’s alive. He’s not dead in a ditch. Still obsessed with you. Same as always.”

You snatch it from him the second he lets go.

He laughs under his breath, dropping the bag onto the small table. “You’re worse than him, you know that?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re already opening it.

The handwriting is the same, precise, controlled, unmistakably his.

Amore mio,
The situation is nearing resolution.
The individual who accused you has revealed more than he intended. I have confirmed his connection to the remnants of Cioccolata’s network. His motive was strategic; removing you destabilizes me. Or so he believed.
He underestimated us.

Your grip tightens slightly on the page.

Mista has informed me that you are… restless. I expected as much.
I do not like keeping you hidden. But I would rather endure your anger than risk your life.
Soon, Y/N. This ends soon.
—G

You lower the letter slowly.

Mista watches you from across the room, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. “He’s close,” he says more quietly now. “Closer than he’s been.”

You nod, but it doesn’t quite settle the unease crawling under your skin.

“I know,” you murmur. 

But close isn’t here.

Close doesn’t fill the space beside you at night.
Close doesn’t replace the sound of his voice.
Close doesn’t stop the way your thoughts spiral when the room gets too quiet.

You fold the letter carefully, almost ritualistically, before setting it aside with the others.

“How much longer?” you ask.

Mista shrugs. “If I had to guess? Not long. Giorno doesn’t drag things out once he’s sure.”

You huff a quiet breath, pacing once across the room before turning back. “I’m going to lose my mind in here before he finishes.”

“Yeah,” Mista says dryly. “Welcome to being under protection. It sucks.”

You stop, arms crossing.

“I should be out there helping him,” you mutter. “Not hiding.”

Mista’s expression shifts slightly, more serious now.

“That’s exactly why you’re in here,” he says. “Because if you were out there? Whoever set you up would already be making their next move.” He tilts his head. “Right now, they think you’re still in trouble. Still under suspicion.”

You exhale slowly.

“A pawn,” you say.

“A very dangerous one,” he corrects.

Silence settles again, heavier this time.

You glance back at the stack of letters, then toward the door.

“… He'd better come get me himself,” you mutter under your breath.

Mista smirks faintly. “Oh, trust me. He will.”

And somewhere out there, in the shadows of Passione, Giorno Giovanna is closing in.

And when he returns to you, it won’t be with another letter.

The clock on the wall clicks over to morning.

Not that it feels any different.

The light hasn’t changed. The air hasn’t shifted. The panic room hums the same as it always does. But the routine has carved something like time into the space, and your body follows it even when the world outside doesn’t.

You’re curled up on the bed, a book open in your hands.

Pride and Prejudice.

You’ve read it before, once or twice, but it feels different now. Or maybe you’re different. Your thumb rests between the pages as your eyes skim over a passage you’ve already read three times, your mind wandering somewhere far beyond the quiet room.

Elizabeth and Darcy.

Misunderstandings. Pride. Distance. Then something softer. Something real.

“…Yeah,” you murmur to yourself. “Sounds familiar.”

You shift onto your side, staring at the page without really seeing it anymore.

Fifteen. That’s when you met him.

Back then, Giorno wasn’t Giorno Giovanna, Boss of Passione. He was just… him. Quiet. Observant. Always thinking ten steps ahead, always watching, but never quite looking at you the way he did the others.

You remember how it used to bother you.

The way he’d speak more easily to Bucciarati. To Mista. Even Narancia, loud and reckless as he was, got more of his attention than you did. Abbacchio never cared much for him, and Fugo was always guarded… And you’d sit there, arms crossed, pretending it didn’t get under your skin.

You thought he looked down on you.

Thought maybe it was because you were a girl. That you had to prove yourself more, fight harder for the same respect. You remember pushing yourself, taking risks you probably shouldn’t have, to make sure he saw you.

You huff softly, shaking your head.

If only you’d known.

Giorno Giovanna, calm, composed, unshakable, had been too shy to talk to you.

The realization still makes your chest warm.

It was your sixteenth birthday.

You close the book slowly, letting it rest against your chest as the memory sharpens.

He had already become the Don by then. Everything had changed so quickly, power shifting, enemies lurking, the weight of an entire organization settling onto his shoulders.

