Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The supper club was a world unto itself—dim lighting, whiskey-stained conversations, and the kind of cigarette smoke that curled around secrets like a lingering hand. Il Sole Rosso wasn't the most prestigious haunt in the city, but it was perfect for men like Vincenzo Cassano.

Men with blood on their hands.

Not the kind that washed off easily, but the kind that soaked into the skin, branded by the weight of duty.

Vincenzo sat in his usual spot—corner booth, back against the wall, eyes sweeping the room with detached calculation. He wasn’t just any soldier in the underground; he was one of the few trusted enough to handle what others couldn’t. A fixer. A messenger. A weapon. Tonight, he was waiting for orders that would take him far from this place. 

Chayoung moved between tables like she was always one step ahead of trouble. She had mastered the art of dodging wandering hands, slipping between drunken propositions with a sharp wit that left men burned before they knew they’d been dismissed. If they pushed too hard, her eyes hardened, and if that didn’t work, the knife tucked beneath her apron did. She wasn’t defenseless. Not here.

But Vincenzo still hated watching them try.

His jaw tightened every time a hand lingered too long or a drunk stumbled too close. He never intervened—she didn’t need rescuing—but he watched. Always. The moment rejection landed, and a man slumped back, embarrassed, he leaned into his glass with a quiet smirk.

She divided her attention between the club’s demands, never offering more than a passing glance, yet he drank it in like it was something rare. Something only for him.

And every night, he ordered scotch or vodka. It was upto her. She read the line between their shared invisible ink.

One. Then two. Then too many.

She never stopped him until it was clear he was drowning in more than liquor. That’s when she refused.

“You can’t walk out of here alone like this,” she murmured, flipping the glass over before he could protest.

His laugh was dry, the kind that held no real humor. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

“I don’t care.”

She did, though. More than she wanted to admit.

Tonight was different. She knew it in the way he stared at the liquor, the way his fingers toyed with the rim of the glass but never lifted it.

“You’re leaving,” she said finally. Not a question. A fact.

He looked up at her, searching for something in her face—maybe regret, maybe relief.

She held his gaze, steady. Defiant. “Is this one of those things you can’t talk about?”

“It’s better if you don’t ask.”

She nodded slowly, accepting what was unsaid. The club hummed around them, indifferent to goodbyes and things left unresolved.

Then, in a moment of impulse—or maybe desperation—he pushed his glass aside and stood.

“Dance with me.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t dance.”

“I do tonight.”

She let out a slow breath, wiped her hands against her apron, and took his outstretched hand.

He was leaving.

And she wasn't stopping him.

But tonight, just for a little while, they could pretend.

The song dipped into its most aching refrain, the kind of slow-burning sorrow that clung to the skin. She hesitated just long enough for the weight of his request to settle in her bones, then let his hand slip around hers.

They stepped onto the small, uneven floor reserved for the brave few who thought themselves untouched by tragedy. His grip was firm, controlled, yet not possessive. He guided her, letting her lead where she wished. She, in turn, didn’t flinch when she felt the cool steel of his gun, holstered beneath his suit.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked, voice barely louder than the music.

He had made a mistake.

Not in mingling with Chayoung—not in lingering too long, indulging in stolen moments of conversation—but in letting the wrong eyes see it.

Il Sole Rosso wasn’t just where the city’s most corrupt came to drown their sins in liquor. It was where alliances were watched. Where vulnerabilities were marked. Where the slightest misstep was turned into a weapon.

And Vincenzo had been careless.

Weeks of ordering scotch, of watching her navigate the room like she was untouchable.

Weeks of quiet conversations exchanged between rounds, where she refused him drinks and he let himself bask in her divided attention.

Weeks of looking at her in a way that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Someone had noticed. Someone had decided she was leverage.

“The deal is off,” Don Fabio muttered, the cigar between his fingers barely flickering as he spoke. “They saw her with you.”

Vincenzo’s jaw clenched. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“They don’t care,” Fabio said. “She’s yours. That’s enough.”

The words landed hard. She’s yours.

It wasn’t true. 

But it didn’t matter.

“She stays here, she dies,” Fabio continued, voice eerily calm. “And if she doesn’t die, she won’t be herself anymore.”

Vincenzo knew what that meant.

Control. Ownership. A fate worse than death, served in the name of power.

“They don’t take interest in women like her unless they mean to keep them,” Fabio said. “She goes with you. That’s the only way she walks out of this alive.”

Minutes pass.

Don poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of his office lamp. He looked amused, but it wasn’t the kind of amusement Vincenzo wanted to entertain.

“She’s a liability now,” Fabio muttered, taking a slow sip. 

Vincenzo sat rigid, fingers curled against the armrest of his chair. His mind was running too fast—past Chayoung, past the decision forced upon them.

He hesitated before asking. “How did they know?”

Fabio chuckled like the answer was obvious. But then his eyes darkened. Reprimanding.

“You sit in the same booth every night, looking at the same girl like she’s the only thing keeping you sane.”

Vincenzo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He had been careful. He thought he had been careful.

