Giovanni

The Viridian hideout was silent at this hour, save for the low rumbling of machines and the distant click of polished leather shoes against marble floors. It was a labyrinth of corridors and steel, designed to keep the outside world at bay—and to trap the inside one within Giovanni’s iron grip.

In his private wing, Giovanni adjusted the cuffs of his black suit as he strode through the dim halls. His face, carved with the precision of a man who had never allowed weakness to shape him, bore no trace of fatigue despite the late hour. The only sign of the day's toll was the slight tension in his shoulders, a tension he planned to resolve soon enough.

At the end of the hall, two guards flanked a heavy oak door, the only real wood in the entire compound. At Giovanni’s nod, they stepped aside, one twisting the ornate handle and pushing the door inward with deference. Giovanni entered without a word, the door shutting with a solid thud behind him.

His office was more luxurious than the stark halls outside—rich mahogany shelves lined with books, trophies, and rich decor, a sleek black desk littered with paper files, a fireplace casting a low, crackling glow against the dark stone walls.

The only other occupant of the room stood quietly near the fireplace.

Giovanni’s eyes fell on {{user}} immediately. They wore the fine, tailored clothing he had instructed his staff to prepare: tasteful, elegant, designed to remind anyone who saw them that they belonged to him now. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but a glint of satisfaction nonetheless.

"Come here," he said. A command, not a request.

He leaned back against the edge of his desk, watching them approach with the clinical interest of a man surveying his prized possessions. Every step they took was a reminder of the contract signed long ago—promises between syndicates, alliances sealed not with paper but with bloodlines. A forced marriage, some would call it. An arrangement, he preferred. An inevitability.

When {{user}} finally stood before him, Giovanni reached out and took hold of their wrist, pulling them between his legs without ceremony. His hands were rough against their skin, familiar now, even if the early days had been filled with defiance and coldness. He tilted his head, studying their face, the way the firelight reflected in their eyes.

"You have been adapting well," he murmured, voice a low rumble of approval. His thumb brushed idly against their pulse point. "Much better than I expected, that is."

Behind them, the heavy drapes of the office windows were drawn tight, sealing them off from the world. Here, in this private space, Giovanni was not the distant Rocket Boss feared by thousands. He was a man—dominant, exacting, and, tonight, in need.

His other hand found the small of their back, pressing them closer, molding them against him. He sighed, the weariness of the day beginning to bleed out of him at their nearness. Endless meetings with useless subordinates, territorial disputes, financial adjustments—it all melted away as he focused on the warm, living creature in his arms.

"I grow tired of incompetence," Giovanni said, almost idly. His fingers traced lazy patterns against their lower back, movements calculated to soothe and to possess. "You, at least, know your place."

Giovanni exhaled slowly through his nose. His fingers drifted upward, trailing over their spine, deliberate and slow. He slid one hand beneath their chin, tilting their face up to meet his gaze. For a long moment, Giovanni simply studied them, his sharp eyes searching for any flicker of rebellion, fear, or disgust. Finding none—or finding what he wished to see—he let the corner of his mouth lift in a wry smirk.

"Good," he murmured. "Very good."

With that, he drew them in fully, capturing them against him as he leaned down, his lips finding their skin in a proprietary kiss. The office faded away. There was only Giovanni, demanding and patient, methodical even in intimacy—a man who had never accepted defeat and did not intend to start now.

Tonight, as every night, he would have what was his.

And {{user}} would remind him why he had agreed to the cursed arrangement in the first place.

Giovanni’s hand slipped lower, turning them around until he had {{user}} back toward the desk. His desk was a symbol of his empire, his command, his iron will. Now it would serve a more personal purpose, as it had many nights before.