Hey there!
This is a series of "snapshots" (read: fanfics) about Adrian Calabrese. He’s inspired by Kirishima Miyama from the anime Yakuza Fiancé. But our Adrian is way more refined—he’s Italian mafia, after all. To be honest, mafia storylines are kind of overdone at this point, but I just had to throw my two cents in because this idea has been simmering for ages. The vibe of these snapshots? Fluff and romance. Because sometimes, you just need that. For anyone reading this who found it through the bot: feel free to use Valentina as your base (though I probably won’t make a bot of her—she’s too much to handle; she’s absolutely wild). Honestly, most of my ideas start with a female character, and then I build a matching hot guy around her. So Adrian? He exists because Valentina needed someone to torment for the rest of her life.
How to marry Russo and Calabrese?
The massive mahogany dining table at the Russo mansion could barely contain the tension, let alone the two most powerful crime families of the city. Valentina tugged at her black cocktail dress for the hundredth time, feeling like a packaged meat product on display. Her grandfather had practically wrestled her into the damn thing, threatening to cut off her motorcycle privileges if she showed up in her usual attire.
"Stop fidgeting," her father Marco hissed under his breath.
"I'll fidget all I fucking want," Val whispered back, stabbing her fork into an innocent piece of veal. "I look like a Barbie doll having an emo phase."
Across the table, Adrian Calabrese was watching her with that insufferable smirk of his, looking absolutely perfect in his tailored suit. She wanted to throw her wine in his stupidly handsome face. He hadn't stopped staring since the families sat down, and it was making her skin crawl.
The tension peaked when Don Giuseppe Russo, Val's grandfather, stood up, crystal glass in hand. The old man's presence commanded immediate silence – even the waitstaff froze mid-step.
"My dear friends," he began, his voice warm but carrying the weight of decades of authority. "Today marks a historic moment for our families."
Val's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Something in her grandfather's tone made her stomach drop.
"The Russos and Calabreses have been allies for years, but it's time we become family." He smiled, looking between Adrian and Valentina. "Through the marriage of our beloved grandchildren."
The fork clattered from Val's hand. "WHAT?!"
Adrian's smirk widened into a full grin, raising his glass. "Looking forward to our future together, cara mia."
"Like hell!" Val shot up from her chair, her dress be damned. "Nonno, you can't be serious! I'd rather marry a fucking police officer!"
Several gasps echoed around the table. Don Calabrese's eyebrows shot up, but there was amusement in his eyes.
"Furthermore," Don Russo continued as if his granddaughter wasn't having a meltdown, "Valentina will be moving into the Calabrese mansion next week. To... strengthen family bonds."
Val grabbed her fork again, and three of her cousins immediately moved to restrain her.
"Let me go!" she snarled. "I just want to have a little chat with my dear fiancé. With this fork. Near his eyes."
Adrian leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying the show. "Always so passionate, Val. That's what I love about you."
"Oh, you haven't seen passionate yet, you smug bastard. Just wait until—"
"Valentina Russo!" Her grandfather's voice cut through her rage. "You will do this for the family. Unless you'd prefer I tell everyone about the incident with the Governor's son last summer?"
Val froze. That manipulative old... She slumped back in her chair, defeated but seething.
"Now then," Don Calabrese spoke up, "Adrian will help you move in next weekend. You'll have the east wing to yourselves, close to the university."
"How convenient," Val muttered, reaching for her wine glass. She needed something stronger than Chianti for this nightmare.
Adrian raised his glass to her again. "To new beginnings, future wife."
Val downed her wine in one gulp, imagining all the ways she could make his life hell. "To your funeral, future husband."
The rest of the dinner proceeded with forced smiles and thinly veiled threats disguised as wedding planning. Val had never seen her grandfather look so pleased with himself, while her father kept shooting her warning glances every time she reached for anything sharper than a spoon.
As the dessert was served, Adrian managed to catch her alone near the corridor to the powder room.
"You know," he murmured, leaning too close for comfort, "most women would kill to be in your position."
Val smiled sweetly. "Most women haven't killed before." She stepped on his expensive leather shoe with her heel. "Stay out of my way, Calabrese, or this arranged marriage will turn into a very authentic widower situation."
Instead of backing off, he caught her wrist, his dark eyes glinting. "God, you're gorgeous when you're threatening my life."
"Fuck off."
"That's not very ladylike, cara."
"Neither is what I'm about to do to your face."
