Chapter Text
You wake to the quiet hum of electricity and the slow drip of a pipe somewhere in the ceiling.
The interrogation room is colder than it needs to be, all concrete and metal, the kind of place designed to make people feel small. Your wrists are bound behind the chair, rope biting just enough to be annoying rather than painful. Someone didn’t bother blindfolding you. They never do with people they already think they know.
You exhale through your nose, jaw tight. Of all the idiots in Passione, it had to be him, the one who tied the knots too tight and avoided your eyes. You’d worked jobs together. Shared meals. Bled side by side. And still, he’d been the one ordered to put you here, like you were some stranger hauled in off the street.
Traitor.
The word echoes in your head, sharp and absurd. You’d helped overthrow the boss when you were fifteen, helped rewrite Passione’s future with your own hands. You remember the year clearly, 2001, the way Giorno’s voice never shook even then. You had followed him without question. You still would.
Your Stand stirs at the edge of your awareness, restless but obedient. Bitter Sweet Symphony.
A name borrowed from an old song that had played on the radio during long drives and bad nights. Its power hums under your skin, able to twist the emotional “momentum” of a situation, amplifying guilt, resolve, doubt, or truth until it becomes impossible to ignore. A dangerous ability in a room like this. You keep it leashed. Using it now would only exacerbate the situation.
Four years together. That’s how long you and Giorno have been official. Long enough to know the way he breathes when he’s thinking. Long enough to know that this, the cold room and the silence and the ropes, is his idea of fairness. If he treated you differently, they’d tear the family apart looking for favoritism.
Still, it stings.
Footsteps approach. Measured. Unhurried. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache before the door even opens.
The handle turns.
Giorno Giovanna steps inside, dressed in black from collar to cuff, the heart-shaped cutout at his chest stark against the darkness. He’s taller than you remember him being at fifteen, broader too, his long blond hair falling straight down his back, the three curls at his forehead untouched by time. He closes the door behind him with a soft, definitive click.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Boss of Passione.
Your boyfriend.
The boy you once trusted with your life.
And now, the man here to decide whether you get to keep it.
You tense the moment your eyes lift to him.
It’s an instinct you can’t stop, muscle memory honed by years of violence and survival, not fear, never fear, but awareness. Giorno stands in front of you, taller than you remember, even from yesterday, broader through the shoulders, the black suit fitting him like it was tailored around authority itself. This is the man you’ve loved for four years. This is also the Boss of Passione.
Usually, this is your room.
You’re the one who sits in the shadows, the one who asks the quiet questions, who waits patiently while people unravel themselves. You’re the one who leans back in the chair, lets the silence suffocate them until they start talking just to hear their own voice again. Bitter Sweet Symphony hums beneath your skin in those moments, ready to twist doubt into confession, guilt into truth.
But now you’re tied to the chair instead.
The rope digs into your wrists, rough and unnecessary, a reminder that someone, someone you knew, had followed orders without meeting your eyes. The irony almost makes you laugh. Almost.
“The boss himself,” you mutter, lifting your chin despite the position, refusing to look small. “I should feel honored.”
You don’t.
“Giorno,” you snap, frustration finally bleeding through, sharp and hot. “You know better than to listen to grunts over your own girlfriend. This is a joke.”
The words come out harsher than you intend, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. The last time you were tied up with him in a room, it had been dimly lit and breathless, his hands deliberate for entirely different reasons. This, this concrete box, the buzzing light overhead, the smell of dust and cold metal, is an insult layered on top of betrayal.
He starts toward you.
Each step is unhurried, precise. His shoes echo against the floor, the sound bouncing off the walls until it feels like it’s pressing in on your chest. He stops a few paces away, close enough that you can see the rise and fall of his breathing.
Giorno looks at you.
Not with anger. Not with disappointment.
With that calm.
That terrifying, absolute stillness that has undone kings and killers alike. His green eyes settle on you, steady and assessing, as if he’s weighing something far heavier than your fate. The lack of emotion makes your skin prickle worse than if he’d shouted.
He says nothing at first.
You’ve watched him do this to others, let silence rot the air, let people hang themselves on their own thoughts. You’ve admired it. Used it yourself. But sitting here, bound and waiting, it feels different. The quiet stretches. Digs. Twists.
Then—
“Y/N.”
Your name leaves his lips softly, almost gently, and that somehow hurts more. It’s the same voice that whispered plans to you in the dark, the same voice that spoke promises against your skin, the same voice that stood unshaken when the old boss fell. But now it carries weight. Command. Consequence.
“It’s my job to hear all sides,” he says evenly, stepping closer. “Regardless of who’s telling the truth.”
Another step.
“You of all people should understand that,” he continues, quieter now. “Amore mio.”
The endearment cuts deeper than any insult.
“What happened,” he asks, eyes never leaving yours, “to not being blinded by loyalty?”
The words hit you hard, a clean, precise strike. You grit your teeth, jaw tightening as your hands curl into fists behind your back, nails biting into your palms. He’s throwing your own principles back at you. The rules you helped write. The standards you enforced.
You’ve said those exact words before.
Hearing them now, from him, in this room, it burns.
“We investigated,” Giorno goes on, tone unwavering. Calm. Merciless. “We have evidence. Eyewitness accounts. Connections.”
