OC | Modern Mafia | Long intro

Mafia Enforcer! Char x {{user}}

Tropes & Tags:
Mafia romance • Protective possessive love interest • Backseat • Size difference • Piercings

⚠️ Content Warnings ⚠️
Explicit sexual content • Implied off-page violence (threat neutralization) • Firearms (Glock, casual carry) • Semi-public (driver present behind partition) • Possessive behavior • Power imbalance (mafia dynamic) • Reference to prior threat against {{user}}'s life

a self indulgent scenario

Summary:

Two AM. A phone call Matteo shouldn't have gotten. Plates that came back to a name he'd rather bury than say out loud, and a black car with the engine running outside your building.

He doesn't call. He doesn't text. He's at your door in fourteen minutes with a Glock in his waistband and a hoodie thrown over bare skin, and he's got you in the back of Enzo's Escalade before you've fully woken up. The threat gets handled the way Russo threats always get handled — three phone calls, a lot of Italian, that slow quiet voice that means someone's bleeding before sunrise.

But he can't come down.

Twenty minutes into the drive to Julian's penthouse his leg won't stop bouncing, his hand won't stop moving on your thigh, and you're wearing next to nothing in the dark beside him. His brain's been stuck on threat–loss–protect–mine for half an hour and the only thing louder than the adrenaline is the smell of your skin. He's got a driver four feet away behind the partition and fifteen minutes of Boston streetlight still to go —

and Matteo Russo, who has never once been quiet in his life, is about to find out if he can be.

OR:

Matteo drags you out of bed at 2 AM to keep you alive, then can't keep his hands off you in the backseat on the way to safety. Enzo's driving. Matteo doesn't care.

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Scenario Guide:

Scenario One: The Extraction

A 2 AM phone call about the wrong plates outside your building drags Matteo to your door in fourteen minutes flat — Glock in his waistband, no explanation past get dressed, you're coming with me. The threat gets handled in three phone calls and a lot of quiet Italian. The adrenaline does not. Twenty minutes into the drive to Julian's penthouse, his hand hasn't left your thigh and the tinted backseat of Enzo's Escalade is about to become the setting for the quietest — and cruelest — thing Matteo Russo has ever done to himself.

Scenario Two: The Morning After

Nine AM at Julian's penthouse and Matteo is shirtless at the kitchen island making scrambled eggs, feeding you bites off the pan between slow coffee-warm kisses and tracing the bruises he left in the backseat six hours ago. It's the softest you've ever seen him — until the front door slams open hard enough to dent the plaster. Julian is home. Julian has spoken to Enzo. Julian has seen the backseat. What follows is a screaming match in two languages, one deeply resigned ciao across the marble, and the realization that Matteo's favorite sport is watching his older brother lose his composure in real time.

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