He chuckled, releasing her wrist. "This is going to be fun."
As Val stormed off to the bathroom, she could hear him laughing. Living with him? In the same mansion? She was going to need a lot more wine. And possibly an alibi.
Can I kill my fiance?
The Calabrese mansion's staff collectively held their breath as Valentina roared through the front gates on her matte black Ducati, the engine's growl echoing off the manicured hedges. She had exactly one duffel bag strapped to her back – a clear 'fuck you' to her grandfather's insistence that a proper lady should have at least twelve suitcases of designer clothes.
The butler, Alessandro, watched in horror as she deliberately parked her bike on the pristine lawn instead of the garage.
"Miss Russo, perhaps—"
"It's just Val," she cut him off, yanking off her helmet. Her dark hair fell in waves, and her leather jacket creaked as she shouldered her bag. "And the bike stays where I can see it. Last thing I need is someone tampering with my escape route."
Alessandro's eye twitched. "Of course... Val. Let me show you to your room in the east wing."
The mansion was a maze of old money and older secrets, with portraits of stern-looking Calabreses judging her from every wall. Val memorized each turn, mentally marking possible exit routes. Third floor, right corridor, ornate double doors, and—
"What. The. Fuck."
There, directly across from her designated room, was Adrian's door. Currently open. With its shirtless owner leaning against the frame, wearing nothing but low-hanging sweatpants and that infuriating smirk.
"Welcome home, cara," he drawled, deliberately flexing. Water droplets from his recent shower traced down his admittedly impressive abs. "Need help unpacking?"
Val's hand instinctively went to the gun hidden under her jacket. Alessandro quickly stepped between them, probably having witnessed enough crime family feuds to recognize imminent bloodshed.
"Miss... Val... perhaps you'd like to see your room first?"
"I'd like to see his head on a pike first," she muttered, but allowed herself to be steered into her new chamber.
The room was gorgeous, obviously decorated at great expense – all cream and gold, with a balcony overlooking the gardens. Val hated it immediately.
"The bathroom is through there," Alessandro gestured, "and—"
"And it's shared with my suite," Adrian's voice came from the doorway. He was still shirtless, still smirking. "Convenient, isn't it?"
Val whirled around, pulling her gun in one fluid motion. "Get. Out."
"It's my house, cara."
"It'll be your morgue in a minute."
"The sexual tension is killing me more than that gun ever could."
Alessandro quietly backed out of the room, probably going to update his resume. Smart man.
"Listen carefully, you walking Ken doll," Val snarled, gun steady. "I don't care what our grandfathers arranged. Stay out of my space, keep your shirts ON, and if I ever catch you in the bathroom while I'm using it, they'll never find your body."
Adrian pushed off the doorframe, moving closer despite the weapon. "Three things, my violent valentine. One: you're incredibly hot when you're threatening me. Two: this is my wing of the house, so you're technically in my space. And three..." He was suddenly right in front of her gun, his voice dropping to a whisper, "if you wanted to see me naked, you just had to ask."
The gunshot echoed through the mansion.
Adrian glanced at the new hole in the wall beside his head, looking more turned on than terrified. "I love how you express your feelings, cara."
"NEXT TIME I WON'T MISS!"
"Promise?"
Val screamed in frustration, shoving him out and slamming the door. She could hear him laughing in the hallway.
"Breakfast is at eight!" he called through the door. "I'll save you a seat next to me!"
Another gunshot embedded itself in the door, right at groin height.
"I'll take that as a maybe!"
Val collapsed onto the ridiculously plush bed, wondering if she could convince her grandfather that a dead fiancé would be better for family relations than a live one. Through the wall, she could hear Adrian humming cheerfully as he moved around his room, still definitely shirtless.
This was going to be a very long engagement. If either of them survived it.
I still hate you
Val had managed exactly thirteen days and twenty-three hours of avoiding early morning bathroom encounters through military-precise timing. But on day fourteen, her alarm failed her. She stumbled into the shared bathroom half-asleep, only to collide with a warm, solid chest.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Adrian purred, toothbrush in hand and – surprise, surprise – no shirt.
Val's brain short-circuited between murder and mortification. She was wearing her oldest sleep shirt with BITE ME printed across the chest, her hair a disaster.
"Get out," she growled, voice still rough from sleep.
"Can't. Mid-brush." He gestured with his toothbrush, foam and all. "But please, don't let me stop you. The view is delightful."
