Arranged.

8 - Detained (Dual POV)

Arranged - Pt. 8 (Detained, Dual POV)

Mafia!Chris Evans x Female Reader

Series Summary: Living in this life, you've never gotten to have much say in anything. What you wear, who  you hang out with, and now, who you marry and you're dreading your arranged marriage to the Italian mob boss, Chris Evans. Expecting to suffer through a life of abuse while being kept under lock and key, you're pleasantly surprised when Chris is nothing like you expected. He's the most feared man on the East Coast, only brought to his knees by one thing and one thing only. You.

Warnings: language, alcohol, arranged marriage (chris's family signs contract with readers family that promises their first born daughter to their first born son), parental abuse mentioned, age gap. Reader is 25, Chris is 35. Guns, violence, blood. Lots of smut (18+ only, minors DNI) and angst.

W/C: 10.4k

This is a work of fiction. (POV is a combination of 2nd and 3rd person)

Italian and Italian translation in italics. (The translations were run by someone who fluently speaks Italian, if there are any corrections to be made, please let me know!)

Fucking cliches.

There you were, standing in the rain, black umbrella shielding you as it poured down around you. Your heels were starting to sink into the loose, muddy dirt as you watched your fathers casket being lowered 6 feet into the ground. Of course it was raining at this fucker's funeral.

Maybe it was metaphorical. The sky was shedding all of the tears that you couldn't. The sky cried for the man you couldn't give two fucks about. A man most people couldn't give two fucks about. You rolled your eyes at your aunt who wailed as his casket was lowered, trying to remember the last time they even saw each other before his death. It'd been at least 7 years.

If memory serves correctly, the last words they'd spoken were: "Ah, fuck you, bitch." and, "You're a piece of shit, Y/F/N." Then radio silence. For years.

Her 6th husband had his arms secured around her waist, holding her up as she feigned grief, making you roll your eyes again.

Your mother told you at your grandmother's funeral years ago that rain was 'the heaven's way of cleansing and washing away all sins of the deceased'. You hoped she was wrong because this fucker deserved the spot he had reserved for him in Hell. Right next to Satan himself.

Shifting on your feet, you pulled the heels out of the mud and let out a sigh of disappointment, "Fucking mud is ruining my shoes," you whispered, Chris's arm secured around your waist, keeping you close.

He smirked, "I'll buy you a new pair."

Your eyes rolled again, "Ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes for no fucking reason."

His smirk stayed plastered on his face as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple, "I think you're supposed to be sad, Y/N."

"I am," you deadpan, "About my shoes."

Chris choked out a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough, his hand coming up to scrub down his face as if wiping the grin off of his lips. No one could miss the FBI standing on the other side of the iron fence, cameras up and pointing at everyone who stood around you. You had to present as a grieving daughter. He leaned down again, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "I love you," he whispered.

You smiled softly, "I love you, too."

After what felt like an eternity, the service concluded. Small smiles and meaningless words were exchanged while people offered their condolences to you. In an effort to save face, you put on the best fake frown you could and played the part of the doting, grieving daughter. At your mothers funeral last week, every emotion that you felt was real. It was a beautiful ceremony, no expense spared on Chris's part to make sure that she was given the funeral that she deserved. You cried, leaning on Chris for support as you mourned, but right now, all you wanted to do was go home and relax on the couch. A bottle of wine was calling your name.