What else do I want from you?...

by Im_fishy

Summary:

Mafioso had built his empire on fear — anyone who stood in his way ended up gone. But Chance, the reckless gambler who owed him, was different. Infuriating, insufferable, yet irresistibly endearing, Chance was the one person Mafioso couldn’t bring himself to crush.

Between debts, casinos, and dangerous nights, Mafioso knew what Chance owed him. What he didn’t expect was the peculiar feeling clawing at him whenever Chance was near — a dangerous softness that threatened to undo him more than any person ever could.

Notes:

Oml lmao hai world. This is my first AO3 post so my bad for any grammar mistakes, hope the story is easy to understand. Opinions would be appreciated!

ALR enough yip yapping and feast, my doublefedora gooners (I hope lol)
They might be ooc, shh we don't talk abt it

Posting may be inconsistent cause of school 💔🥀 sincere apologies

Chapter 1: Just creditor and debtor, right?

"Can this be your last drink of the night?" Mafioso sighed, glancing at the gambler beside him.

"Awh, c’mon man, learn to have some fun."

Chance grinned, loose and careless, as if they weren’t sitting beside the mafia boss they owed hundreds of thousands to.

Mafioso’s jaw tightened beneath the brim of his fedora, shadow hiding half his expression. "We’re here to talk about your debt — not to watch you drown that sorry heart of yours," he muttered, voice low but sharp.

Chance rolled their eyes behind tinted shades and waved for another Long Island Iced Tea.

The bar was quiet, unusually peaceful. For a moment, it felt less like debtor and creditor, more like… two men killing time at the edge of the night.

"Hello? Sir—" Chance started, but their words cut short as Mafioso smacked their hand away. His fingers lingered a beat too long on their skin before he pulled back.

"That’s enough. No more drinks," he said, stern but softer than he meant to. He pushed back from his seat as if to leave.

Halfway to the door, he faltered. Something felt… wrong. He turned.

Chance was slumped over the counter, shades tilted, lips parted as if caught mid-smile. Vulnerable. Unsteady. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Mafioso’s chest tightened.

He exhaled, returned, and rested a hand on their shoulder. "Come on. It’s gettin’ late. Let’s go."

Chance looked up, dazed, their gaze catching on Mafioso’s face. Before they could protest, he pulled them gently to their feet, guiding their arm around his broad shoulders. Their weight pressed against him, warm and unsteady, and he felt the soft brush of their breath against his skin. Heat rushed to his cheeks, and he cursed under his breath — but he didn’t let go.

Somewhere along the way, Chance drifted off, head resting on his shoulder. Mafioso only noticed when their full weight sank into him, heavier than it should have been. He exhaled, steadying them with an arm around their back. In that fragile state, they were entirely at his mercy. He could have broken them in half if he wished… yet his grip stayed gentle.

For once, the mask of sternness cracked — and instead of cruelty, he chose care.

Chapter 2: This peculiar feeling

Mafioso breathed in the faint trace of Chance’s cologne as he eased them into the passenger seat, careful not to wake them. The gambler stirred but didn’t wake, head lolling against the leather. Mafioso shut the door quietly, circling to the driver’s side before sliding in and bringing the sleek black Rolls Royce to life with a low purr.

For a moment, he didn’t shift into gear. His eyes lingered on Chance, now lost to a deep, peaceful sleep, their lashes brushing against flushed skin. Even like this — reckless, drunk, utterly infuriating — they were still disarmingly charming. That cocky golden smile of theirs flashed in his mind, those amber eyes that always caught the light like glass. What a shame they insisted on hiding behind those shades.

He exhaled sharply, dragging his gaze away, annoyed at himself for staring so long. At last, he gripped the wheel, pulling out of the lot and steering them into the night — toward the looming silhouette of his grand estate.

Moments later, Mafioso pulled into the sweeping drive of his mansion. The engine died, leaving only silence and the sound of Chance’s steady breathing. Circling to the passenger side, he opened the door and, without hesitation, gathered the gambler into his arms. Chance sank easily against him, head falling against his chest, as Mafioso lifted them bridal-style toward the towering mansion.