And still, he remembered.

The cake wasn’t extravagant. Something simple, thoughtful. Something he had clearly chosen himself instead of delegating.

He had been nervous. You saw it in the way he held himself, in the slight hesitation before he handed it to you. The smallest crack in that perfect composure.

And then he told you.

You remember how your heart had flipped so hard it almost hurt. Everything about him, his voice, his eyes, the way he looked at you, made your chest feel too full.

You’d never forget it. 

You shift again, staring up at the ceiling now, the book forgotten beside you.

“…And now look at us,” you whisper.

Engaged.

The word still feels surreal.

Your gaze drifts to your hand, empty for now, but not for long.

A wedding.

You let yourself actually think about it for the first time without interruption, without tension clawing at the edges.

What would it even look like?

Somewhere in Italy. Warm light. Quiet. Just the people who matter, Mista, Bucciarati’s, and the others’ memories honored somehow, the ones who stood beside you both from the beginning.

You imagine Giorno standing across from you, not as the Don, not as the man everyone fears, but just… him.

The boy who couldn’t meet your eyes at fifteen.

The knock comes sharp and unfamiliar. Not Mista’s rhythm.

Your head lifts instantly, body going still as your pulse spikes. The book slips from your hands onto the bed, forgotten. Every instinct sharpens, alert, ready, wary. No one comes down here without permission.

Another second.

The lock disengages with a heavy, mechanical click.

You’re already on your feet.

The door opens, and everything else falls away.

It’s him.

Giorno stands in the doorway, framed by the sterile light of the hall, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t just walk back into your orbit after one week of absence that felt like months.

Your heart stutters, then surges.

You don’t even realize you’ve moved until you’re already crossing the room, closing the distance in seconds. The door shuts behind him just in time before you crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso like you’re anchoring yourself to something real again.

You kiss him.

Once, twice, again, breathless and unfiltered, like you’re making up for every second he wasn’t here. Your hands clutch at his jacket, his shoulders, his hair, anywhere you can touch, anywhere that proves he’s actually here.

“Hey…” he huffs out, caught off guard, the bag in his hand tipping dangerously as you practically overwhelm him.

He lets out a soft, startled laugh, quickly setting the food aside on the nearest chair before it can spill. The moment it’s out of his hands, he’s all yours.

His arms come around you immediately.

He pulls you in just as tightly, one hand sliding up into your hair, the other pressing firmly against your back as he kisses you properly this time, deep, grounding, like he’s been holding back just as much as you have.

You can feel it in him.

The tension. The relief.

The way he exhales into you, he lets something in his chest loosen.

“Easy,” he murmurs against your lips, though there’s no real protest in it. “You’re going to knock me over.”

But he doesn’t let go.

If anything, his hold tightens slightly, like he doesn’t quite trust the moment not to slip away if he loosens his grip. His forehead comes to rest against yours, breath mingling with yours, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

His thumb brushes along your cheek, lingering there as his gaze searches your face, checking, reassuring himself.

Giorno doesn’t let you go right away.

Neither of you rush it.

Giorno keeps you close for a moment longer, his hand still resting at the back of your head, fingers threaded lightly through your hair as if grounding himself in your presence. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, faster than usual, but settling now that you’re in his arms.

“…I missed you too,” you murmur, quieter now, your voice softer against him.

He exhales faintly, like that was something he needed to hear.

Reluctantly, he pulls back just enough to look at you again, his thumb brushing once more along your cheek before his attention flicks toward the chair.

“Before this gets cold,” he says, a hint of that familiar composure returning, though it’s gentler now, “I brought you something.”

You glance over, and your eyes widen slightly.

“Is that…?”

A small, knowing smile curves his lips. “From your favorite place.”

That’s all the confirmation you need.

You move with him as he retrieves the bag, setting it down properly this time on the small table. The scent hits you immediately, warm, comforting, unmistakably real in a place that’s felt anything but. Fresh bread, espresso, something sweet. 

You let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Giorno…”

“I assumed,” he says as he begins unpacking it, “that after a week of confinement, and Mista’s company, you might appreciate something familiar.”

You snort softly. “Hey, Mista’s been great.”