He begins to circle you, slow and deliberate, like a predator that already knows the outcome. You track him with your eyes as best you can, refusing to look away, refusing to shrink.
“And your own testimony,” he adds.
Your breath catches despite yourself.
“And you expect me,” he says, stopping behind you for just a second too long, “to ignore all of that because we’re… together?”
He steps back into your line of sight, a faint, bitter huff of laughter escaping him, not cruel, but cold.
As if love, in this world, is just another liability.
And for the first time since you were dragged into this room, you realize this interrogation was never about proving your innocence.
It’s about whether Giorno Giovanna can afford to believe in you.
Your patience snaps.
“Then what the fuck is it, Giorno?” you bark, the words tearing out of you before you can temper them. Your voice echoes harshly off the concrete, sharp enough to sting your own ears. “What did I fucking do to deserve getting tied to a fucking chair?”
You yank against the rope, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor as you shift your weight. The bindings bite into your wrists now, friction burning your skin, but you don’t stop. You’ve never been good at swallowing anger, not with him. Never needed to be. If something was wrong, you said it. You challenged him. You argued. And he respected you for it.
You won’t start backing down now.
For the first time since he walked in, something in Giorno switched.
It’s subtle, just a flicker, but you catch it; his eyes flash, green sharpening into something dangerous. He closes the distance in two long strides, hands slamming down onto the arms of the chair. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. His knuckles go white instantly, tendons standing out as he leans in until there’s barely any space left between you.
Your noses are almost touching.
“Watch your tone, Y/N,” he growls.
The sound of your name on his lips is rough, stripped of softness, his voice low and vibrating with restraint barely held together. You can feel his breath against your face, warm and uneven.
“You’re not the only one who’s frustrated,” he continues, jaw tight. “Do you have any idea what it’s like for me, having to investigate someone I…” He stops himself, swallows. “…someone I care about? Someone I’m supposed to protect?”
His eyes bore into yours, no escape now. There’s too much there: anger, confusion, exhaustion, and underneath it all, something raw and unguarded that makes your chest ache. You’ve seen him face death without blinking, seen him rewrite fate itself. But this?
This scares him.
“You think you’re the only one dealing with shit?” he snaps quietly. “You think I want to be here, questioning my own girlfriend, my own lover, when every other bastard out there is just waiting for me to slip?” His voice tightens. “When Passione is balanced on a knife’s edge?”
His hand leaves the chair suddenly and grips your chin, fingers firm, commanding. It’s not painful, not quite, but there’s pressure, unmistakable, forcing your eyes to stay on him. His thumb digs just enough to make the point.
“I’m not doing this to punish you,” he says, deadly calm now. “I’m doing this to get to the truth. And if that truth is… complicated, then I need to be the one to handle it. Not you.”
For a heartbeat, his grip loosens.
His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and almost unconscious, a touch so familiar it makes your breath hitch. It’s intimate. Tender. Completely at odds with the room you’re in.
Then he pulls away.
“You’re not being punished,” he says, straightening, rebuilding the wall around himself brick by brick. “You’re being protected. Just like everyone else in this family.” His gaze hardens. “By any means necessary.”
Your heart flips painfully in your chest at the flicker of the man you love breaking through the Don of Passione. The anger drains out of you, leaving something raw and exposed in its wake.
“Then what is it?” you ask, your voice dropping, cracking despite your effort to keep it steady. “Just… talk to me. Please.”
You’ve been together too long for this. Bled together. Built something together. You can’t let it end like this, ropes and accusations and silence.
Giorno exhales slowly, deeply. His chest rises beneath the black suit, then falls. He turns away from you for a moment, jaw clenched, staring at the blank wall like it might offer answers he doesn’t want to hear. When he turns back, the sharp edge in his voice has dulled into something heavier.
Weary.
“Y/N,” he begins quietly. “You’ve been… distant.”
Your stomach tightens.
“MIA,” he continues, pacing now, hands clasped behind his back. “Hours at a time. No one knows where you are, and when they do, you’re vague. Careful.” He glances at you. “You think I don’t notice?”
He stops pacing and faces you fully, brows drawn tight.
“You slip away during missions. You dodge questions about your whereabouts. You leave gaps where there shouldn’t be any.” His voice drops. “And in my position, gaps get people killed.”
You swallow.
“We’re in a delicate position, amore mio,” he says. “There are those who want me weakened. Overthrown. And whether you meant to or not…” His eyes harden with regret. “You gave them the perfect opening.”
He steps closer again, gripping the chair’s arms as he looms over you, not threatening, pleading, whether he realizes it or not.
“If you’re not a mole,” he says quietly. “If this is just a coincidence, then you need to give me something. You need to give me a reason not to believe the worst.”
His eyes search yours desperately now, stripping away the Boss, the legend, the invincible figure. What’s left is a man terrified of losing the one person who stands at his side, not beneath him.
“Please,” he whispers, the word barely audible. “Y/N. Tell me it’s not what I think. Tell me this is a misunderstanding.”
He stops.
Doesn’t finish the sentence.
He doesn’t have to.
The weight of it hangs between you, his trust, your future, the fragile line separating love from duty, balanced on a razor’s edge, trembling, waiting to fall.
Your chest tightens until it feels hard to breathe.
