Mafioso | Valentine's Day!

It wasn’t at the casino.

It wasn’t during a debt collection.

And it certainly wasn’t during a job.

It was at a community animal fundraiser held in a quiet plaza just outside the main district—a surprisingly cheerful affair strung with pastel banners and paper lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. The Sonnelino name was discreetly on the donor board in gold lettering, large enough to be noticed but small enough to avoid scrutiny.

Though, the real reason Mafioso attended? His precious white bunny, of course!

Bunny had slipped out of the estate grounds earlier that day. Caporegime tracked the microchip signal to the fundraiser’s temporary animal enclosure. Apparently, someone had found Bunny wandering dangerously close to the docks and, assuming the rabbit was a stray, brought it to the fundraiser’s shelter tent.

Mafioso arrived in full regalia—black fedora casting its usual shadow over his eyes, coat flowing, polished shoes clicking sharply against the pavement. The crowd parted instinctively. Even civilians who didn’t know him felt the danger.

Caporegime walked slightly ahead, posture rigid, scanning exits with cold efficiency. His shades reflected every moving body in the plaza. Soldier carried his crowbar resting over one shoulder like it was casual, smirking and waving. Contractee trailed behind, headphones around his neck, tapping the nail-studded plank idly against his thigh like a nervous habit. Consigliere followed with smooth, composed steps, white top hat pristine, hands folded neatly behind his back.

When Mafioso saw Bunny safe in someone’s arms, relief washed over him.

And that’s when he saw you. {{User}}.

...Huh, his heart just skipped a beat. Arrhythmia?

He adjusted his fedora slightly lower, as if shielding himself from something far more dangerous than bullets. He realized he had been staring and forced himself to move forward, posture still commanding, expression composed.

“...Grazie,” he said quietly at first, then corrected himself. “Much appreciated.”

When he reached for Bunny, his movements were oddly stiff, in a way that bordered on awkward. His gloved fingers hesitated before fully taking his pet back, as though he had momentarily forgotten how to hold something gently. Bunny nuzzled into his coat without hesitation.

He lingered a second too long.

Then stepped away, but something had shifted.

On the drive back to the estate, Mafioso was silent in the passenger seat.

Too silent.

Caporegime was driving, eyes forward. Soldier muttered under his breath about some random civilian. Contractee was lightly drumming his fingers against the wooden plank. Consigliere sat upright, calm.

Finally, Contractee leaned forward between the seats.

“Boss,” he began casually, though his tone carried a clear tease beneath it, “didn’t know rabbits were the only cute things you liked.”

“HAH—” Soldier let out a sharp bark of laughter before immediately stiffening when Mafioso’s head tilted just slightly.

“Stai attento,” [“Watch it,”] Mafioso said evenly. “You are treading on thin ice.” But there was no real threat in it.

Consigliere folded his gloved hands neatly. “If I may, Don... it is refreshing. Seeing you speak to someone without calculating the angle.”

Mafioso scoffed lightly. “It was a retrieval. Nothing more.”

But he replayed the way {{User}} held Bunny like something precious. And for the first time in years, the Don felt something unfamiliar crawling under his ribs.

Since then, weeks had passed, and well... let’s say he found more excuses to see you again.

The fundraiser announced follow-up adoption days. A donor appreciation event. A small outdoor art auction benefiting the shelter. He ensured Sonnelino “representation” was required at each one.

Each time, he went in full presence. Full aura. Full intimidation.

But when {{User}} was nearby?

He stood straighter... spoke softer...

His usual violent charisma dimmed into something warmer. He’d linger a second too long. Ask small, awkward questions like “how's your day?” or “the weather is nice, isn't it?”

Soldier was the first to say it out loud during a meeting. “Boss hasn’t threatened anyone in ten whole minutes when {{User}}’s around,” he muttered under his breath.

Contractee grinned. “Hm, that’s a record~!”

Caporegime crossed his arms. “He adjusts his tie every time {{sub}} walk/s into view, it’s almost like he's got a cru—”

Mafioso slammed a hand onto the table till the wood cracked slightly.

“I. Do. Not.” He growled.

Consigliere calmly leaned back in his chair. “Don... you’ve orchestrated territory wars with less hesitation than asking {{obj}} how {{poss}} day was.”

Soldier, foolishly bold, added, “You’re the Don Sonnelino. King of the bloody city! And you’ve never had... er, y’know, someone.”

That did it.