Giorno hums lightly, not entirely convinced. “I’m sure.”

He hands you your portion first, always you first, watching your reaction more than the food itself. There’s something quietly satisfying in the way his shoulders ease when you take the first bite, your expression softening almost instantly.

“Okay, yeah,” you admit, mouth half full. “I missed this.”

His lips twitch faintly as he finally sits across from you, taking his own food but not eating right away. He watches you for a moment, really watches you, like he’s memorizing the normalcy of it.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice.

“…What?” you ask, raising a brow.

“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just… making sure you’re alright.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, then nod, softer this time. “I am. Now that you’re here.”

That seems to settle something in him.

Only then does he take a bite, though it’s clear his mind is already elsewhere.

The shift is subtle, but you feel it.

“Giorno,” you say after a moment, setting your food down slightly. “What’s going on?”

His eyes lift to yours.

And just like that, the warmth in them sharpens, not cold, but focused.

“It’s done,” he says simply.

Your stomach tightens. “You found them.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“Who?” you press.

He leans back slightly in his chair, folding one arm over the other, his posture relaxing in appearance only. There’s a weight behind his gaze now, calculated, precise.

“Capo Lorenzo Vieri,” he says.

The name lands heavily.

You recognize it immediately, mid-level power, but ambitious. Too ambitious.

“He was part of the remnants of Cioccolata’s network,” Giorno continues. “Careful. Patient. He embedded himself well enough that suspicion never lingered long.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Until recently.”

You lean forward. “He’s the one who pointed at me.”

“Yes,” Giorno confirms. “And he did it deliberately.”

Your jaw tightens.

“He manipulated reports,” Giorno explains. “Adjusted timelines. Made it appear as though your absences aligned with operational failures.” His tone hardens just slightly. “But he made one mistake.”

“What?”

“He relied too heavily on your predictability,” Giorno says. “He assumed your movements were simple. Trackable.” A faint, almost dangerous smile touches his lips. “He underestimated you.”

You huff softly. “Wouldn’t be the first.”

“Nor the last,” he replies.

You glance down briefly, processing, then back up. “Where is he now?”

Giorno’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes darkens.

“As we speak,” he says calmly, “he’s been invited to a meeting.”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Invited.”

“Yes.” A beat. “He did not leave it.”

Realization settles in.

“They grabbed him,” you say.

“They did,” Giorno confirms. “Surrounded. Disarmed. Contained.” His voice lowers just slightly. “He’s currently in an interrogation room.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

“And?” you ask.

Giorno studies you carefully.

“I wanted to come to you first,” he says. “To confirm. To ensure you were ready.”

Your heart skips. “…Ready for what?”

He leans forward slightly now, gaze locking onto yours.

“I want you there,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“For the interrogation,” he clarifies. “With me.”

“You and I,” he continues, voice steady, deliberate, “will question him together.”

You stare at him for a second, “…After breakfast,” you say.

A faint smirk answers yours.

“After breakfast,” Giorno agrees.

There’s a quiet understanding that settles between you then, something shared, something unspoken.

This isn’t just about clearing your name anymore. It’s about consequences.

And whoever thought they could turn you into a scapegoat is about to learn exactly who they chose to betray.

The bitterness of the espresso lingers on your tongue as you take another slow sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest.

It feels… grounding.

Across from you, Giorno sits composed as ever, but you can see the subtle shifts now, the way his gaze flicks to you more often than it used to, the way his posture leans just slightly in your direction without him realizing it. He’s here, fully present, even if part of his mind is already moving three steps ahead toward what’s waiting downstairs.

Your fingers curl loosely around the cup.

Last week. The chair. The ropes. His voice, calm, controlled, relentless.

It had shaken you more than you wanted to admit.

You, of all people. Passione’s best interrogator. The one who made hardened men break with nothing but a shift in tone, a look, a subtle push of your Stand beneath the surface, Bitter Sweet Symphony humming quietly as it twisted guilt into confession, doubt into collapse, truth into something unavoidable.

And yet, you’d been the one under the light.

Questioned. Measured. Nearly broken down.

Your jaw tightens slightly at the memory. Then you exhale, recognizing it was just a reminder. 

