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Self-restraint has never been one of Vincenzo’s best attributes.
He knows that from the outside he looks focused and subdued. The Geumga residents think him impenetrable, Gi-seok believes him to be benevolent and sinless; even Wusang can’t get a read on him. But it’s a facade that’s taken a long time to create, and the truth is, all he does is let people see what they think they’ll find. What is it that Americans say? “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.” As it turns out — leading a horse to water is often only half the battle. Keep them there long enough, and they’ll eventually get thirsty.
Ah, he’s spiraling.
All this to say. Cha-young is really testing the limits of his control.
She sits across the room from him, legs tucked under her hips as she casually flips through a stack of documents that are no doubt something Babel-related. Her hair is falling out of its pins, loose tendrils curling against the skin of her neck. The blouse she’s wearing today is purposely oversized. (If he leans over at the right angle, he can see that her fingers are toying with the buttons. His mouth dries a little.)
Vincenzo isn’t blind. He knows Cha-young is attractive. Willowy and sharp-tongued, she’s every reasonable man’s dream. But Vincenzo is no reasonable man, and the nature of his life has never allowed for any relationship to take roots beyond the surface. Cha-young is ultimately only a means to an end, and even if there were to be anything more, it would be too precarious to withstand reality.
Annoyed, he lifts his watch. It’s getting late. He shifts awkwardly. She sighs, shifting on the couch to relax a little, more of her hair coming undone. Vincenzo curses himself at the way he’s acting. Getting flustered by a woman? Keep it together.
It had all started that day when he’d been dealing with Min-seong. He’d seen her watching him while he rode that horse, felt her gaze on burning a hole into his back, and her face had been so — alive. Eyes wide and shiny, cheeks flushed with enjoyment at the sight of him. It had made something inside him heat, even while he was actively trying to repress his irritation at her scheme with Min-seong. Ever since that day, he’d found himself seeking her out at any moment, eyes tracking her every step. And then, after the art gallery…
Now, she stretches, drawing him from his thoughts. The movement elicits a little sound from her direction that makes him nearly choke. Her lacy little skirt lifts with the motion, too, and then Vincenzo has to grip his thighs to stop from falling out of his seat. What is wrong with him? Is he a teenager again? For crying out loud, he’s literally murdered people — bad people — but still, this is what’s causing him discomfort? Cha-young sits up, blinking at him tiredly. “Ah, you’re still here.” She cocks her head in mild amusement. “You know, you have such a blank expression all the time. It’s hard to tell exactly what you’re thinking.” Then she sighs. “I wish I could do that. I’m too expressive. People always know what I’m thinking.” She crosses one knee over the other. “This winter air has my lips so dry.” Her tongue darts out to swipe at her bottom lip, sending Vincenzo into a filthy, frustrated frenzy. He stands, snatching his jacket.
“Lawyer-nim? Are you alright?” she rises from her seated position, the rest of that silk-spun hair spilling down her waist like ink from a bottle. She pads across the floor and reaches up to cover his forehead with her palm. “Your shoes,” he manages to cough out. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Cha-young rolls her eyes at that. “I cranked the heat up in here. But worry about yourself first, you must be running some kind of low-grade fever. Why don’t you sit, and I’ll put on some tea?”
He decides then, in the split second that she steps back from him. “Miss Hong,” he says, encircling her wrist. “Come here.”
She stumbles closer at his pull, brows furrowed oh-so-characteristically. “Aish, what is it now?”
He pulls her flush against his chest. “I do not have a fever.”
And then he leans down, capturing her lips with his. Go for the cheek! his conscience had whispered, but Vincenzo’s decided he’s not gentleman enough for that (nor does he want to be).
Cha-young twitches in surprise, but doesn’t retract from the affection — she instead makes some kind of happy vibrating noise that he feels in his own chest cavity (thump thump thump) and presses herself closer. He groans; fingers kneading small circles into the small of her waist. Her hands knot themselves into the expensive Booralro shirt he’s wearing. A small, foreign part of him surges in pleasure at the thought of her gripping him quite so needily. The instinct is almost purely animalistic in nature; but he can’t bring himself to feel any shame.
When she finally breaks for a gulp of air, her cheeks are bright red. “I…”
“Cha-young.” He doesn't miss the way she inhales at the sound of her given name rolling off the same tongue she'd just tasted.
“Don’t…apologize for that,” she says then, dipping her head. “Don’t say you didn’t mean to, Cassano-nim, because I’ve seen the way you’ve been staring all day.” She starts to chuckle.
“You'll have to pardon me. I find you quite beautiful,” he deadpans. She reddens. But then his expression softens, and he cups her face. “I assure you, I did mean to kiss you, Miss Hong.”
His eyes are wild, wild like she’s never seen before, dark with an intent that’s so very alluring.
She gazes adoringly at him, face open and full. And suddenly —
Vincenzo hesitates. “I...” Am I allowed to feel this way? Am I taking advantage of you? Am I dishonoring your father? He wouldn’t want this, wouldn’t want his little girl, his precious daughter, to ensnare herself with a mafia leader. He shakes his head. What does Cha-young want? the little voice inside asks suddenly, drowning out all the others.
“I…” he says again, clearing his throat and loosening his necktie. “Is this…okay?” he asks firmly, reaching for her small hand and wrapping it up in his much larger one.
She seems to understand, then.
“Vincenzo,” she says. “We’ve made out twice now, so I’m using your first name. I think that’s appropriate.” She starts again. “Vincenzo, this is more than okay.” Cha-young looks up at him warmly from beneath her lashes, and he feels a stirring in his gut.
“Okay,” he responds intentionally. “Okay.”
He lifts her chin up and again meets her in the middle for a deep, slow kiss that speaks of crimes to come.
“Made out?”
“Yeah, like at the gallery,” she says, sniffing. Her cheeks are stained with color.
“I hardly classify that as making out.”
“Did you want to put that to the test?”
“...I’m quite busy, Miss Hong.”
"I'll wait."