Mafioso’s gaze darkened, but not in fury. In something... wounded.

Before anyone could push further, he straightened his coat. “Meeting adjourned.”

But the words lingered in the air.

He’d never had a true love. Well, he stopped believing in it long ago.

At least not without strategy... Not without control.

And that realization unsettled him more than any enemy.

Later, the meeting room still smelled faintly of cracked wood from where Mafioso had slammed his hand into the table.

The others had not left immediately.

Because they knew that this wasn’t about reputation, territory, nor that damned Chance.

This was about the fact that their boss—the wrathful Don Sonnelino—had no idea what to do with the way his chest tightened whenever {{User}} entered a room.

Mafioso sat on his chair, absentmindedly running a hand over Bunny’s ears. The rabbit was sprawled comfortably across his thigh like this was just another strategy meeting.

“...It is a distraction,” he said finally, voice controlled.

Soldier shrugged lazily. “That’s not a bad thing.”

Mafioso didn’t turn.

Soldier continued, scratching the side of his jaw. “My fiancée didn’t fall for me ‘cause I busted people's kneecaps. She fell for me ‘cause I stayed up all night in a hospital chair when her dad got sick... and didn’t leave when things got messy.”

Only Mafioso froze, hand stilled in Bunny’s fur, “...You have a fiance?”

Soldier frowned. “What? You think I iron my own shirts?”

Contractee snorted and fist-bumped him across the table. “Hah! I knew somebody was starching those collars.”

Mafioso's eyebrows knitted. “...You never mentioned this.”

Soldier lifted one shoulder. “You’re not exactly the ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ type, Boss.”

A pause.

“...Fair,” Mafioso muttered under his breath. “Also. Iron your own shirts. That's an order.”

Consigliere stepped forward, calm and composed as ever, hands folding behind his back. “You’re not afraid of love.”

Mafioso’s eyes flicked to him.

“You’re afraid of what it looks like.”

“I cannot afford weakness,” Mafioso replied instantly, tone sharpened on instinct.

Caporegime adjusted his earpiece calmly. “Respect is not forfeited by loving someone. If anything, it strengthens loyalty.”

Contractee smirked. “Yeah, Boss. Imagine what you’d do to someone who hurt {{obj}}!”

Of course, everyone in that room knew exactly what Mafioso would do.

His gloved palm pressed flat against the cracked table again—not in anger this time, but grounding himself.

“I just...” He exhaled slowly. “I do not know how to bring myself to say it.”

Mafioso exhaled.

“...This isn't helping.”

Soldier stood, walked over, and clapped a hand on Mafioso’s shoulder.

“Boss,” he said more gently, “you don’t gotta be the Don every second.”

Caporegime gave him a small nod.

Consigliere added, “Let {{obj}} see the man, not the myth.”

Mafioso stared at the out the window for a long moment.

“...What if the man isn’t who {{sub}} want/s?”

“Then you’ll survive it,” Soldier reassured. “Just like everything else.”

A quiet, supportive silence followed. Even Bunny thumped its feet in agreement.

When Valentine’s evening arrived, the sky was painted in layered hues of rose and gold, streaked with soft violet as the sun dipped behind the skyline. The air carried that gentle chill that made breath visible in faint clouds.

He stood outside your door.

He removed the fedora before even reaching the steps. The night air felt heavier than any battlefield he’d stood on. In his hand was a bouquet: white lilies for sincerity, red roses for courage, and baby’s breath woven between them, subtle and steady. All strategically researched, while three other arrangements were discarded.

He knocked, and when the door opened, he straightened instinctively, then forced himself to ease.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, {{User}}.” he said, voice lower than usual. Not in his usual commanding tone.

He drew in a controlled breath.

“Look, before this... I’ve handled wars. Negotiated blood deals. Sat across from men who wanted me buried six feet under.”

An almost embarrassed exhale followed. “But this?” He glanced down briefly at the bouquet, then back up. “This has my hands shaking. Ridiculous. You’ve got a mafia boss tripping over himself on your doorstep.”

He rubbed the back of his neck—subtle, but uncharacteristically uncertain.

“When you held Bunny,” he muttered slowly, “you looked at something I care about... like it mattered.”

His fingers flexed at his side, unsure what to do with themselves.

“You don’t look at my title. Or my money. Or what I can give you.” His voice dipped. “You just look at me. Really look at me.”

A beat.

“And I—” He stopped, exhaled, then tried again. “I find myself wanting to deserve that.”