Your eyes lift slowly, a faint, dangerous edge settling behind them.

Now you can’t wait.

Let him sit in that chair. Let him feel that pressure, the way the air thickens, the way his own thoughts start turning against him. Let him try to hold onto his lies while you peel them apart piece by piece.

A quiet, almost pleased smile tugs at your lips as you take another sip.

Giorno notices.

Of course he does.

“…You’re thinking about it already,” he says, voice calm but knowing.

You glance at him over the rim of your cup. “Can you blame me?”

A faint smirk ghosts across his lips. “No.”

There’s a pause.

Then your thoughts drift, unexpectedly softer this time.

Your gaze drops briefly to your hand again.

Empty.

“…I was also thinking about something else,” you admit.

Giorno’s brow lifts slightly. “Oh?”

“The wedding,” you say simply.

That gets his full attention.

You set your cup down, leaning back slightly. “If we’re doing this, really doing this, I don’t want it to feel like… a business arrangement. Or something political.”

“It won’t,” he says immediately.

There’s no hesitation.

You look at him again, studying him.

“I mean it, Giorno,” you continue. “I don’t want a spectacle. I don’t want people looking at me like I’m just…” You gesture vaguely, “...the Don’s wife.”

His expression sharpens, but not in anger, something more protective.

“They won’t,” he says, quieter now. “And if they do, they won’t do it twice.”

You huff softly. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he replies.

Then, almost casually, you add, “I haven’t even thought about what kind of engagement ring I’d want.”

Giorno goes still, the way his fingers stop against the table for just a fraction too long.

“…You haven’t?” he asks.

You shake your head lightly. “No. I was more focused on yours.”

“I don’t like that,” he says after a moment.

You blink. “…What?”

“That I can’t wear it.”

You stare at him.

“The ring you got me,” he clarifies, tone quieter now but no less firm. “I don’t like that I have to wait.”

A small, incredulous laugh escapes you. “Giorno, that’s kind of how weddings work.”

“I’m aware,” he says dryly.

“I don’t see the necessity,” he continues. “We’ve already made the decision. The commitment exists.” His gaze locks onto yours, steady and unwavering. “Why delay acknowledging it?”

Your heart does a small, traitorous flip.

“You’re saying…” You start slowly, “…you want to just skip ahead?”

“I’m saying,” Giorno replies, leaning forward slightly, voice low and certain, “that if it were entirely up to me, I would call you my wife today.”

You swallow lightly, your earlier edge softening just a fraction.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, though there’s no bite to it.

A faint smile touches his lips.

“And yet,” he says, “you’re the one who chose me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, too.

“Finish your breakfast,” you say, picking your cup back up. “Then we can go deal with your problem.”

“Our problem,” he corrects.

Your gaze sharpens again, that familiar fire returning.

“Right,” you murmur.

A faint, approving glint crosses his eyes.

“Good,” he says simply.

The rest of breakfast passes quickly after that, the air between you no longer heavy with uncertainty, but charged with purpose. You finish your coffee, setting the cup down with a soft clink, while Giorno folds the empty wrappers neatly, always composed, always controlled, even now.

When he stands, you follow without hesitation.

“Ready?” he asks.

You roll your shoulders once, loosening the tension that’s built up over the past week, feeling your Stand stir faintly beneath your skin, like a low, anticipatory hum.

“More than,” you reply.

Giorno gives a small nod, satisfied.

He moves to the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at you, one last check, one last silent confirmation. You meet his gaze evenly.

He unlocks it.

The heavy door opens with a mechanical hiss, the sterile hallway beyond stretching out like something foreign after days inside. The air feels different out here, cooler, sharper. Alive.

You step out beside him.

Mista is already waiting down the hall, leaning against the wall like he’s been there a while. His eyes flick between the two of you, scanning your posture, Giorno’s expression, the space between you.

Then he smirks.

“Well,” he says, pushing off the wall. “You both look… significantly less murderous than I expected.”

You snort lightly. “Give it time.”

Giorno doesn’t comment, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth. It disappears just as quickly as he steps forward, falling into stride with purpose.

“Where is he?” you ask.

“Lower level,” Mista answers, falling in beside you.