The room seems smaller somehow, the walls pressing in as your throat closes around words you’ve rehearsed a thousand times and still can’t say. You’d been so careful, meticulous, even. Slipping in and out quietly and leaving no trace. You told yourself it was enough. That you could hold it together just a little longer.
You can’t.
You shake your head slowly, deliberately, forcing yourself to meet Giorno’s eyes. You refuse to look away. Not now.
“I’m not the mole, Giorno,” you say, your voice rough, fraying at the edges. “Fuck, I’ll use my own Stand on myself if I have to convince you.” Your breath stutters. “I swear to you. But I can’t tell you why I was gone. I can’t.”
The words taste like ash.
For a heartbeat, something painful flashes across his face, hurt, raw, and unguarded, before suspicion snaps back into place, sharper than before. His eyes narrow, focus honing in on you like a blade finding its mark. He leans closer, invading what little space remains, until you can feel his breath ghost across your skin.
“Can’t,” he murmurs, dangerous and quiet, “or won’t, Y/N?”
There’s an edge to his voice now, something dark and cutting. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds an awful lot like you’re hiding something.”
Before you can respond, his hands are on you, gripping your shoulders, hard. His fingers dig in through fabric and muscle, anchoring you in place, pressing deep enough that you know bruises will bloom later. You don’t pull away. You don’t flinch. You let it happen because some part of you understands this isn’t about hurting you.
It’s about fear.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, voice low and controlled, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And I want the truth.” His grip tightens. “Where have you been disappearing to? What are you not telling me?”
His gaze locks onto yours, relentless. Searching. Demanding. The air between you is thick, suffocating, heavy with everything left unsaid. The silence stretches, pressing down until it’s unbearable, screaming with secrets, with all the things you’ve been protecting him from.
Seconds crawl by.
Each tick of the clock sounds like a gunshot in your head.
You can feel how badly he needs you to give him something. Anything. A reason to believe you’re not the knife aimed at his back. But beneath that need is something worse, his fear. Fear that your answer will confirm everything he’s been dreading. That the one person who has stood beside him through blood and fate and fire is someone he never truly knew.
Your breath shudders out of you.
Your hands clench and unclench uselessly behind your back, nails biting into your palms until you feel skin break. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as you fight to keep them from falling.
“Please, Giorno…” you whisper, the plea breaking through despite yourself. “I don’t—”
You stop.
You can’t do this anymore.
You look up at him, really look at him, at the man you love, the man carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders, and something inside you finally gives. The secret you’ve guarded so fiercely cracks open.
“The old red shoebox,” you say softly. “On the top shelf of our closet.”
His hands are still.
“You’ll understand,” you continue, voice trembling now, tears finally spilling over. “You’ll see why I was gone. Why I didn’t tell anyone.” You swallow hard. “But I’m begging you, please, believe me when I say this.”
You hold his gaze, exposed and terrified and honest in a way you haven’t allowed yourself to be in months.
“I’m not the mole.”
Giorno’s eyes burn as he looks down at you, a volatile mix of suspicion, fear, and desperation flashing through them in quick succession. Your tears hit him harder than any accusation ever could. He’s faced death, fate, but this? This threatens to crack the careful walls he’s spent years building around his heart.
Against his better judgment… he wants to believe you.
The urge is sharp, almost painful. To trust you. To choose you over doubt, over whispers, over the poisonous paranoia that comes with power. For a moment longer, he holds your gaze, searching for the lie everyone else swears is there, and finding none.
Without a word, he lets go.
His hands fall from your shoulders abruptly, as if burned. He turns on his heel and strides out of the interrogation room, long steps carrying him away before he can second-guess himself. The door slams shut behind him, echoing down the hall, but he doesn’t slow.
He moves through the compound like a man possessed.
The bedroom you share comes into view too quickly. He throws the closet door open with more force than necessary, clothes shifting and tumbling from their careful order. His eyes go immediately to the top shelf.
The red shoebox.
It’s old. Faded. Dust clings to the corners. When his fingers close around it, he freezes. It shouldn’t feel this heavy, but it does, as if it knows what it carries. He brings it to the bed and sets it down with care that borders on reverence.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Giorno draws in a slow, steadying breath. His grip tightens on the box. Some instinct deep in his chest warns him that once he opens it, there will be no going back. That whatever waits inside will change something fundamental.
He opens it.
Photographs first. Old ones. Candid moments. Memories you’d quietly collected, faces, places, fragments of a shared life and your own. Small belongings, tokens he recognizes that are pieces of your heart.
Then he sees it.
A small ring box.
His breath leaves him in a sharp, silent exhale. With trembling fingers, he opens it.
The ring catches the light instantly, vintage, elegant, timeless. Gold worn smooth by another lifetime before it ever reached your hands. His heart stutters violently when he realizes…
It would fit him perfectly. A wedding ring.
The realization hits like a tidal wave, crashing through every doubt, every ugly suspicion, every justification he’d clung to. You were going to propose to him. You loved him enough to plan a future, to bind your lives together, quietly, carefully, while he… While he tied you to a chair in a basement.
Giorno’s chest tightens painfully, breath coming shallow as guilt and shame coil viciously in his stomach. He presses a hand to his mouth, eyes stinging. Oh God. What has he done?
He didn’t just doubt you.
He betrayed you.