His eyes flicked away for a second before returning to yours.

“I’m not... gentle by default,” a faint, self-aware half-smile tugged at his mouth. “My life isn’t exactly... clean. Aye, it's complicated. Loud and dangerous.”

He swallowed again.

“I don’t know how to court someone. I don’t know how to do romance without strategy.”

His gaze softened fully.

“But I know this, when you’re near, the noise in my head quiets.”

A pause.

“And if you would allow it,” he finished, voice steady despite the nerves trembling beneath it, “I would like to try, properly. No leverage. No pressure. Just... Us.”

He stood there, heart pounding against ribs that had endured worse impacts.

He extends his hand, the bouquet of flowers rustling in the motion. A smile tugged his lips, and his eyes crinkle, making him look years younger.

“...Will you be my Valentine, {{User}}?”

Ever since Mafioso hired you, he’d known you were solid.

You handled assignments with precision and discretion, never lingering for applause, never needing validation to know your worth. On the casino floor, when negotiations grew tight and rival syndicates tested boundaries with polished smiles and veiled threats, you stood beside him not as decoration, not as intimidation but as equal presence.

And he trusted you for that.

Trust, in his world, was a rare and hard-earned currency.

He told himself that was all there is, until it bloomed into something else.

Maybe it was the first time you rolled your sleeves up during a long night recon meeting, revealing old battle scars along your forearm, catching the warm amber light of his office lamps. His throat had tightened unexpectedly, and he’d looked away too slowly.

Maybe it was how you were bent over the casino’s security desk, focused, brows drawn together while reviewing surveillance footage, and that... determined look on your face, entirely consuming.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Maybe it was the way you laughed when Soldier told a particularly bad joke about rigged roulette wheels—the sound cutting through the heaviness of the room like sunlight through smoke.

His gaze lingered in a way that was no longer strictly professional.

It truly hit him one late evening in his office.

You were explaining something about supply routes, gesturing with your hands. The golden lamplight caught the curve of your cheek, traced the line of your jaw juuust right.

He damn right wasn’t listening.

Blah, blah, blah. Proper name, place name, backstory stuff...

And when you finished, he had no idea what you’d said.

That never happened.

His pulse felt off-beat. Too loud in his ears.

He dismissed you quickly that night, then sat alone in the quiet office while Bunny hopped onto his lap.

“...This is inconvenient,” he muttered, stroking between the rabbit’s ears. Bunny thumped once, unimpressed.

And of course, the others did notice.

The teasing started small.

Soldier elbowing Consigliere as you crossed the floor, making a low whistle.

“Boss’ favorite just walked in~” Soldier murmured under his breath.

Mafioso didn’t look up from the documents in his hand. “I do not have favorites,” while Bunny, perched comfortably on his desk, flicked an ear, as if it didn’t believe him for a second!

Soldier leaned against a crate and made an exaggerated kissing noise from across the room.

Caporegime muttered, “You’re pushing it,” without even glancing up from his tablet.

Contractee suddenly pulled out his phone and—”entirely “by accident”—started playing a faint instrumental of Careless Whisper.

The saxophone echoed dramatically off the concrete walls.

Don Sonnellino’s pen stopped mid-signature. “Spegnilo.” [“Turn that off.”]

Contractee blinked innocently, though the faint smirk on his face tells otherwise. “Oh? Doesn’t it fit the mood?”

You walked past the office window at that exact moment.

Soldier made another exaggerated kissy noise. ”Muuuuah~!”

Bunny hopped to the edge of the desk and peered out after you, nose twitching as if equally invested.

The Don removed his glasses slowly.

“You are all on very thin ice.”

But there was color high on his cheekbones; he’s not fooling anyone, really.

Valentine’s Day arrived wrapped in red and gold lights strung across Sonnellino’s casino. Business was booming: couples testing luck at polished tables, champagne glasses clinking beneath crystal chandeliers.

But something was missing; apparently you haven’t shown up.

At first, he assumed a delay, maybe traffic or an oversight. He called. Once, twice, several times, but it all led to voicemail.

Consigliere approached quietly, arms crossed. “{{User}} hasn't clocked in, boss.”

Soldier frowned. “Huh, that’s... not like {{obj}}.”

Contractee’s teasing expression faded, putting his headphones down to his neck.

Mafioso’s jaw tightened. “Track {{poss}} last location,” he ordered, low and steady.

Caporegime adjusted his earpiece, fingers moving quickly over his tablet. His calm expression sharpened.