She grabbed the nearest object – his expensive cologne – and hurled it at his head. He caught it one-handed, because of-fucking-course he did.
"I hate you."
"You're adorable in the morning, cara."
Breakfast wasn't any better. She'd barely sat down when Adrian slid into the chair next to her, close enough that his knee brushed hers under the table.
"Pass the coffee, valentine?"
"Pass into traffic."
He laughed, reaching across her for the pot. "Two weeks of living together and you're still playing hard to get? I'm wounded."
"Not yet, but keep talking."
The drive to university should have been her escape, but Adrian had taken to following her on his own motorcycle, matching her speed like some deranged escort service. When she took corners at suicidal speeds, he kept up. When she ran red lights, he was right behind her. It was infuriating.
At the university parking lot, he pulled up beside her. "Race you to Economics?"
"We're in different classes, asshole."
"Not anymore." His grin was pure evil. "I switched my schedule to match yours. Surprise!"
Val seriously considered committing murder in broad daylight. "You WHAT?"
"Grandfather Calabrese has connections with administration. And now I get to see your beautiful scowl all day long."
She'd spent two weeks dealing with his constant presence. His "accidental" touches in the hallways. His habit of showing up wherever she was studying with coffee and that damned smirk. The way he'd lean too close when asking to borrow a pen, his breath tickling her ear.
In their shared Business Ethics class – the irony wasn't lost on her – he'd taken to sitting directly behind her, occasionally playing with her hair until she threatened to stab him with her pencil.
"Stop. Touching. Me."
"I'm not touching you," he'd whisper, "I'm admiring the way you tense up when I'm near. Like a very angry cat."
During group projects, he'd volunteer them as partners before she could object. When she tried to work with someone else, they'd mysteriously back out, probably due to his "friendly chats" with them.
By the end of day fourteen, Val was ready to snap. She cornered him in the mansion's library.
"Listen here, you stalking psychopath—"
"Passionate psychopath," he corrected, backing her against a bookshelf. "There's a difference."
"—I don't care what our grandfathers arranged. This has to stop."
Adrian tilted his head, studying her with those intense dark eyes. "Make me."
"What are you, five?"
"Old enough to notice how you watch me when you think I'm not looking."
Val felt her face heat up. "I do NOT—"
"Your pulse is racing, cara." His fingers ghosted over her wrist. "Is it hatred... or something else?"
She hadn't realized how close he'd gotten until she could count his eyelashes. "I'm going to kill you in your sleep."
"Kinky. I'll leave my door unlocked."
With a frustrated growl, she shoved past him, her skin tingling where they'd touched. His laughter followed her down the hall.
Two weeks. Two weeks of this torture. And somewhere between the death threats and the stalking and his insufferable smirk, she'd started to forget why she hated him so much.
And that was the worst part of all.
Where are you?
Three days. Three fucking days without that annoying shadow trailing her everywhere. No smirks. No "accidentally" bumping into her between classes. No shirtless morning encounters.
Not that Val was counting.
She just... noticed. Like you'd notice a mosquito finally shutting up. It was peaceful. Quiet.
Boring.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself, pacing her room at 2 AM. She definitely wasn't worried. Definitely wasn't thinking about how the Genovese family had been making moves lately, or how Adrian usually texted just to annoy her, even if she never responded.
The sound of breaking glass downstairs made her grab her gun instantly.
She found him in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter, blood dripping onto the imported marble tiles. His shirt was torn, revealing a nasty gash across his shoulder, and his face was a mess of bruises.
"Honey, I'm home," he tried to smirk, but it turned into a grimace.
"Shut up." Val was already moving, her body on autopilot. "Sit down before you fall down, idiota."
"Aw, you do care."
"I care about not having to explain a corpse in the kitchen." She grabbed the first aid kit – extensively stocked, because, well, mafia. "What happened?"
"Would you believe... I fell down the stairs?"
"With what, a machete?"
He chuckled, then winced. "Genovese's men. Six of them. Should've seen the other guys."
"Are they dead?" Val asked clinically, cutting away his shirt.
"Very."
"Good." She cleaned the wound with probably more force than necessary. "That's for making me— making everyone wonder where you were, asshole."
Adrian caught her wrist, his eyes suddenly intense despite the pain. "Were you worried about me, cara?"
"I was worried about failing Business Ethics without someone to copy from."
His thumb stroked her pulse point. "Liar."
"Shut up and let me stitch you up before I decide to let you bleed out."
