black gaurd

anonymous asked:

Request : Luciano (2P!Italy) x reader? Maybe where you've been kidnapped by his mafia and in order to live have to be his wife?

The light coming in from the window seered through your closed eyelids, creating a kaladascope of colors. Funny, you thought you’d closed the drapes before going to bed. You’d beeen tiered more so than usual, but then agian, the food you’d eaten at that italian reasturant /had/ tasted funny. 

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Your yawn died in your throat as you saw the room surrounding you. This isn’t my room, you thought.

The sheets were a deep ruby red, and softer than anything you could ever have afforded. The vanity across from you was laden with designer make up labels. I don’t wear makeup you thought as you climbed out of bed. The world dipped and swayed, pinpricks of light dotting your vision.

When did my face get o close to the floor. You shiver, feeling your stomach lurch.

You tried to reach for the nightstand, hoping to get up and make a dash for the bathroom. The small table seemed to tripple, then double before coming up to meet you.


When you woke up agian, a hand was holding yours. It was larger than your own, and gently rubbing circles on your knuckles. Fighting the throbbing headache, you opened your eyes.

?Why is the waiter here? Is this a dream?/

“Bella, you’re awake! If you weren’t feeling well, you should have called for one of the servants. We found you with a nasty gash on your head, next to a plie of vomit.”

The voice seemed concerned. Squinting, you tried to examine the boy. He looked to be a few years older than you, with a slender roman nose and high cast cheek bones, tan skin and auburn hair. /It was the waiter from last night!/

He moved his unoccupied hand to stroke your forehead, murmuring something as he did so.

“At least your fever has gone down. You should spend the week in bed. The wedding is next week and we can’t have the bride looking like a limp fiore.” (Flower)

You jolted, yanking your hand out of his.

“Wedding? I’m not getting married! You must be confused!” You exclaimed.

The man smiled tenderly at you. He tucked an errant peice of hair behind your ear as he did so.

“You must have hit your head hard, bella. I’ll go get you a cold compress. Why don’t you lie back down.” He pressed a kiss to your head and left the room. Now was your chance to escape!

Throwing back the covers, you leapt out of bed only to fall face first a few feet from the bed. You groaned, feeling something warm rundown your face. Gathering your arms under you, you pushed, and fell agian.

The sound of a door opening and closing made you look towards it. 

“Bella? Where did you go?” The man called out. He came around to the side of the bed where you lay. Smiling down at you he put the compress on the nightstand.

“Did you need something? Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

You blushed. Then, remembering what he wanted you scooted back, pressing your back into the side of the bed. He tilted his head at you.

“Here, let’s get you back in  bed.”He said before scooping you up.

“Who are you?” You ask, trying to make your voice sound feirce. You felt your voice crack. He chuckled at you, ruffling your hair.

“I’m your husband.”

You felt the blood leave your face. 

“I don’t have a husband, I’m single.” He grinned at you before reaching behind you and taking a few of the pillows and pushing your shoulders down.

“Lie back. I’ll put the compress on your forehead.” You sawtted his hands away.

“Awnser my question! Who are you!? And don’t say my husband! I’m not going to marry someone when I don’t even know their name and they’ve kidnapped me!”

He looked a little offended at your outburst.

“My name is Luciano. I brought you here to be my wife. I’m the head of the italian mafia. You should consider yourself lucky.” He explained with a self satisfied smirk.

You glared at him before responding.

“Luciano, as in ‘Lucky Luciano’, the godfather of the American mafia and organasied crime? I don’t believe you. You’re just some wannabe gang banger who thinks he’s cool enough to pass himself off as mafia. No real mafia member would admit to being in the mafia. And as for ‘lucky’, I don’t think so! I’m too young to be married. Certianly not to you! I won’t pick up after your self entitled ass!”

This seemed to make him angry. His smile twitched, before his face split into a grin.

“You’ll change your mind once you see how much I can offer you, bella. Every woman, no matter what her attitude is, loves being safe and secure. You’ll love me.” He kissed your cheek before putting the compress on your head and walking out the door.

You screamed, ignoring the searing pain it brought, and threw the compress at the door.

Like hell you were going to be that spoilt brat’s wife! 


The day of the wedding arrived and The Spolit Little Bitch as you’ve nicknamed him in your head, actually left you alone. ‘Thankfully’ his flamboyant brother, Flavio came to keep watch over you.

“You must be really amazing to have mio fratellino fawning over you.” He said while primpling your hair. 

“I’ve never met him before today. He durgged my food.” You didn’t blink, daring him to challange you.

He grinned at you.

“I did the same to my wife. God she’s a spitfire. But she’ll calm down when the baby’s born though.” He sighed. /Why does he make it sound like a good thing?/

“You’ll be the same way! Luci can’t wait to get started on a family of his own. He hasn’t stopped asking my opinion on baby names and picking a saint for the bambina.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“I’m not catholic! And I’m not even italian! Last time I checked, those are the only people that most Italian’s marry!” You exclaimed. Flavio laughed. 

“We Italian’s are a passionate people! We love who we love! And my brother loves you. You’re a lucky woman. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.”

“Then would he let me go? Marriage is supposed to be between people that love each other! I don’t love him! No amount of money is going to change that!”

The blonde smiled at you, taking a pin from his collar and sticking it in your hair.

“You’ll change your mind. One day you’ll even be grateful for the money, even if it is covered in blood. Let’s get you into your dress! We don’t want to keep your groom waiting!”

The dress was snug, outlining your curves and emphasizing them. You wobbled in the four inch, nude heels like bambi. The isle seemed a millian miles long. The black suited gaurds on either side of the door seemed to be preventing you leaving as much as for the security.

Luciano stood, lips parted, face lit in awe as you walked in time with the bridal march, Flavio on your arm. 

“I hope you don’t plan on running, /sorrella/. My brother loves you, and You wouldn’t get far. He’d hunt you down to the ends of the earth.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. 


“I do.”


The next few years were spent storing money in a private bank account in both switzerland and seycheles.  It was Luciano’s and your anneversiry. Like every year before you went to a high end shop to pick out a small box of chocolates and a new setof langeire.

A strange noise from the nearby alley made you turn your head. you went in to investigate it. A hard object slammed into the side of your head. You fell to the dirty cobblestone, watching through blurry eyes as a figure in dark clothing leaned down.


You woke up in a dingey apartment. The sounds of traffic echoing lightly  through the open window.

“You are awake, Da?” Viktor’s thick russian accent washed over your ears like a lullaby.

You lept up, wrapping your arms around his neck. After a minute of breathing in the scent of expensive cigars and vodka, you let go.

“Vik…. Spasibo.” (Thanks)

Viktor Braginsky was the man you’d met at one of Luciano’s  parties. He specialized in making people dissapear. 

“in the bag you’ll find a bottle of hair dye, a set of clothes, a new ID, social security card, and 1 million rubles. After you are done, put everything in the bag and leave it outside. One of my men will be around later to pick it up.”

He left after that. You got up, picking up the bag and taking it with you to the bathroom. 


After an hour scrubbing yourself clean, you set to work. The person in the mirror was compleatly different. She was blonde, blue eyed, and dressed like a model straight off the runway. 

“Anya Von iensburn.” You said it until it sounded natural on your tounge. Shaking your teresses out of your face, you walked out of the bathroom, bag in hand. Opening the door, you dropped the bag on the floor outside.

A moment later a knock sounded at the door.

“Miss Iensburn, your car is here.”