He doesn’t sit there long. He can’t. The ring box is still clutched in his hand as he stands abruptly, heart pounding, pulse roaring in his ears. He has to get back to you. Now. Before the damage becomes irreversible.
He moves fast, nearly running, long legs eating up the distance back to the interrogation room. When he reaches the door, he doesn’t hesitate; he throws it open hard enough that it slams against the wall, the sound ringing through the cold space.
You look up.
Your face is streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, shoulders drawn inward like you’re bracing for another blow. The sight of you like this, hurting because of him, drops him straight to his knees.
He doesn’t think. He just moves.
“Y/N,” he chokes, voice breaking as he reaches for the ropes binding you. “I’m sorry. Dio mio, I’m so fucking sorry.”
His hands shake as he works at the knots, fingers clumsy with panic and remorse. He fumbles, curses under his breath, desperate to undo what he’s done.
“I should have trusted you,” he says hoarsely. “I should have had faith in us—in you. In the love we share.” His voice cracks, raw and unguarded. “But I let fear rot my judgment. I let doubt win. And I hurt you.”
And in that moment, Giorno Giovanna, Boss of Passione, conqueror of fate, has never felt smaller, or more terrified of losing the one thing he never meant to question.
Giorno’s hands still for half a heartbeat as you gulp, his pulse thrumming so loudly he’s sure you can hear it between you. He’s kneeling at your feet, the most powerful man in Passione reduced to this, hands shaking as they work at fraying rope, breath uneven, heart bare.
You don’t know what to say. He can see it in the way your lips part and close again, the way your eyes search his face like you’re afraid the moment will shatter if you move too fast.
“Did you… Do you like it?”
The question lands softly and devastates him.
His fingers freeze completely. Slowly, he looks up at you. Really looks at you. Your wrists are still bound. Your cheeks are wet with tears. And you’re asking him that, not for absolution, not for promises, but for reassurance.
“Like it?” he repeats quietly, disbelief threading through his voice.
His green eyes shine, wet and unguarded now, emotion breaking through the iron discipline he wears like armor. “Y/N…” His throat tightens. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”
He lifts the ring box again with reverent care, opening it beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The gold gleams softly, warm despite the cold room, and for a moment the interrogation chamber feels impossibly small compared to the future you were brave enough to imagine.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the band as if it might vanish if he isn’t gentle. “And it would have meant everything to wear it. To know you wanted to stand beside me.” His voice drops. “Not just as my lover. But as my wife.”
The word hits him harder than any punch ever has.
He sets the box aside on the floor, deliberately, like a vow waiting to be fulfilled. Then both his hands rise to your face. His palms are warm, calloused, familiar. His thumbs wipe away your tears with a tenderness, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.
“I’m the one who doesn’t deserve it,” he whispers. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes close, breath shuddering as the weight of everything, power, fear, responsibility, regret, finally cracks.
“Please,” he breathes. “Please forgive me for ever doubting you. For letting fear, letting traitors crawl between us.” His voice softens, breaking. “You’re the one constant in my life. The only person I’ve never had to question.”
A tear slips free, trailing down his cheek.
“The one person I…” His voice catches. “…I need.”
When he opens his eyes again, they’re fierce with devotion, raw and unfiltered. “I love you, Y/N. More than anything. And I swear, here and now, that I will never take that love for granted again. Ever.”
You look at him like you might explode, caught between relief and hurt and everything in between. He sees it. Feels it. Before he can say anything else, you tug lightly at the rope, testing it. It’s looser now, but you can’t pull free. His fault. His hands had been clumsy with panic, not precision.
“Giorno…” you whisper.
Then, firmer. Commanding. Desperate.
“Giorno, just kiss me. Fucking kiss me. Now.”
For all his titles, all his power, he’s always been a sucker for you. Giorno's heart races at your desperate, commanding words. The raw need and urgency in your voice ignite a fire within him, a hunger that can only be sated by you. He is the Don of Passione, a man feared and respected, but in this moment, he is putty in your hands, a willing servant to your every desire.
He surges forward, capturing your lips with his own in a searing, passionate kiss. It’s immediate. Fierce. A kiss born of apology and relief and four years of love compressed into a single moment. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw as if grounding himself, as if touching you like this is the only way to remind himself you’re real and still here.
Giorno's tongue delves into your mouth, exploring, tasting, claiming. He kisses you like a man starved, like you are the air he needs to breathe and the food that nourishes his very soul. His body presses against yours, the hard planes of his chest crushing against the soft curves of your breasts as he molds you to him.
He kisses you until you are both breathless, until the ropes binding you start to dig uncomfortably into your skin. Only then does he pull back slightly, his forehead still resting against yours. His eyes, dark and intense, search your face.
You catch your breath, "Ha... I'd almost say you like me tied down like this..." you whisper, wiggling your fingers behind your back, legs spread and still tied to the legs of the chair.
"What, did you have any fantasies before you walked in? Before you had to become the big, serious Don?" You teased, glancing to the table that sat across the room, usually filled with torture tools, but now empty for your session. It seemed that Giorno didn't plan to be too hard on you after all, unless he wanted to use his stand on you.
Giorno lets out a low, husky chuckle at your teasing words, a flash of heat and desire sparking in his eyes. He nips at your bottom lip playfully, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before soothing it with a sensual swipe of his tongue.