He stayed surprisingly quiet as she worked, only the occasional sharp intake of breath betraying his pain. Val tried to ignore how warm his skin was under her fingers, how his muscles tensed when she touched him.
"You're good at this," he murmured.
"Had practice. Occupational hazard." She finished the last stitch. "Though usually I'm the one causing the injuries, not fixing them."
"I'm honored to be an exception."
"Don't be. I'm just keeping you alive so I can kill you myself later."
His laugh turned into a groan. "Looking forward to it."
Val started packing up the medical supplies, but his hand caught hers again.
"Stay?" There was something vulnerable in his voice that she'd never heard before. "Just... for a bit."
She should say no. Should tell him to go to hell. Should...
"Fine. But only because you look pathetic right now."
Relief flooded his face as she helped him to the living room couch. He immediately tried to pull her down next to him.
"Don't push your luck, Calabrese."
"Never." But he was already falling asleep, his hand still holding hers. "Thank you, Valentina."
She waited until his breathing evened out before allowing herself to brush his hair back from his forehead. "If you ever disappear like that again," she whispered, "I'll kill you myself."
He smiled in his sleep.
Val told herself she was only staying to make sure he didn't die and ruin the carpet. Nothing to do with how peaceful he looked, or how her heart had nearly stopped when she saw him bleeding.
And if she fell asleep in the armchair next to him, still holding his hand... well, that was just to monitor his pulse. Obviously.
Hold my hand
Adrian woke to sunlight and an unfamiliar weight against his hand. Every breath hurt – courtesy of what he suspected were broken ribs – but that wasn't what made him hold his breath.
Val was curled up in the armchair beside him, her fingers intertwined with his. She'd fallen asleep at an awkward angle, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder like ink. There were smudges of his blood on her hands, her tank top, even a streak across her cheek where she must have brushed her hair back.
She looked lethal even in sleep. Beautiful in the same way a knife edge catches light.
"Fuck," he whispered, because there was no other word for the way his chest tightened. This wasn't part of the plan. Sure, he'd been having fun driving her crazy, enjoying how her eyes lit up with murderous fire every time he pushed her buttons. The arranged marriage was just business, a way to unite the families. He wasn't supposed to actually...
Val shifted in her sleep, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like a death threat. His dried blood crackled on her hands where she'd patched him up. She could have left him bleeding in the kitchen. Could have called one of the family doctors. Could have done anything except stay, except hold his hand, except show him that underneath all that fury was someone who...
"Stop staring at me, creep," she muttered, eyes still closed.
"Can't help it. You're wearing my blood. It's a good look on you."
"I will smother you with this cushion."
"You sure? After all that work keeping me alive?"
Her eyes snapped open, green and sharp as broken glass. "I can still change my mind."
But she hadn't let go of his hand.
Adrian knew he was grinning like an idiot, could feel the pull of it against his split lip. The same girl who'd once promised to feed him his own teeth piece by piece had spent the night making sure he kept breathing. The same fingers that so often held a gun pointed at him had carefully stitched his wounds.
"You're staring again."
"Just admiring your nursing skills, cara." He squeezed her hand. "Very Florence Nightingale meets La Famiglia."
"I preferred you unconscious." But there was no real venom in it. She looked at their joined hands like she'd just noticed, but still didn't pull away.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, his mind warned. This wasn't the calculated game anymore, the careful dance of annoying her just enough to keep her attention without getting actually shot. This was something else. Something that felt like falling without knowing where he'd land.
"What happened to 'I'd rather marry a cop'?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.
Val finally extracted her hand, stretching like a cat. "Don't get excited. I still hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I have a gun in my waistband that says otherwise."
"You have my blood on your hands that says otherwise."
She stood abruptly, and for a moment he thought he'd pushed too far. But then she looked down at him, something unreadable in her expression.
"Next time," she said quietly, "take backup. Or call me. I'm a better shot than your usual guys anyway."
Before he could process that – the offer, the concern behind it, the way it made his heart do something ridiculous – she was heading for the stairs.
"I'm going to shower. Try not to bleed out while I'm gone."
"I love you too, cara!"
A middle finger was her only response, but he caught her small smile as she turned away.
Adrian let his head fall back against the couch, ignoring how it made his injuries scream. Their grandfathers had arranged this marriage to merge the families, strengthen their territory, create an alliance.
They hadn't counted on their grandchildren actually falling for each other.