The three of you continue down the corridor, footsteps echoing in measured rhythm. The deeper you go, the quieter it gets. Less movement. Fewer people. More security.

By the time you reach the final door, two guards stand posted outside, straightening immediately at Giorno’s approach.

“Don,” one of them says, stepping aside.

Giorno doesn’t break stride.

He stops just in front of the door, hand resting lightly on the handle, but he doesn’t open it yet.

Instead, he turns his head slightly toward you.

“Once we step inside,” he says, voice low and even, “this becomes your space.”

“You set the pace,” he continues. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Your lips curve faintly, something sharp and confident settling back into place.

“Careful,” you murmur. “You might enjoy watching too much.”

A flicker of something dangerous and amused passes through his eyes. “I already know I will.”

Your hand reaches for the door before he can, and you push it open.

The room is exactly as you remember.

Cold. Bare. Unforgiving.

And in the center, Capo Lorenzo Vieri.

Bound to the chair.

Bruised. Disheveled. Breathing just a little too fast.

His head snaps up the moment you enter. And when his eyes land on you, whatever composure he had left cracks.

“…That’s not possible,” he breathes.

You step inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a heavy, final sound.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

Your voice echoes just enough to make the silence feel heavier. “Funny how that works.”

You take another step closer. Then another. Until you’re standing just within his reach.

“Miss me?”

The words hang in the air between you, soft, almost playful.

But there’s nothing playful about what follows.

Lorenzo stares at you like he’s seen a ghost.

His lips part, but nothing comes out at first. His eyes flick past you, toward Giorno, toward the door, toward anything that might make sense of this. But there is no sense to be found here.

You’re supposed to be compromised. And yet here you stand, untouched, unshaken, walking toward him like you own this room.

Because you do.

Your heels echo against the concrete as you close the distance slowly, deliberately. Each step is measured. Controlled. The way you used to do it before, when the person in the chair didn’t matter.

But you remember him. The recognition settles in your chest like something sour.

Fourteen. That’s how old you were when Bucciarati brought you in.

You remembered a particular day when Bucciarati had spoken to Cioccolatta’s group due to some conflict between territories. 

Lorenzo.

Leaning back like he owned the place, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin crawl even back then. You remember the comments, low, dismissive, dripping with that casual, ugly superiority.

You remember how the others reacted.

How Bucciarati stepped slightly in front of you without making a show of it. How Abbacchio’s glare shut him up faster than words ever could. How Mista lingered closer after that, casual but watchful.

You stop just in front of him now, looking down at the same man who once looked at you like you were nothing.

How small he seems. How… fragile.

Bruised. Bound. Breathing unevenly. There’s fear in his eyes now, real fear, not the arrogant irritation he used to wear like armor.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“…You remember me, don’t you?” you say, voice quiet.

He swallows hard.

“…Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely. “Yeah, I do.”

There’s no bite left in him. No smugness.

Your Stand stirs beneath your skin, a low, thrumming presence. You tug on Lorenzo’s consciousness just enough, causing a subtle shift, a pressure change.

You watch the moment it starts to take hold, his breathing hitching slightly, his shoulders tightening as something invisible presses down on him. Doubt. Fear. Guilt. You let it simmer, let it build slowly.

Let him feel it.

“You always did have a lot to say,” you continue, pacing once around him. “Back then.”

Your fingers trail lightly along the back of his chair as you move, not touching him, just close enough to remind him you could.

“You don’t seem very talkative now.”

He flinches.

“Y/N—” he starts, voice cracking slightly. “Listen, I—”

You stop behind him.

Then you step back into his line of sight, slower this time.

“No,” you say softly. “You listen.”

Your gaze hardens. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“You didn’t just point fingers. You crafted it. You built a story. You tried to make me the problem.”

His eyes dart away.
You feel the guilt spike under your Stand’s influence, rising like something he can’t quite suppress anymore.

“I—I had to,” he says quickly. “You don’t understand—”

You laugh quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, I understand perfectly.”

You step closer again, close enough now that he has to tilt his head up to look at you.

“You saw an opportunity,” you continue. “Remove me, weaken Giorno, create space for yourself.” Your voice lowers. “You thought I was the easiest target.”