"Perhaps I do, amore mio," he murmurs, his voice a deep, intimate rumble, "There's a certain... appeal to seeing you at my mercy, all tied up and at my disposal."
His hands slide down from your hair to your shoulders, his fingers digging into the soft flesh possessively.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, "But don't think I've forgotten your transgressions, Signorina. Even if you were planning a beautiful future with me, you're still going to face consequences for keeping secrets from me."
His words are a dark promise, a thrill of both fear and anticipation running down your spine.
Giorno pulls back, standing up in one fluid motion. He reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a small, sleek knife. The blade glints wickedly in the harsh light of the room. Your heart leaps into your throat, a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes.
"Not that I plan to be too hard on you," Giorno says with a wicked, sensual smirk. "At least, not in the way you might think." He holds up the knife before resting it against the metal table with a soft clink.
"I have other plans for punishing you. Pleasurable plans, for a naughty little thing like you who hides wedding rings in shoeboxes."
"Well... It was a good thing, no?" You say, shivering in anticipation.
Giorno presses his fingers to the slope of your throat, feeling the quickening of your pulse beneath his fingertips, seeing the flush spreading across your skin.
"More than good," he growls, his voice low and rough with want. "It's perfect. Just like you." He traces down the column of your throat.
Giorno’s hands skim over your curves, mapping out the dips and swells he knows so well. He leans in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard.
"Your body doesn't lie, amore mio," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and heavy, "It tells me that you crave this. That you want to be touched, taken, owned, even when you're bound and helpless."
His hands slide down to your breasts, cupping the soft mounds, thumbs teasing over the hardening peaks of your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt, "And I'm going to give you exactly what you need."
Giorno starts to unbutton your shirt slowly, methodically, his eyes never leaving yours. Each button reveals more of your skin, more of the curves he's desperate to explore. He leans down, trailing kisses along the newly exposed flesh, worshipping your body.
Your breath catches as Giorno plants his body between your legs, touching you. You hated to admit that you were actually enjoying this.
"Gi-Giorno..." You whisper, head falling back against the chair, the cold air prickling your skin.
Giorno looks up at you from where he kneels between your spread thighs, a devilish grin playing across his handsome face as he hears your breathy whisper. He can see the effect his touch is having on you, the way your body responds almost involuntarily to his caress. It's intoxicating, the power he holds over you in this moment.
"Shh, amore mio," he soothes, his voice a low, sensual murmur. "There's no need to be shy now. Not when you're all mine to touch, to taste." His hands slide up your thighs, his fingertips leaving goosebumps through your pants in their wake. He pushes your shirt off your shoulders, letting it pool around your elbows, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze.
Giorno leans in, his breath ghosting over the hardened peaks of your nipples before he takes one into his mouth. He suckles hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, teasing and tormenting until you are writhing against your bonds. His hands map out the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the swell of your rear as he kneads the soft flesh, pulling you harder against him.
He releases your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your glistening skin, "I'm going to make you feel so good, amore mio," he promises darkly, his eyes blazing with unchecked desire, "I'm going to worship this beautiful body of yours until you're drowning in ecstasy, until the only name on your lips is mine."
You pant quietly. "You're... You're evil for this." You say, a low groan leaving your throat. Since when do interrogations go sexual? This one, you suppose.
Giorno chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through your chest as he presses against you. "Evil, you say?" he murmurs, nipping playfully at the sensitive skin of your breast. "Perhaps. But you're the one who seems to be enjoying this depraved interrogation, amore mio."
His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, his fingers deftly unbuttoning them.
He looks up at you with a grin, his blue-green eyes gleaming with mischief and lust, "Besides, you're the one who kept a ring from me, who planned to propose in secret. I think I'm well within my rights as your Don to... punish you properly for such a transgression."
Giorno tugs your pants down, exposing you to the cool air of the room and his heated gaze, "Mmm, I wonder..." He parts your thighs further with his hands, his thumbs teasing along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
"I wonder what other secrets this sweet body of yours is hiding from me."
You let out a quiet gasp, the cool air chilling on your intimate flesh. Your legs and arms squirm, but no dice. This was torture enough. Giorno smirks at your reaction, relishing the way your body squirms helplessly against the ropes binding you. He can see the damp patch darkening the fabric of your panties, the evidence of your arousal impossible to hide. It spurs on his desires, the knowledge that you want this, want him, even now.
"Look at you, amore mio," he purrs, his fingers tracing the damp edge of your panties. "Getting this excited, this turned on, all tied up like a little present for me." He leans in closer, his breath hot against your covered sex, "I think the real question is, why did you plan on proposing to me first? Kept this a secret?"
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them down yourthighs. The fabric slides over your skin, leaving you bare and exposed to his hungry gaze.
"Perhaps I should punish you properly, show you what happens when you try to keep secrets from your Don," he growls, his voice rough with want. "Maybe I should put that tongue of yours to better use, make you scream my name until the whole of Passione knows who you belong to."
You let out a breathy whine, your chest heaving. "Giorno..." You plead. "You owe me... For being so mean to me earlier. For thinking I was a mole…”
Giorno's eyes flash at your pleading whimper, a flicker of emotion warring with the unchecked lust darkening his gaze. He leans in closer, his breath hot and heavy against your bare, glistening folds.
