Changeling-Giorno Giovanna x Reader

Chandelier

*TW: ATTEMPTED ASS*ULT*

*TW: ATTEMPTED ASS*ULT*

*TW: ATTEMPTED ASS*ULT*

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chan·de·lier

/ˌSHandəˈlir/

noun

noun: chandelier; plural noun: chandeliers

a decorative hanging light with branches for several light bulbs or candles.

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"Stefano Vito Rigoletti, previously a missing person, is now the chief suspect in the case against what could be called the most destructive terrorist we've had to date," The announcer's smile was blinding, even through the grainy TV screen. It was disgustingly perfect.

"He was identified by an officer that happened to be patrolling the street that night. Detective Ricci, everyone."

Probably the bastard who shot at me, Y/N thought. I somehow doubt that a detective was hanging around the warehouse district as part of his job.

Y/N turned off the TV. She didn't need to hear what those bootlickers thought of her cause- well, Stefano's cause.

She hadn't meant to use him as a scapegoat, but when he died, well, she saw an opportunity. Since neither of the bodies were ever recovered, the police simply chalked it up as another Mafia disappearing act and tried to pronounce them dead. That was until Mr. Rigoletti insisted on keeping the case open- the police responded by throwing the report in the trash and saying "we'll see what we can do". Y/N's mom was off God-knows-where doing God-knows-who-and/or-what so she certainly wasn't complaining. Since your dad died she'd been in a downward spiral- so it was probably good she remained in the dark regarding your whereabouts.

No, it was better to stay hidden. That's all she knew how to do now that everyone was gone. And Stefano, he would have wanted you to do this. At least, you thought.

In any case it felt good to have him with you, even if he smelled like nothing and never spoke. 

***

You slipped your street clothes on, draping a week's worth of dirty dresses over your arm. You'd have to swing by the cleaners tomorrow morning to get them steamed.

As you tussled your hair in the vanity mirror, you couldn't help but feel disappointed. Did they really dip on you like that? I mean, you'd never made formal plans, but still.

You never liked walking around at night. Physical Graffiti's power made that easier, of course, but you were running out of clothes and desperately needed to do the laundry. You'd disguise yourself, but a built man carrying a number of dresses made for someone half his size attracted more attention then you cared to deal with.

I wish I had a car.

The backstage door creaked open and you were met with a jet of cold air. You took a deep breath and started to walk.

Mendoza used to walk you home some nights. The past few months you'd been in the Naples area, so you ran into him quite often. You fumbled with the pendant he'd given you nervously as you turned the corner and ran into a wall.

Well, you thought it was a wall- until it grunted, that is.

"I'm so sorry," You said, picking up a hanger that had fallen. "Excuse me."

He said nothing, but then a callused hand gripped your upper arm and pinned it behind your back. 

You knew enough about the human body to know that this position was not one easily escaped from. He kicked the back of your legs and you buckled, falling into that position cops put you in when you're getting arrested. The clothes tumbled out of your grasp as you tried to do something, anything to get this man off of you.

"Good girl," He crooned, lips too close to your ear. "Now no screaming."

He stuck his hand in your back pocket, presumably to feel for a wallet. You summoned Fizz. She twitched, one arm pinned behind her back with a large handprint disrupting her shiny surface.

The adrenaline hit all at once as he checked your other pocket. You tried to conjure up some tears.

"It-it's in my bra," You sobbed. "Jus' lemme get it."

He let you turn over. Unbeknownst to him, your stand was released as well. She rolled over and, although you were both still partly immobilized, bit his ear in a swift motion that would've made Mike Tyson proud.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"

***

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"

The gang had been walking towards the back of the La Luna nightclub in search of Y/N, but had gotten somewhat sidetracked when they were met with a rather bold expletive. The source's body seemed to be incapacitated for the moment. 

"YOU FUCKING BITCH! I'LL KILL YOU!" He screeched. The group rounded the corner to see a bloodied and bruised Y/N staring at them like a deer in headlights. There were dresses scattered about the street, mingling with things that were undoubtedly both unsanitary and would stain.

Y/N turned and Giorno noticed that her arm was red. She snapped out of her trance and recalled her stand, blood dripping from where her mouth would be. 

"Great," She mumbled. "Does blood come out of silk?"

"Y/N, right?" Narancia called, disregarding her question. "Are you okay?"

She rubbed her arm slowly. "I'll be fine. I just need to get these to the cleaners." She gestured to the mound of fabric in the crook of her arm. Her eyes were glassy in the streetlight, and Bruno could tell she was trying not to cry.

"My invite still stands, Ms. L/N," Bruno put a hand on her shoulder. "But I don't think that those dresses are salvageable."

The next thing Y/N knew she was packed in a car with six other people. The man in the white suit, Bucciarti, had insisted on her sitting in the passenger seat, much to Narancia's chagrin.

The car smelled new, with fine leather seats that she felt guilty for sitting on. It was soft.

The rear-view mirror revealed the group of five from earlier, Giorno stuck in the middle. He caught her eye and smiled.

Y/N sucked her teeth and didn't look back for the rest of the ride, so she didn't see Abbachio's subsequent nod of approval.

The car glided into a small parking lot riddled with other expensive cars. "We're here," Bruno said. 

"Thanks." 

They walked through the automatic doors and into the rather desolate lobby, Y/N breaking her neck to take in the sheer opulence of the place. 

"Is that a Tiffany chandelier?" She whispered to no one in particular.

"Probably," Mista answered, showing her into the elevator. Y/N squeezed inside.

She felt terribly out of place more than anything- her face stung, her jaw ached, and those dresses would certainly set her back a couple thousand lire. Giorno's wallet stuck prominently out of her waistband. Of course, Giorno noticed this.

Had she been waiting for us?