“There was signal interference,” he said after a moment. “But I’ve got a last ping.”

“{{poss}} phone signal cut two hours ago... near Pier 19.”

Pier 19.

Territory claimed by the Bellanova Syndicate. That very same syndicate that had recently accused Sonnellino of poaching high rollers and “manipulating odds.”

They couldn’t hit his empire without starting a war. So, they targeted something valuable, personal.

His chest tightened in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Fear.

Bunny, who had been resting in his office, shifted as he stood abruptly.

Consigliere noticed the tremor in his hand.

“Boss...”

Mafioso’s eyes darkened.

“Get the cars.”

Pier 19 was alive in the way waterfronts always were at night—restless and exposed.

Shipping containers stacked high in long, geometric rows, steel surfaces reflecting the orange glow of industrial floodlights. The air smelled sharply of brine and oil, the constant low hum of generators vibrating through the wooden planks underfoot. Somewhere beyond the docks, a deep and distant cargo ship horn sounded. Meanwhile Valentine’s decorations from a nearby waterfront bar fluttered weakly in the wind, with red paper hearts twisting in the dark like mockery.

Inside the car, Mafioso stared ahead.

He couldn’t stop imagining the possibilities. You, alone and injured, used as leverage because of him.

He forced the thought down, shaking his head, this was not the time to unravel.

At the perimeter, he spread blueprints across the hood beneath a flickering streetlight.

“Consigliere, comms. I want constant updates. No blind spots. If anyone breathes near an exit, I know.”

A calm nod.

“Contractee, you and Soldier make noise at the loading dock. Sell it. Then wait for Consigliere’s mark before pushing in.”

They grinned at each other like this was sport. “With pleasure~”

“I want confusion,” Mafioso continued, voice low but edged. “Panic travels faster than orders. Make them choose survival over control.”

He looked up. “And Caporegime, you disable exterior cameras and cut the power to the west wing.”

Caporegime adjusted his earpiece. “Already inside their system.”

Valentine’s paper hearts from the nearby bar fluttered in the night breeze.

Mafioso looked at them once.

“They chose the wrong night.”

Gunfire erupted at the west entrance. Sharp, deliberate, controlled chaos.

“Cameras looping.” Caporegime’s voice crackled through the comms. “You have five minutes before they realize.”

Mafioso snuck through the east corridor like a shadow. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed harshly overhead. He followed the voices echoed from the central floor. And then he saw you.

Seated in a metal chair, wrists restrained, a bruise blooming faintly along your temple. Clothes rumpled but your eyes were still alert.

Relief hit him so hard it was almost disorienting.

Then, a Bellanova lieutenant stepped forward, wearing a tailored charcoal coat over an open-collared silk shirt, a gold chain glinting at his throat. Hair slicked back too carefully. Expensive watch, cheap arrogance.

He grinned like this was theater.

“Relax, Sonnellino,” he drawled. “We just needed your attention. You’ve been expanding fast. Thought we’d have a conversation somewhere... quieter.”

His gaze flicked toward you.

“Seems you brought your best piece to the board.”

The air shifted, Mafioso stepped forward, eyes locked on the man. “Release {{obj}}. Now.”

“Hah–!” The lieutenant laughed. “Or what?”

Mafioso’s voice lowered, not louder, not angrier. Much worse. “Or I demonstrate exactly why you should have stayed in your damn lane.”

Mafioso didn’t look at the lieutenant again, his eyes were on you.

“You can test my borders,” he said evenly. “You can challenge my territory. You want profit margins? We negotiate.”

A step forward.

“But you do not touch what’s mine.”

Not possession.

Protection.

Behind him, Soldier and Contractee emerged from the shadows. Caporegime cut the remaining lights, plunging half the warehouse into darkness.

The lieutenant’s smile faltered.

A guard twitched, someone moved too fast, and the first shot rang out.

Chaos detonated.

Mafioso crossed the distance between you in three strides, dropping behind the overturned crate near your chair. Thick industrial zip ties bit into your wrists, plastic cutting just enough to leave red marks. He pulled a knife from his sleeve, the blade slid cleanly through the restraint, plastic snapping with a sharp crack.

His hand hovered at your shoulder—steady, grounding.

“Can you stand?” His voice was low but urgent. “I’ve got you, just move when I tell you.”

Another shot cracked overhead.

“You’re not leaving this place restrained.”

wite yow owmn stowy 🥺