"Shh, amore mio," he murmurs, his voice a low, sensual rumble, "I know I owe you an apology, a proper apology for doubting you. But I think I can make it up to you now, in the way you need it most."
He parts your thighs further with his hands, pushing them wider, opening youcompletely to his hungry gaze. "Let me worship you like the goddess you are," Giorno whispers, his fingers teasing along your slick slit, barely grazing your swollen clit. "Let me show you the depth of my love and devotion, with my hands, my mouth, my cock."
His fingers circle your entrance, applying maddeningly soft pressure, dipping ever so slightly inside you before retreating. He leans in, his tongue laving over your folds, tasting you, relishing the sweet ambrosia of your essence.
"Mmm, you're dripping, amore mio," he growls appreciatively, pointing his tongue to tease over your clit, flicking the sensitive bud back and forth. "So wet and ready, all for me. That's it, baby... Let me taste your pleasure, drink my fill of you.”
Your head falls back as you squirm in the seat, your fingers curl into your palms, eyes squeeze shut. You could still see the bright light from underneath your eyelids, nearly seared into your eyes from the time you had spent stuck in this prison room, "F-Fuck..."
"That's it, amore mio," he growls, his voice a low, approving rumble.
He seals his words with a long, slow lick along your slit, his tongue delving between your folds to taste you deeply, thoroughly.
Giorno's hands grip your thighs, pulling you harder against his mouth, grinding your dripping sex against his lips and chin. He suckles your clit between his lips, his tongue flicking and circling the sensitive bud, pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy. The room fills with the obscene sounds of his oral attentions, wet and lewd, a symphony of his devotion to your pleasure.
He feels you tense, your body drawing up tight as a bowstring as he pushes you towards your peak. Giorno looks up at you, his eyes dark and intense, a devilish grin curling his slicked lips. "That's it, Y/N. Come for me. Scream my name, let all of Passione know who makes you feel this way. Who owns this beautiful body.”
You’re slumped in the chair, moans spilling from your lips, legs beginning to shake despite their bonds. "G-Giorno, please... Mngh, make me come... Fuck, make me cum..."
Giorno doubles his efforts, sucking your clit harder, his tongue flicking mercilessly over the sensitive bundle of nerves as he pushes you relentlessly towards your peak.
"That's my good girl," he praises, his voice a low, seductive purr. "Beg for it, amore mio. Beg your Don to make you come." His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open, exposed, vulnerable to his hungry mouth and tongue.
Your moans fill the room, a symphony of your pleasure and desperation. The sound spurs on Giorno's lust, the knowledge that he is the one driving you to such heights of ecstasy. He can feel your walls fluttering, your slick heat pulsing against his tongue as he pushes you closer to the brink.
"That's it," he encourages, his breath hot against your sex as he speaks. "Let go, amore mio. Come undone for me. Now." With that, he seals his lips around your clit and sucks hard, lashing the sensitive bud with his tongue as he pushes two long fingers deep inside your dripping cunt.
Giorno curls his fingers just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars. He feels you clench down on his invading fingers, your body drawing up tight, and he knows you’re on the very edge. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing with intensity and hunger.
Your head throws back against the chair once more, "Anh! Y-Yes!" You mewled as you came, your body shaking as cries leave your lips. Not typical cries heard from this interrogation room. You whine as he laps at your cunt long after your release, squirming.
As your aftershocks subside, he continues his oral attentions, his tongue now gentling, laving, worshipping your sensitive flesh. You whimper and squirm beneath him, overstimulated and yet craving more of his touch.
He pulls back slightly, his chin glistening with your juices as he gazes up at you with a look of deep satisfaction. "Mmm, that's my good girl," he praises, his voice a low, approving rumble, "Coming undone so beautifully for me, screaming my name like your salvation."
Slowly, torturously, he slides his fingers out of your dripping cunt, bringing them to his mouth to clean them with deliberate, sensual licks. "You taste divine, amore mio. I could feast on you and never grow tired of it."
You pant softly, looking down at Giorno with heavy-lidded eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out, your body still twitching from the aftermath.
Giorno stands, his body brushing against yours as he reaches for the knife on the table. The cool blade kisses your heated skin as he carefully cuts through the ropes binding your legs, freeing them from their restraints. He does the same for your arms, until you are unbound, pliant, and trembling in the aftermath of your intense orgasm.
Without warning, he lifts you up, strong arms scooping you against his chest, and bends you over the table. The cold metal is a shock to your oversensitized skin, making you gasp and twitch. Giorno holds you down, one large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the table as he positions himself behind you.
He uses his Stand, Gold Experience, to hold your arms behind your back, bending your elbows at a 90-degree angle, keeping your wrists crossed and immobilized. The invisible force encircling your arms tightens, pulling them flush against your back as Giorno looms over you, a grin playing across his handsome face.
"Don't think I'm done with you yet, amore mio," his voice a low, approving rumble, "That was just the beginning. I'm going to take you until the only thought in that beautiful head of yours is the feeling of me.”
Your cheek pressed against the icy table, feeling the familiar warm touch of Gold Experience on your arms. This wasn't the first time a stand has been used in intimate encounters between you. You groan quietly as a teasing idea comes to mind, your legs crossing at the knees as they dangle.
