“Alright, I suppose I get it,” you tell him. “Can we try this now or what?”

“Of course, cara.”

He must be joking, you tell yourself. Still riding along the high tide that the evening brought with it. As if your aunt might be spying upon you both, just outside the heavy door that separates Prosciutto’s room from the dank hallway – looking to see how well the two of you uphold the act of a loving woman and her equally doting man. You wouldn’t be surprised if a grizzly murder happened within these walls. It is certainly understanding of Prosciutto’s nature. You disregard the thought, because tonight, more than anything, you want to be normal.

And he, you decide, might like that too.

Pannacotta Fugo - his name rolls off your tongue like the dry wine Giorno insists be served at dinners. You like the sound of his name far better than you do the taste of Sangiovese. You like his strawberry blonde hair, too. And his violet eyes.

Please note that these are only tentative and I reserve the right to not post any writing if I simply do not have the time to this semester. Here’s the list of everything I’m hoping to share between now and the end of December.

Continuation of Series

Reader is promised an impressive inheritance from her father upon his death, but can only have it once she is married. Giorno offers to help, and family shenanigans ensue.

Plot summary forthcoming.

Prosciutto is silent; not another temperamental huff and he does not dare to look at you again. Your cheeks are hot – surely your makeup will begin to melt off your face. There is more you long to say, more malevolence in defense of your honor, about Ditalini, about Caponata. You have been supine and porcelain because Prosciutto made that so. The wind has come and swept you to sea, and you are drowning again. You have lost sight of the surface, and it makes you want to scream.

“You can choose to be bitter with me forever,” he says at last. “That’s your right, after all. Although, it won’t change anything. In a month, I’ll be gone, and you can go back to being a waitress who spends her nights with people who don’t really give a damn about you – cry into your martinis while you’re at it, too . . . Go back to pretending that you’re happy with what you’ve lost.”

“Believe me, I’m counting down the days until I never have to see your face again.”

Alone again with only his thoughts to occupy his perhaps dwindling desire for social satisfaction, Prosciutto sets the phone aside, frowns, and buries his face between his hands – as if groveling in his own self-pity might satiate the disappointment he feels within himself and only him. He knows better, yet he does it anyways because today he is feeling particularly, unbearably guilty about something.

Or rather, about someone.

He had had thoughts of what he should have done last night when you at last threw down your wrung towel in defiance of the control he held over your life. Perhaps if your cheeks were not so swollen from weeping in the shower of his hotel room (because he certainly heard you over the roaring of water – the walls are paper thin, after all), or if your eyes were not so miserably sad and your lips not taut in such a pout, he might have reminded you of exactly that.

Control – his control.