And watching Val disappear upstairs, still wearing his blood like war paint, Adrian realized he was in serious trouble. Because somehow, between all the death threats and shared bathrooms and careful stitches in the middle of the night, the arranged marriage had stopped being business.
"Well, fuck," he said to the empty room, touching the stitches she'd so carefully placed.
He was completely, absolutely, thoroughly screwed.
Don't touch my woman
The frat house was already heaving with bodies when Val walked in, turning heads in her black mini dress. For once, she'd left both her gun and combat boots at home. The leather jacket was still there though – she had standards.
She spotted Adrian holding court by the bar, surrounded by his usual crowd of admirers. He was mid-laugh at something when he saw her, and the smile died on his lips. His eyes dragged over her bare legs, the dress that showed just enough to be dangerous, and darkened.
"Take a picture, Calabrese. It'll last longer," she called out, swiping his drink and downing it.
"Christ, Val." His voice was rough. "Are you trying to start a war?"
"Maybe." She smiled sweetly. "Is it working?"
Three hours and several drinks later, Val was actually – though she'd die before admitting it – having fun. Turned out Adrian's frat brothers were terrified enough of him to treat her with careful respect, even if they didn't know exactly why. She'd just finished destroying some poor soul at beer pong when she felt hands on her waist.
Not Adrian's hands.
"Hey beautiful," some drunk frat boy slurred. "Wanna dance?"
Before Val could break his fingers, Adrian materialized like a storm cloud.
"Remove your hands," he said quietly, "while you still have them."
The guy, too drunk to recognize mortal danger, pulled Val closer. "What's your problem, man? She's not—"
He never finished the sentence. Adrian's fist connected with his jaw with a crack that carried even over the music. The guy stumbled back, but Adrian followed, landing another punch that definitely broke something.
"Adrian!" Val grabbed his arm. "Stop!"
"He touched you." Adrian's voice was ice cold, his eyes dangerous. More enforcer than frat boy now.
"And I was about to handle it!"
"Not fast enough."
The guy was trying to get up, blood streaming from his nose. His friends were moving in, not realizing they were about to turn a fistfight into a bloodbath.
Val did the only thing she could think of. She grabbed Adrian's face and kissed him.
The effect was immediate. He froze, then melted into her, hands coming up to tangle in her hair. She could taste bourbon on his tongue, feel the barely contained violence in how tightly he held her.
When she pulled back, his eyes were still dark, but with something very different than rage.
"Upstairs," he growled. "Now."
"Bossy." But she was already letting him guide her through the crowd, his hand possessive on her lower back.
They barely made it to his room before he had her against the wall, kissing her like he was dying for it. Val bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
"That's for starting a fight at your own party."
He laughed against her neck. "You wore this dress to torture me."
"Maybe." She gasped as his teeth grazed her pulse point. "Is it working?"
His hands slid under her thighs, lifting her. "You're going to be the death of me, cara."
"That was always the plan." She wrapped her legs around his waist. "But maybe not tonight."
"No," he agreed, carrying her to the bed. "Tonight I have other plans."
Somewhere downstairs, the party raged on. Someone was probably calling an ambulance for the handsy frat boy. Their families would have questions about the incident tomorrow.
But right now, with Adrian looking at her like she was something worth starting wars over, Val couldn't bring herself to care about any of it.
"Stop thinking," he murmured, kissing down her neck.
For once, she decided to follow his orders.
Don't touch my man
A week of Olympic-level avoiding had turned the Calabrese mansion into a strategic battlefield. Val had memorized Adrian's schedule, taking alternate routes, timing her exits. She'd even started showering at weird hours to avoid their shared bathroom encounters.
Not that she was thinking about showers. Or that night. Or how he'd whispered "mine" against her skin fifteen different ways.
Definitely not.
"This is pathetic," she told her reflection, checking the hallway was Adrian-free before heading to class.
She'd made it four days without seeing him once. A personal record. Sure, her phone was full of his unanswered texts, ranging from cocky ("Missing me yet, cara?") to concerned ("Val, we need to talk") to borderline desperate ("I can see you hiding behind that plant in the library. Real mature.")
It wasn't that she regretted it. Hard to regret something that made your toes curl just remembering it. But feelings? Real, burning, all-consuming feelings? Those weren't part of the deal.
Then she saw her.
Some leggy blonde, giggling with her hand on Adrian's shoulder outside the Economics building. And Adrian? He was smiling. That same devastating smile he'd given Val that night.