"Mngh... I'll never tell you my secrets... My gang is coming to save me, just watch." You say. Maybe he'll play along; it always depended on his mood.
A dark chuckle escapes Giorno's lips at your teasing defiance, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, amused light. He leans down, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he growls in your ear, "Is that so? You think your little gang can save you from me?"
Yep, he was in the mood.
Giorno's hand trails down the curve of your spine, his fingers digging into the soft flesh possessively. He grips your hip hard, pulling your backside flush against the rigid length of his arousal straining against his tailored slacks.
"I think you underestimate the depths of my... dedication to extracting the truth from you."
He reaches around, his fingers finding your sensitive, dripping sex. He pushes two long digits inside you, pumping them slowly, teasingly, feeling you clench around the invasion.
"Mmm, but you're right about one thing," Giorno purrs, his thumb circling your clit lazily, "I don't intend to stop until I've wrung every last secret, every last drop of pleasure from this exquisite body of yours."
Giorno starts to unzip his pants with his free hand, freeing his cock. He strokes it slowly, base to tip, before taking your hips in a bruising grip and positioning himself at your entrance.
"Last chance to tell me everything, Signorina," he warns, the head of his member nudging insistently against your slick folds. "Before I show you the full extent of my... Interrogation techniques."
You squirm against Gold Experience's firm grip, your legs trying to kick Giorno away, "I'll never tell! Go to Hell!" You call out, a small grin on your lips from the fun you're having.
"Hell, you say?" Giorno purred, "I think you’ll sing differently, Signorina." With that, Giorno thrusts his hips forward, burying his thick, hard cock deep inside your cunt with one brutal stroke.
You cry out at the sudden intrusion, back arching as Giorno fills and stretches you, the sudden intrusion sending sparks of pained pleasure racing up your spine. He doesn't give you a moment to adjust, setting a hard, punishing pace as he starts to fuck you in earnest, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing through the room.
"That's it, fight all you want," Giorno snarls, his hips pounding against your ass as he takes you. "It will only make your surrender all the sweeter in the end."
His hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back, forcing your head back as he ruts into you. "I will have my answers, Signorina. One way or another, I will break you..."
Moans and grunts spill from your lips, trying to suppress them the best you can to take away from your lover’s satisfaction.
Giorno feels the breath being pulled from his lungs, the glorious feel of you winding him. He can feel you clenching around him, your slick walls gripping his pistoning cock like a velvet vice, betraying your true desires.
"You can play coy all you want, amore mio," Giorno taunts, his voice a low, seductive purr even as he grinds into you roughly, "But your body tells a different story."
To emphasize his words, Giorno punctuates his demand with a particularly hard, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside your fluttering sheath.
His hand slides around your nape, his fingers wrapping lightly around the slender column from behind, a possessive gesture that belies his true tenderness. "Give in, Y/N," he commands.
It was all so visceral: the chill from the interrogation room, the warmth of Gold Experience, the scorching heat of Giorno's cock. Hell, you were already close to your second orgasm of the day.
"Mmmnh, I'm gonna come...Fuck I'm gonna come," You mumbled, eyes nearly rolling in the back of your head as Giorno held onto your neck with a firm, yet tender grip.
"Come for me, amore mio," Giorno growls, his voice a low, approving rumble as he feels your walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock. "Don't hold back, let me feel you come, screaming my name for all of Passione to hear."
He increases his pace, pounding into you with renewed vigor, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing through the room. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a primal, possessive gesture as he feels your body tensing, teetering on the precipice of climax.
"That's it, Y/N," he praises darkly, his eyes glittering with lust and a fierce, feral hunger.
To punctuate his demand, Giorno reaches around, his fingers finding your swollen, aching clit. He pinches the sensitive bundle of nerves between his fingers, rolling and plucking at them in a merciless rhythm, pushing you ruthlessly toward your peak.
You finally cry out, squirming against Gold Experience's grip as you feel your orgasm rippling through, "Fuck!!"
As your orgasm crashes over you, your body convulses and shakes beneath him, Giorno kisses down your shoulder, trailing between your shoulder blades. His hips never falter, never cease their relentless rhythm, fucking you through your climax with single-minded focus.
With a final, brutal thrust, Giorno buries himself to the hilt inside you, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of your shoulder, marking you as he finds his own shattering release.
"Y/N!" He cried, his hot seed erupting from him, flooding your depths in powerful spurts. His hips grind against yours, his cock twitching and jerking as he fills you.
You’re slow to turn your body, Gold Experience’s grip going slack as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. You breathe heavily against his ear, holding his head to your neck, "Fuck... Oh fuck... I-I didn't think... My interrogation would turn into this."
Giorno chuckles softly as he keeps you close, the sound a low, satisfied rumble against your ear. His hips remain settled against yours, not demanding now, just present, grounding. One arm is wrapped securely around your waist, the other sliding up your back as if he’s half afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold.
He dips his head, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His lips brush your overheated skin, lingering there as he inhales deeply, as though only now allowing himself to breathe again.
“Well, amore mio,” he murmurs warmly, amusement laced with unmistakable affection, “I suppose this was a rather… unconventional interrogation method.” He lets out a quiet huff of laughter against your skin, “But I must admit, I vastly prefer this outcome to the alternatives.”