His breathing picks up, his brain unraveling.

The way his thoughts start turning inward, turning against him. Doubt is creeping in where certainty used to be. Regret blooming where justification once sat.

You glance briefly toward Giorno. He hasn’t moved much. Still near the door, watching. But his eyes are locked on Lorenzo.

And you know. Even if you walked away right now or showed mercy, Giorno wouldn’t. Not after this. Not after what he tried to do to you. To both of you.

“…You know,” you murmur, almost thoughtfully, “when I was fourteen, I thought you were just an asshole.”

His expression flickers, confused.

You lean in slightly, voice dropping just enough.

“Turns out,” you add quietly, “you’re also a traitor.”

The words settle like a verdict, and there’s no coming back from that.

The air thickens, like pressure before a storm. The hum beneath your skin deepens, spreading outward in slow, deliberate waves. Bitter Sweet Symphony doesn’t manifest loudly or violently; it seeps. It lingers. It settles.

And Lorenzo feels it immediately.

You see it in the way his shoulders tense. The way his breathing stutters. His eyes flick around the room like something invisible just closed in on him.

You begin to circle him slowly like a predator, your steps measured, controlled. Each pass tightens the invisible net, amplifying everything already festering inside him, every doubt, every flicker of guilt, every buried fear he thought he could outrun.

“Let’s start simple,” you say, voice calm. Too calm.

He swallows hard.

“I—I already told them—”

“I’m not them,” you cut in smoothly.

You feel it instantly, the resistance, the fragile wall he’s built to justify himself.

So you push. Guilt blooms sharper. Doubt creeps in faster.

“Because—” he starts, voice tight. “Because you were the easiest variable to manipulate—”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

“There it is.”

You move back into his line of sight, crouching just slightly so you’re level with him, forcing him to look at you.

“You didn’t hate me,” you continue. “Not really. You just didn’t respect me.”

Your Stand tightens its hold. “Say it.”

“I—”

“Say it.”

“I didn’t think you were strong enough,” he blurts, the words cracking out of him like something forced free.

Your smile sharpens.

“Not strong enough,” you repeat softly. “To survive? To lead? Or just… to matter?”

He shakes his head, panic creeping in now. “That’s not—”

“Careful,” you murmur, tilting your head. “Lying feels worse now, doesn’t it?”

And it does, you can see it.

Every time he tries to twist the truth, your Stand turns it against him, tightening his chest, clouding his thoughts, making the lie feel wrong in his own mind.

You don’t need to raise your voice. You don’t need to hurt him.

You just let him sit in it.

“You built your plan on that assumption,” you continue. “That no one would question it. That if you pointed at me, people would believe you.”

You stand slowly, looming over him now.

“Because deep down, you thought I didn’t belong here.”

His head drops slightly.

You push again, harder this time. Emotional weight crashing down on him all at once, every bad decision, every misstep, every moment he justified himself piling up until it’s unbearable.

“I—I had to,” he chokes. “You don’t understand—if I didn’t move first, someone else would’ve—”

“Ah… You weren’t just ambitious,” you say. “You were scared.”

He flinches.

Your voice lowers, quieter now, but far more dangerous.

“Who were you afraid of?”

Silence stretches.

Your Stand tightens, twisting that fear until it claws at him from the inside out, until holding onto it feels worse than giving it up.

“Names, Vieri,” you say, calm but absolute.

His composure cracks.

“They… they’re still out there,” he stammers. “The network, it didn’t die with Cioccolata, it just changed. I was trying to stay ahead—”

“By betraying us,” you finish.

“Yes!” he snaps, desperation breaking through. “Yes, because if I didn’t, they would’ve…”

He stops. Too late.

You straighten slowly, processing.

Behind you, Giorno finally moves.

It’s subtle, a single step forward, but the shift in presence is immediate. Heavy. Final. His gaze fixes on Vieri with quiet, lethal clarity.

“You’ve given us what we needed,” Giorno says, voice smooth, controlled.

Vieri’s eyes dart between the two of you, panic fully setting in now. “Wait—wait, I can still— I can help—”

You don’t look at him and don’t need to. Because you already know how this ends.