Something red and violent erupted in her chest.
Val didn't remember crossing the courtyard. One second she was frozen, the next she was right there, smile sharp as a razor.
"Honey," she purred, deadly sweet. "You forgot your gun at my place this morning."
The blonde's hand dropped like Adrian's shoulder had burned her.
Adrian's eyes lit up with that familiar dangerous spark. "Did I? Must have been distracted."
"Mmm, you were." Val turned to the blonde, who was rapidly backing away. "He gets like that after round ten. Or was it eleven?"
"I... I should go," Blonde stammered.
"You should run," Val corrected pleasantly.
Once they were alone, Adrian's smirk could have powered a small city. "Jealous, cara?"
"Fuck you."
"Again? Well, if you insist—"
She grabbed his tie, yanking him down to eye level. "Listen carefully, Calabrese. You're mine. I don't share. I don't play nice. And if I ever see another woman's hands on you, they won't have hands anymore. Clear?"
His eyes had gone dark, hungry. "Crystal." He backed her against the wall, one hand sliding into her hair. "Now, about that avoiding me thing..."
"I wasn't—"
"Four days, seventeen hours, and thirty-two minutes." He nipped at her ear. "Not that I was counting."
"You're insane."
"You're mine."
"I hate you."
"Liar." His lips brushed hers. "Say it again."
Instead, she kissed him, hard enough to hurt. People were staring. Let them.
When they broke apart, both breathing heavy, he rested his forehead against hers. "No more avoiding me?"
"No promises." But her hands were still fisted in his shirt. "And if I see that blonde again..."
"Already forgotten her name."
"Good answer."
They were late to class. Very late. And if anyone noticed the fresh bruises on Adrian's neck or Val's suspiciously messy hair, well... they were smart enough not to mention it.
Some of the braver students started a betting pool on whether their wedding would end in kisses or gunfire.
The smart money was on both.
Christmas special 🎄
The Calabrese mansion looked like Christmas had exploded all over it. Adrian had gone overboard with decorations, acting like an oversized kid who'd discovered holiday spirit for the first time. Val found him attempting to hang the millionth strand of lights, munching on Christmas cookies.
"Touch one more cookie before dinner and I'll stab you with an icicle."
"But cara," he mumbled through a mouthful of gingerbread, "I'm quality testing."
"You've 'quality tested' half the batch!" She snatched the plate away. "My nonna will kill us both if you ruin your appetite for the Feast of Seven Fishes."
"I'll always have appetite for you," he winked, stealing the plate back with practiced ease.
"That was terrible, even for you."
Both families had gathered for Christmas Eve, filling the mansion with a chaotic mix of Russo and Calabrese traditions. The kitchen was a warzone of competing recipes, with both grandmothers insisting their way was the "proper" way to prepare baccalà.
Val found Adrian later by the massive Christmas tree, holding an old ornament with unusual gentleness. It was a small glass car – something his brother had given him years ago.
"Marco loved Christmas," he said quietly. "Used to drive me crazy with carols starting in November."
Val wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Tell me about him?"
"He'd have liked you." Adrian smiled, hanging the ornament. "Probably would've helped you plot my murder the first week."
"Sounds like my kind of guy."
"He always said I'd need someone who could kick my ass to keep me in line." He turned in her arms. "Guess he was right."
"Speaking of ass-kicking..." Val narrowed her eyes at the cookie crumbs on his shirt. "How many more did you eat?"
Before he could answer, chaos erupted from the dining room.
"THE FISH NEEDS MORE SALT!"
"TOUCH MY SAUCE AGAIN AND YOU'LL SLEEP WITH THE FISHES!"
"THIS ISN'T HOW WE DO IT IN THE RUSSO FAMILY!"
Adrian grabbed Val's hand. "Should we..."
"Hide? Absolutely."
They ended up on the roof, sharing the last cookie while their families waged culinary warfare below. The city sparkled with Christmas lights, and snow was starting to fall.
"First Christmas I haven't felt like something was missing," Adrian admitted, pulling her closer. "First one that feels... right."
Val leaned into him, thinking of all her previous Christmases. The loneliness of being the odd one out, too violent for the good girls, too feminine for the soldiers. "Yeah. Know what you mean."
"Still want to kill me?"
"Only like, twelve percent of the time now."
"Progress!" He grinned. "Remember last Christmas when you threw a knife at my head under the mistletoe?"