"Per l'amor di Dio, figlio," he says, shaking his head with a knowing grin. "You know how to hide a body but not how to claim what’s yours?"

Vincenzo stiffens, jaw tight, but he doesn't argue.

Because he is a coward. Because he is not deserving. Does not deserve her.

Because making quiet choices in the dark has always been easier than stepping into the light.

"I didn’t—" He hesitates, swallowing thickly. "I couldn’t."

His father lets out a dry laugh, tossing his cigar aside. "You could. You just didn’t."

Vincenzo says nothing.

Because what could he say when the truth was already staring him in the face?

But then, he remembers.

“She has a father,” Vincenzo muttered, rolling the words on his tongue like they were foreign.

Don Fabio exhaled a plume of cigar smoke, amused at his hesitation. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I imagine most people do.”

Vincenzo shot him a sharp look. “He won’t let her go.”

Fabio chuckled, leaning forward as if the entire conversation were a game. “You’re still not getting it, are you?”

Something cold ran through Vincenzo’s veins.

Fabio’s smirk deepened.

“Her father isn’t just anyone,” Fabio said, tapping ash off his cigar. “He’s one of us. Works for us.”

The words struck fast.

Vincenzo didn’t move, didn’t breathe, barely processed what had just been laid in front of him.

Fabio leaned back in his chair, rolling his cigar between his fingers as if the conversation was amusing him more than it should.

"He migrated from Korea," he began. "With his daughter. Came here after his wife’s demise."

Vincenzo swallowed hard. He had never asked. Had never thought to. But now, he was listening too carefully.

"Practiced law here, justly," Fabio continued, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, as if justice was something to be mocked.

Then his tone shifted—less amusement, more admiration, more knowing.

"But," he exhaled, watching Vincenzo carefully, "he was skillful. Just needed his moral compass fixed. Balanced."

He paused, letting the truth settle.

"That is why we took him in."

Vincenzo’s pulse was steady, but his mind wasn’t.

Wicked, cruel destiny.

She tapped his shoulder, light and fleeting, as if it meant nothing.

But it did as he woke up from the trance he was reeling in.

Vincenzo turned slightly, facing her in the dim light. His jaw was set, unreadable, the weight of a thousand decisions hanging between them.

“Yes,” he answered, voice steady, final. “I am leaving with you.”

She stopped mid-step, her hand falling back to her side.

Silence settled between them—not the comfortable kind, but the kind that waited for something irreversible to be said.

Her gaze flickered, searching his face, looking for cracks in the certainty he had just spoken aloud.

Vincenzo wasn’t sure what reaction he had expected—shock, resistance, maybe even quiet resignation.

But she laughed.

A small, almost amused sound. Like there is more than departures being finalized.

"What?" 

"Do you not want to?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, and suddenly everything fell silent around them.

She was old enough for this to feel ridiculous.

Old enough that bringing her father along should have been embarrassing.

And yet, that old man loved putting his back in pain, taking heavy-duty cases that no one else wanted, sticking to them with the kind of stubbornness only age and experience could justify.

It was infuriating.

And admirable.

"Abeoji..." she muttered under her breath, as if the mere thought of him made the situation heavier.

Vincenzo let out a slow exhale, voice steady. "Yu Chan byeonhosanim will be fine."

She narrowed her gaze slightly, watching him carefully.

"We will meet him before departing."

Tonight, they were running.

Together.

Chapter Text

The knock came quiet but firm. Yu Chan opened the door to find Vincenzo standing with the men behind him and the black carriage waiting at the curb. He stepped aside without a word, eyes scanning the street before letting Vincenzo in.  

Inside, Chayoung was pacing—half-dressed, hair only half-tied—grabbing things with one hand and brushing her scarf off the floor with the other.  

“I heard about it already,” Yu Chan said roughly, eyes on her but voice pitched toward Vincenzo. “Fabio told me everything.”  

Vincenzo nodded, offering a respectful glance before his gaze followed Chayoung as she sprinted upstairs in a blur. The men outside were still watching through the frosted panes, their breath fogging the glass.  

Minutes passed. Too many.  

Yu Chan sighed and turned to lock the door himself. As he walked away, Vincenzo noticed her—sitting in the hallway with one leg hiked up on the table, struggling with her boots.  

The hem of her skirt had slipped up to her calves, and Vincenzo cleared his throat, glancing politely away before stepping forward. Without a word, he crouched and buckled the boot neatly, his touch practiced.  

She stilled but didn’t protest.  

He waited for her to lift the other leg, and she did—with deliberate slowness this time.  

As he secured the second buckle, Yu Chan returned. He paused in the doorway, took in the sight of them, and exhaled.  

“Didn’t think I’d be watching my daughter get ready for war like a drama heroine,” Yu Chan muttered, arms crossed.

Chayoung didn’t even glance up. “Then close your eyes, Appa,” she snapped, yanking her suitcase upright with theatrical flair.

She reached for the second, stuffing law books into its side pocket until Vincenzo’s brow arched.

“You’re not taking those,” her father said sharply.

“They are hardcover,” she sniffed, looping her scarf around her reddened nose with a stubborn pride. “Could stop a bullet.”