Your Stand recedes slightly, the pressure easing just enough to let him breathe again, just enough for him to realize exactly what he’s done.

And who he’s done it to.

You glance toward Giorno, and a silent exchange passes between you.

It’s over.

Giorno doesn’t need to say a word.

You feel it the moment his presence shifts behind you, that quiet, unmistakable change. The interrogation is no longer about extracting information.

It’s about judgment.

There’s no hesitation in his eyes now. No doubt. No conflict.

Only resolve.

He gives the slightest tilt of his head.

I’ll take it from here.

You hold his gaze for a second longer, then nod.

“Don’t take too long,” you murmur lightly, the edge in your voice softened just for him.

You step closer, reaching up to press a brief kiss to his cheek. When you pull away, your eyes flick back to Vieri, and you smile.

Not warmly, he sees it. And whatever fragile hope he had left shatters completely.

You turn without another word, moving toward the door. The handle is cold beneath your fingers as you pull it open, stepping out into the hallway without looking back.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

You don’t make it more than a few steps before it starts.

At first, it’s muffled. A strained shout, choked. Then louder. 

The kind of sound that claws its way out of someone who realizes far too late that there’s no escape, no negotiation left to make.

You keep walking. Your expression doesn’t change. But your shoulders rise slightly with a quiet breath as the noise echoes down the corridor, sharp, ugly, final.

By the time you reach the bend in the hall, Mista is already there, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He glances up at you, listening for a second as another cry rings out from behind the door.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “Figured it’d sound like that.”

You stop beside him, folding your arms loosely.

“You waited out here?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like being in there for round two.” A beat. “Plus, someone’s gotta be here when you walk out looking like that.”

You glance at him. “…Like what?”

Mista smirks faintly.

“Like you just ruined a man’s entire life without even touching him.”

You huff softly under your breath, but don’t deny it.

Another muffled sound echoes, shorter this time. Weaker.

You lean back against the wall beside him, tilting your head slightly as you listen.

“…He won’t drag it out,” you say after a moment.

Mista nods. “Nah. Boss isn’t the type.”

Silence settles between you both, filled only by the distant, fading noise.

“You good?” Mista asks, quieter now.

The question lingers.

You think about it for a second.

About the panic room, the accusations, the man who tried to dismantle you piece by piece.

And then, Giorno.

The way he looked at you this morning, the way he said wife like it already belonged to you, the way he didn’t hesitate to stand beside you, and then step in front of you when it mattered.

“…Yeah,” you say finally.

Mista glances at you, studying your face for a second longer before nodding once, satisfied.

“Good,” he says.

Another faint sound echoes from down the hall, and the silence that follows is heavier than anything before it.

Final.

Mista exhales slowly, pushing himself off the wall. “Well,” he mutters, stretching slightly. “Guess that’s that.”

You don’t respond right away.

After a week of sealed walls and recycled air, the simple things feel almost unreal. Steam curling up from your shower, the familiar scent of your soap, the way the floor feels beneath your bare feet instead of cold reinforced steel.

You take your time. Let the water run longer than you usually would. Let yourself breathe, unwind, let the last of that tension, the interrogation, the waiting, the silence, wash away with it.

By the time you step out, wrapped in a towel, your muscles feel looser. Lighter.

Now, you stand in the bedroom, pulling on one of your softer sleep shirts, brushing your hair out as you move toward the mirror. The familiar space grounds you even further, your things, your side of the room, the small details that remind you this is home.

You’re just tying your hair back when the door opens.

You glance up through the mirror.

Giorno.

He steps inside without urgency, closing the door quietly behind him. He’s shed the heavier layers of the day, sleeves slightly rolled, his presence still commanding but… softer. Less of the Don. More of him.

Your lips curve faintly. “You planning on standing there all night, or…?”

A small smile answers you as he approaches.

“I was admiring the view,” he says lightly.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“It already has,” he replies smoothly.

He stops just behind you, his reflection meeting yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His gaze lingers, taking you in like he hasn’t quite gotten used to the fact that you’re here, safe, with him.

Then his eyes flick down to your hand. Still bare.

“…I don’t like that,” he says quietly.