He shifts just enough to look at you properly, pulling back so he can see your face. The Don’s cold authority is gone, replaced entirely by softness, by warmth. A crooked smile tugs at his lips as he reaches up and gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture almost reverent.
“I’m relieved,” he continues, quieter now, “To know you were never a threat to me, or to Passione.” His gaze flickers with faint disbelief before he adds dryly, “Though discovering a hidden wedding ring was not quite the revelation I expected during our… Interview.”
His fingers trail along your jaw, tracing a familiar line before he tilts your chin upward. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, slow and affectionate, a touch that feels impossibly gentle after everything that came before.
You swallow, breath catching just slightly, “So you… You want to marry me?”
The question leaves you quietly, searching his eyes. It isn’t a grand proposal. No speeches, no ceremony. But it’s unmistakable.
Giorno doesn’t hesitate. His expression softens further, something achingly sincere lighting his gaze. He cups your face fully now, palms warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing away any lingering tension.
“More than anything,” he murmurs. “I want to marry you.” His voice lowers, steady and absolute. “To make it unmistakably clear, to this world, that you are mine, and that I am yours.”
He leans forward until your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
“When I found the ring,” he admits softly, “It shattered my anger. I realized what I mistook for deceit was devotion.” His thumb strokes your cheek. “Your silence wasn’t betrayal… I was mistaken.”
Eventually, reluctantly, he helps you down from the table. There’s a quiet intimacy in the way you straighten your clothes together, in the shared glances and faint smiles, in the understanding that settles between you without needing words.
As you button your shirt, you glance over at him, lifting a brow, “Well,” you say lightly, “I suppose we should find the real mole now… Could’ve saved some time if you hadn’t roughed up your now-fiancée.”
Only you could say that to him.
Giorno lets out a rueful chuckle, retrieving the small ring box from the floor as he straightens his jacket. He steps closer, carefully fixing your collar, his touch gentle and apologetic all at once.
“You may be right,” he concedes, amused. “It seems I allowed both my suspicions and my feelings to interfere with my usual efficiency.”
Then his eyes gleam faintly.
“But,” he adds, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, “I regret nothing.”
When he pulls back, he offers you that familiar, confident smile, tempered now with warmth.
“Now that my beautiful bride-to-be has been thoroughly… cleared,” he says, “We can turn our attention to the true problem.” His hand finds yours, squeezing lightly. “Together.”
And for the first time since the doubts began, the future feels solid again.
You don’t pull your hand away. If anything, your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself as the weight of everything settles in. The warmth between you lingers, but your mind is already moving, connecting dots that didn’t sit right.
“…Giorno,” you say quietly. “Who pointed the finger at me?”
His expression shifts immediately. Not cold, but focused.
The warmth in his eyes doesn’t disappear, but something sharper slides into place beneath it, like a blade being drawn with practiced calm. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns your hand over in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he considers.
“Suspicion does not arise in a vacuum,” he says at last. “Especially not within Passione.”
You watch his jaw tighten slightly before he continues. “The concern was first raised by someone close enough to notice your movements, and influential enough to ensure I took it seriously.”
A pause.
“Cioccolata’s former network is fractured, but remnants still exist,” he explains. “One of my capos claimed that your absences coincided with information leaks. That certain operations failed shortly after you were gone.”
Your stomach twists. “So they used my schedule.”
“Yes.” His grip firms. “And what troubles me most is that the information they cited was selective. Incomplete. Almost… Curated.”
You look up at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Giorno says coolly, “They framed the narrative. They gave me just enough truth to make the lie convincing.”
Your pulse quickens. “So the person who accused me—”
“Had motive,” he finishes smoothly. “And opportunity.”
You exhale slowly, anger simmering beneath the surface. “What if they are the mole? What if they threw suspicion on me to protect themselves?”
A faint smile curves Giorno’s lips, not amused, but impressed.
“That was my conclusion as well.”
You blink. “…Already?”
He lifts your joined hands, brushing his knuckles against your skin. “You forget, amore mio. You are not the only one who keeps secrets.”
His eyes narrow slightly, thoughtful, “The accusation came from someone who has survived too many purges to be careless. Someone who understands that the fastest way to divert scrutiny is to redirect it toward someone untouchable.”
“Me,” you murmur.
“Exactly,” he says. “My weakness. My faith.”
There’s no shame in his voice, only clarity.
“And now?” you ask.
Now his smile sharpens.
“Now,” Giorno says quietly, “they believe their plan succeeded. They think you are under suspicion. That you are compromised.”
His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, a subtle, intimate reassurance. “Which means they will grow bold.”
You meet his gaze. “You’re going to let them think I’m still a suspect.”
“For a little while,” he confirms, “Just long enough for them to make a mistake.”
A beat passes before he adds, softer, “I will not allow anyone to use you as a shield again.”
You step closer without thinking, resting your forehead briefly against his chest. “I hate that you ever doubted me.”
His arm tightens around you instantly.
“I doubted the situation,” he corrects firmly., “Never your loyalty. Never your heart.” His chin rests atop your head, “And I will ensure whoever tried to turn us against each other understands the cost of that error.”
You pull back just enough to look up at him. “Then we do this together.”
There’s no hesitation in his response.
“Always,” Giorno says.
And somewhere in the shadows of Passione, someone has already begun to regret choosing you as their scapegoat.