She brushed past them both without another word, boots clacking with unnecessary confidence.

Chayoung stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her coat, her voice sharp and rapid like she was reciting a courtroom checklist.

"Don't miss your meals, and make sure you wash the dishes properly. No stacking them in the sink, and for heaven’s sake, don’t scatter the dining table with your documents again. Oh—and go easy on the makgeolli and cigarettes this time or—"

"Cha Young-ah," her father interrupted, tone flat and resigned like he'd delivered this line a hundred times before.

She raised her brows at him with mock innocence. “What? You're hopeless without supervision, abeoji.”

Behind her, Vincenzo stifled a grin, lowering his gaze as he gave Yu Chan a respectful bow. There was something reverent in the gesture—not just farewell, but quiet thanks.

At the door, he laid a hand on Vincenzo’s arm. “Take care of her.”

Vincenzo glanced at Chayoung marching ahead-her scarf flaring behind her like a banner, then back at the old man. He sighed as his grip on the suitcases tensed, an attempt to hide a lovelorn smile which Yu Chan caught in a flash, knowing that she is not just in safe hands but more. 

Yu Chan stood in the doorway a moment longer, arms folded, watching them disappear toward the waiting carriage. Then he shut the door—not gently, not forcefully. Just finally.

She moved into the carriage wordlessly, coat brushing the polished wood as she slid across the velvet seat. Vincenzo stayed outside for a moment longer, giving quiet instructions to Matteo as he latched the suitcases and then lifting a hand to signal Luca in the second carriage. The wheels groaned to life behind them as the night embraced the road.

Inside, Chayoung fumbled with the tiny side window—glass stiff in its frame—muttering as she pressed her palms against it.

Then his hands appeared, warm and sure over hers. A gentle tug, and the pane gave way with a soft creak.

Cold air rushed in. The city rolled past in smears of gold and shadow.

“What’s with the bar exam books?” he asked quietly, still holding the edge of the window, though his eyes had shifted to her.

She turned to him. And it wasn’t fair—how utterly composed he looked even in motion. Clad in black, crisp collar, sharp cuffs, that understated scent of tobacco and something rich—something hers now. The kind of presence that belonged in either a court or a gunfight, and somehow fit both.

“I want to pass,” she said, nose pink from the warmth of the house and the sting of the wind. “But Abeoji keeps pushing me away from it. Says it’ll only get harder once I do.”

Vincenzo didn’t respond immediately. He looked ahead for a moment, then back at her. His silence wasn’t judgment. It was recognition.

He had read the reports. Heard the stories. The women who wore binding under coats and signed names that weren’t theirs. The ones who bent their voices lower in courtrooms, whose victories were rewritten under their fathers’ or brothers’ names. Most didn’t make it to the bench. The rest didn’t live long enough to change it.

But this one—this woman sitting beside him—wasn’t made to bend.

She is clever enough to pass. Brazen enough to try. And wily enough to do it loudly.

He smiled faintly and then nods looking at her who has been looking at him all along. 

He says nothing—doesn't need to. His eyes do what words never could. They speak in that quiet, devastating way of his, confirming everything she’s dared to dream and feared to hope.

Her heart hammers.

That silent certainty, the calm in his gaze, makes it all too real—and suddenly, she’s drowning in the feral urge to reach for him, to take him by the collar and crash her lips into his, to claim and be claimed, to make the unspoken burn into breathless reality.

But fate is impatient.

The carriage screeches violently around a corner, metal groaning, wheels skidding over cobblestone. Her breath catches too late—momentum flings her sideways and into him, full-body, full-contact——she thinks she can act, can surrender to that dizzy, destructive want, the world jerks.  

Vincenzo’s arm catches her instantly, protective and practiced, as if his body knew before his mind did. Her fingers land against the fabric of his coat, palm flat against the heat of his chest.

For a moment, neither of them breathes.

She’s flush against him, the scent of him overwhelming, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pounding beneath her touch—reassuring, dangerous, devastating.

His hand lingers on her waist. He doesn’t look away this time.

She doesn’t move. But he does—his hand shifting behind his back, brushing over the snug weight of the gun tucked beneath his coat. Their eyes follow the motion like instinct, and for one suspended breath, the air thickens.

Didn’t they just start this journey?

He glances at her, a quiet apology written across his face—as if he already knows how this interruption has ruined plan of hers and derailed something she was very ready to admit wanting.

"Minor inconvenience," he murmurs, and then he’s gone, slipping out of the carriage before she can stop him.

She exhales slowly, turning to stare at the seat still holding the warmth of him.

Then, the symphony outside: sharp commands, a scuffle, the harsh crack of gunfire. A groan.

And then—
a scream that doesn’t sound like anyone familiar but still makes her flinch.

The door creaks open again.

He steps back inside like he’s returning from a smoke break—unbothered, composed, save for the smear of blood at his lip and the dust on his shoulder.

She squints at him. He doesn’t explain.

Great, she mutters inwardly, sinking back into her seat.

So much for a quiet beginning.

The night, clearly, had only just cleared its throat.