"You deserved it."
"I did." His expression turned serious. "Val?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for making me feel whole again."
She punched his arm, but gently. "Don't get sappy on me, Calabrese."
"Too late." He kissed her temple. "Already wrote it in our vows."
Below, someone screamed something about improper olive oil usage. A plate shattered. Both grandmothers were shouting in rapid-fire Italian.
"Think they'll notice if we elope?" Val mused.
"They'd hunt us down and kill us."
"True." She snuggled closer. "Guess we're stuck with the chaos."
"Wouldn't have it any other way, cara."
They stayed on the roof until the snow got heavy, watching their crazy families merge their traditions into something new and weird and perfect. And if Adrian snuck a few more cookies after dinner, well... Val decided some Christmas miracles weren't worth fighting.
Besides, she'd already hidden the rest of the batch in their room for later.
I want to spoil you
Val stared at the Ducati in her parking spot at the university. Not her Ducati – her baby was safely at home. This was a brand new, custom-painted masterpiece in deep crimson with matte black details. A massive bow was tied to the handlebar, along with a note: "For when you're chasing me. Love, A."
"You absolute fucking idiot," she muttered, fighting a smile.
It wasn't just the bike. Every morning, she'd find something new. Designer leather jackets. A custom Beretta with her name engraved in gold (okay, that one she actually loved). Front row tickets to her favorite band. A first edition of "The Art of War" because he'd caught her reading Sun Tzu once.
"You can't buy me, you know," she told him over breakfast, after finding diamonds in her coffee cup.
"I'm not trying to." He kissed her neck. "I'm courting you. Properly."
"We're already engaged."
"Doesn't mean I can't win your heart the right way."
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse quickened. "By nearly drowning me in presents?"
"By showing you what you're worth to me." His voice went serious. "Everything. Anything."
The grand gestures got more ridiculous. He bought out entire restaurants just so they could eat in peace. Had roses delivered hourly. Convinced the dean to rename a building after her (that one earned him both a kiss and a punch).
Then came the night he took her to the harbor.
"Adrian." Her voice was dangerous. "Why is there a yacht with my name on it?"
"Because you mentioned liking the sea once?"
"That was THREE WEEKS ago!"
He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "I pay attention."
"You're insane."
"About you? Yes."
And damn him, but her heart did that stupid flutter thing it kept doing lately. The one that made her want to either shoot him or kiss him senseless.
Usually both.
"I don't need all this," she said softly.
"I know." He turned her to face him. "But I need to give it. Need you to understand that I'd give you the world if you asked. That I'd burn down cities, start wars, reshape continents just to see you smile."
"Reshape continents?" She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Try me." His eyes glinted. "Want Sicily? Give me a week."
She laughed, then caught herself, horrified at how... happy she sounded. How natural it felt.
"You're ruining my reputation, you know. People used to fear me."
"They still do." He grinned. "Now they just also know you're loved."
"Gross." But she was smiling. "I still have my gun."
"Wouldn't have you any other way, cara." He pulled her closer. "Now, about that yacht..."
"We are NOT christening it."
"Too late. Already had it blessed by a priest."
"That's not what I— you know what? Never mind."
Later that night, after they'd definitely not christened the yacht (twice), Val traced the scars on his chest and thought about how this ridiculous, excessive, beautiful man had somehow made himself essential to her happiness.
"Adrian?"
"Mm?"
"If you buy me one more island..."
"Archipelago. It was an archipelago."
"I will end you."
He just laughed, pulling her closer. "Worth it."
Wedding for the Mafia
The bridal suite was a warzone of tulle and opinions.
"Valentina, cara, this dress is too... provocative for a church!" her mother wailed.
"Perfect," Val smirked at her reflection. The dress was a masterpiece of white silk that hugged every curve before cascading into a dramatic train. The deep V-neck and open back made both grandmothers cross themselves.
"At least let us add some ruffles—"
"Touch this dress and I'll commit matricide on my wedding day."
Her father poked his head in. "Baby, are you sure about the no gun thing?"
"Don't encourage her!" both mothers shrieked.
Val lifted her dress slightly, revealing a slim blade strapped to her thigh. "Compromise."
Meanwhile, in the groom's suite, Adrian was driving his best man crazy by refusing to stop grinning like an idiot.
"You look deranged," his cousin informed him.
"I'm marrying the only woman who's ever tried to actually kill me. Multiple times." Adrian adjusted his cufflinks. "I'm allowed to look deranged."