He knew it was unnecessary. He could have shaken them awake, told them to walk on their own. But something in him refused — he couldn’t bear to startle them, couldn’t bring himself to let go. So he told himself this was easier. Practical.

The truth, however, pressed heavier than Chance’s weight in his arms: he had wanted this. Craved the excuse to hold them close, to feel their warmth against him. And now that he had it, he didn’t want to give it up.

The two of them stepped into the grand lobby, Mafioso still carrying Chance with ease. Plush velvet carpets softened every footfall, chandeliers heavy with gold and crystal spilling light across the marble floor. Gilded frames lined the walls, portraits of the Sonnellino bloodline staring down with stern, painted eyes.

The mansion was neither modern nor vintage — suspended somewhere timeless, where luxury felt closer to power than comfort. Shadows clung to the high ceilings, and the sheer weight of the place might have made any ordinary guest hesitate before crossing the threshold.

But in Mafioso’s arms, Chance looked almost out of place — too soft, too alive, their breath warm against his collar as he carried them deeper into the estate.

Ding.

The golden glass elevator shuddered to a halt, its doors gliding open with a soft chime. Mafioso shifted Chance’s weight in his arms, the gambler still heavy against his chest, and exhaled through his nose — a low grunt escaping as he straightened his suit jacket with one hand.

Stepping out, his polished shoes clicked against the marble floor, the dim corridor stretching ahead in hushed opulence. He carried himself with the same strut of command as always, though his arms remained full of the one person who managed to unsettle him.

His steps settled at the threshold of a vast room — one that could have been mistaken for a suite in the world’s finest hotel, with its sweeping velvet curtains, gilded lamps, and a bed so wide it could have swallowed a man whole.

Carefully, Mafioso lowered Chance onto the mattress, the gambler sinking into the plush sheets without stirring. For a moment too long, he lingered there, staring. The rise and fall of their chest, the way their hair fell messily over their shades, the maddening peace on their face.

“What is this that keeps clawing at me…?” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough that, had they been awake, they might have heard.

Mafioso took off the gambler’s shades and fedora, setting them neatly on the nightstand. His gaze lingered for one final beat before he forced himself to turn toward the door, shoulders stiff with restraint.

“Goodnight, Chance.”
The silence of the grand room pressed heavy behind him.

Notes:

Babysitter Mafioso ahh

Posted ts at 3am don't flame me 🪦

Chapter 3 WIP. Chance will show up more, trust 😋

Chapter 3: A morning in emerald and gold

Notes:

My ass finished this chapter sooner than expected skskskksks

Chance groaned, stretching their limbs like a cat. Their eyes fluttered open, hazy at first, until the unfamiliar emerald ceiling and golden chandelier snapped into focus.
“Where the hell is—” Their voice cracked mid-sentence, then it hit.
“WAIT. MAFIOSO?!”

They shot upright, staring at the too-large, too-expensive bed around them. The mafia boss had taken them to his estate — his mansion — and had actually let them crash there.

Chance ran both hands through their messy hair, heart pounding, face burning. The last thing they remembered was the mafia boss yanking them up from the bar stool… and now here they were.

“Morning, Chance.” Mafioso’s voice was rough, low, and rasped like gravel.

“Why did you—”

“You passed out on my shoulder. I dragged you back here. Be grateful.” His reply cut in like a blade.

“How—” Chance swallowed, hesitating. “How many drinks did I even have…?”

“About nine.” Mafioso’s mouth twitched, the hint of a grin he fought to suppress.

“Nine? That’s it?” Chance blinked. “I swear I can usually handle more than that.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mafioso snorted. “You blacked out halfway through a sentence.”

Knock Knock

The sudden noise coming from the direction of the door snapped them both out of their nonsense.

“Boss?” A familiar voice called from the other side.

Mafioso’s jaw tightened. Of all the times— He exhaled sharply, then muttered, “…Come in.”