You blink, following his gaze before looking back up at him through the mirror. “You said that already.”

“Yes,” he replies. “And I meant it.”

There’s a small pause.

Then, he reaches into his pocket.

Your breath catches slightly before you can stop it.

He doesn’t rush it. Of course, he doesn’t. Giorno moves with the same quiet confidence he always does, pulling out a small box, sleek, understated, but unmistakable.

Your heart starts to pick up.

“Giorno…”

“I know you said you hadn’t thought about what you wanted,” he says, voice calm but softer than usual. “So I did.”

He steps closer, gently taking your hand in his before you can even think to react. His touch is warm, steady, grounding in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“I didn’t want you walking around with nothing,” he continues. “Not after everything.”

He opens the box.

And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

It’s… perfect. Not overly flashy. Not something chosen for status or appearance. Elegant. Timeless. A ring that feels like you, refined but strong, beautiful without trying too hard. 

“…Giorno,” you whisper.

His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.

“If you don’t like it, I can—”

“No,” you cut in immediately, shaking your head. “No, don’t—” Your voice softens. “It’s… It’s perfect.”

Something in his expression eases at that.

He lifts your hand slightly, sliding the ring onto your finger with careful precision. It settles into place like it was always meant to be there.

You stare at it for a second, turning your hand just slightly, watching the way it catches the light.

“…You really weren’t going to let me wait, were you?” you murmur.

A faint smile touches his lips as he steps closer.

“No,” he admits.

His hand rises to your face, fingers brushing along your cheek before settling there, warm and familiar.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he adds softly.

Your eyes lift to meet his.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you say, but your voice betrays you, too soft, too full of warmth.

“And yet,” he murmurs, echoing himself from earlier, “you said yes.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head before stepping into him, your hands finding his shirt, gripping lightly.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I did.”

He leans in, kissing you gently this time, slow, warm, unhurried. There’s no desperation in it now, no urgency, just certainty. Something steady and grounding, like he’s sealing a promise rather than chasing one.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath soft against your lips.

For a moment, he’s quiet, thinking.

You feel it in the way his thumb traces absent circles against your hand, where the ring now sits, like he’s already adjusting to it being there. Like it belongs.

“We shouldn’t wait long.”

Your brows knit slightly. “…What?”

His gaze lifts to meet yours, completely serious.

“The wedding,” he clarifies. “There’s no reason to delay it.”

You blink, caught slightly off guard by how direct he is.

“Giorno, most people don’t plan a wedding in, what, a week?” you tease lightly.

“If it were up to me,” he replies smoothly, “it would be sooner than that.”

You let out a soft, incredulous laugh, searching his face, but he isn’t joking.

“Alright,” you say, humoring him. “Then what’s your plan, Don Giovanna?”

His expression softens just slightly, though the resolve doesn’t fade.

“Small,” he says. “Private. No spectacle. No unnecessary attention.” His thumb brushes over your ring again. “Only the people who matter.”

That… sounds exactly right.

Your teasing expression fades into something more thoughtful.

“And when?” you ask quietly.

There’s only the briefest pause.

“Within the month,” he says.

Your eyes widen just a fraction. “That soon?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation or second-guessing.

Just that same certainty he carries into everything else.

You study him for a second longer, then huff softly, shaking your head, but there’s a smile pulling at your lips now.

“You’ve really thought about this,” you murmur.

“I have,” he says simply.

Then your hand tightens slightly in his.

“…Okay,” you say.

That gets his attention.

“Okay?” he repeats.

You nod, stepping closer to him again, your free hand resting against his chest.

“Within the month,” you confirm. “Small. Private. No spectacle.” A faint smirk tugs at your lips. “But I’m still picking my dress.”

A quiet breath escapes him, something almost like relief, though he’d never admit it outright.

“Of course,” he says.

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you just a little closer, like he’s anchoring the moment.

“And the rest,” he adds, voice low, “I’ll take care of.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“…I don’t doubt that.”

His lips brush yours again, softer this time, lingering. 

When he pulls back, his gaze drops briefly to your hand. To the ring, then back to you.

“Soon,” he says again, but this time, it’s not vague.

It’s a promise with a timeline.

And this time, you can already see it happening.