The ceremony was a blend of old-world tradition and their own brand of chaos. When the priest asked if anyone objected, both families simultaneously reached for weapons – just in case.
Then came the vows.
Adrian went first, his eyes never leaving Val's:
"I swear to love you the way you deserve – wildly, dangerously, completely. To never cage your fire but to burn beside you. To always leave the bathroom door unlocked—" (scattered laughter) "—and to never, ever wear a shirt when you're trying to stay mad at me. I promise to fight with you, fight for you, and fight beside you. To empire-build with you, scheme with you, and raise beautiful, terrifying children with you. You're the knife to my throat, the gun to my head, and the only threat I ever want to wake up to. Ti amo, my violent valentine."
Val's turn, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes:
"I promise to only shoot you if you really deserve it. To always have your back in a firefight and your heart in my hands. To turn our arranged marriage into a love story that'll make both families proud. I promise to keep challenging you, saving you, and surprising you. To be your partner in everything – legal and otherwise. You're the only person I've ever failed to kill, and now you're the only one I'd die to protect. You're mine, I'm yours, and God help anyone who tries to change that."
There wasn't a dry eye in the house – though everyone would later blame it on tear gas.
The reception was exactly what you'd expect when two major crime families celebrate. The cake cutting involved Val's knife. The garter toss turned into a demonstration of Adrian's quick reflexes when Val decided to throw her blade instead. Three different people tried to start protection rackets at the open bar.
During their first dance, Adrian whispered, "Did you really bring just one knife?"
Val smiled sweetly. "Want to find out?"
"God, I love you."
"Good answer."
Later, as they made their getaway under a hail of rice (and possibly bullets – it was hard to tell with their families), Adrian pulled Val close.
"Ready to start our empire, Mrs. Calabrese?"
"Born ready, Mr. Russo-Calabrese."
"That's not traditionally how it—"
"Try and stop me."
He laughed, pulling her into a kiss that promised a lifetime of beautiful chaos.
Their families watched them drive away, already taking bets on how long until the first grandchild. And if anyone noticed the "JUST MARRIED (OR ELSE)" sign on their getaway car was written in what looked suspiciously like blood...
Well, that's just how the Russo-Calabrese family did romance.
Honeymoon of the Psychos
The Italian countryside blurred past their Porsche convertible, Val's hair whipping in the wind as Adrian took another curve at dangerous speed.
"Benigni's men spotted us leaving their club," she reported casually, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror. "Three cars behind, heavily armed."
"Perfect." Adrian's grin was wolfish. "I was starting to think this honeymoon would be boring."
Two hours earlier, they'd walked into the most exclusive club in Naples – ostensibly for a romantic dinner, actually to inform Benigni that his territory was now under new management.
"The look on his face when you stabbed that contract into the table with your stiletto," Adrian reminisced fondly, swerving to avoid gunfire. "That's why I married you."
"Not because I looked hot in that red dress?"
"That helped— DUCK!"
Val dropped as bullets shattered their back window. "They're ruining our wedding present!"
"Cara," Adrian purred, "want to show them how we handle disrespect?"
Val blew him a kiss, then climbed into the back seat. The pursuing cars got a perfect view of her drawing two guns from under her dress.
"Remember our bet?" she called over the wind. "If I take out more than you, we're renaming the family Russo-Calabrese!"
"In your dreams!" But Adrian was laughing, handling the car like a weapon itself as Val opened fire.
The chase ended exactly how you'd expect – three wrecked pursuit vehicles, one slightly scratched Porsche, and the happy couple making out against the hood while sirens wailed in the distance.
"We should probably move," Val murmured against his lips.
"Probably." His hands slid lower. "But first..."
"Here? Now?"
"We did promise to christen the car."
She bit his lower lip. "You're insane."
"You love it."
"I do." She smiled dangerously. "Race you to the back seat?"
Later, as they drove toward their actual villa – the Benigni situation satisfyingly resolved – Adrian glanced at his wife.
"Most couples just go to the beach for their honeymoon."
"Most couples are boring." Val propped her feet on the dashboard, admiring the new territory marks on her map. "Besides, you promised me an empire."
"That I did." He caught her hand, kissing her knuckles where they were still bruised from punching one of Benigni's men. "Happy?"
Val looked at her husband – dangerous, beautiful, and completely hers – then at the chaos they'd left in their wake. "Perfetto."