The heavy door creaked open. One of his men, Consigliere, stepped inside, gaze sweeping the room before pausing on Chance sitting upright in bed. His eyes flickered — surprise, maybe amusement — before he dipped his head in a respectful bow.

Chance yanked the blanket higher over their chest, muttering, “Great. Just what I needed. An audience.”

Mafioso cut them a glare sharp enough to slice through stone. “Not. A. Word.” His voice was low, warning, before turning his full attention to his subordinate.

“Breakfast is ready, sir,” the man in the white top hat managed, despite the odd scene playing out before him.

“I’ll be coming. You and the boys eat first — no need to wait for us. We’ll be taking our time.”

“Noted.” With that, the goon cocked his body and walked out, leaving the two trapped in each other’s presence.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?! You made us look like we’re two birds in love!” The gambler yelled.

Chance sighed dramatically, then added with a mischievous grin and a roll to the eye, “Ooor maaaybe we are?”

Big rookie mistake. Now the mafia boss was red — and not just a little. He had hoped the shadow of his fedora would hide the crimson burning across his face. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.

“Zip your mouth and go shower… fuck, you’re so annoying.” Mafioso gathered the last of his composure and pointed to the spare clothes folded neatly on the counter.

“Yes, sir!” Chance shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Before they knew it, Mafioso had already left the room, the door shutting behind him with a heavy thud.

Honestly, Chance didn’t know why Mafioso was being so nice to them. But it was endearing in its own way, and they couldn’t say they minded it.

Their eyes fell to the neatly folded dress shirt and pair of tailored pants waiting on the counter — clothes that somehow fit them just right. With a small huff, Chance scooped them up and stepped into the marble shower.

The room was ridiculous — the kind of bathroom that looked more like a cathedral than a place to rinse off. White marble stretched from floor to ceiling, veined with dark emerald streaks that glistened under the warm golden light. Steam curled up the walls as the water burst to life, cascading in a steady, luxurious downpour.

Chance stepped beneath the spray, sighing as the heat soaked into their skin. When was the last time they had a real shower? Most of their nights were spent hunched over poker tables and sticky bar counters, not pampering themselves in marble and gold.

They tilted their head back, letting the water drum against their face, and for a moment let themselves laugh. “Damn. Guess there are worse places to black out.”

Still, the thought nagged at them: why was Mafioso — the same man who could snap their neck and have them buried six feet under — treating them with this kind of care? Endearing, yes… but confusing as hell.

Chance couldn’t help but wonder why Mafioso even wanted them to shower here in the first place. It wasn’t like they planned on spending the rest of the week in this too-luxurious mansion. Actually, they had things to do after this — plans, meetings, distractions waiting for them back in their casino.

The shampoo and body wash on the marble shelf with gold accents carried a scent that felt oddly familiar. Something Chance swore they’d caught before, though they couldn’t quite place where. Maybe in a fleeting moment, brushing past Mafioso at a card table, or in the low haze of cigar smoke and cologne in his office. Wherever it was, the smell clung to memory like a half-forgotten tune.

Still… it was a damn good scent. And for now, that was all that mattered.

Eventually, Chance stepped out of the steamy shower, water still clinging to their skin. They wrapped a towel around their waist before reaching for the all-too-perfectly tailored dress shirt and pants laid out for them.

One by one, they slipped into the clothes — sharp, expensive, a little too polished. It wasn’t that Chance couldn’t afford luxury — they’d been raised in it. Money had never been the issue. It was just that they preferred burning it at the tables or leveling up their casino in Vegas rather than wasting it on shiny extras.

They finished the look the only way they knew how: sliding on their suit jacket, tipping their iconic shades into place, putting on their headphones, and, of course, settling their signature fedora atop their messy hair.

For a moment, staring at their reflection in the gilded mirror, Chance almost looked like they belonged here. Almost.

Chapter 4: The call back home

With one swift motion, the gambler scooped up their belongings and slipped out into the gilded hall. The corridors stretched long and confusing, and they might’ve gotten lost if not for one of Mafioso’s goons waiting by the door — Contractee.

 

“So… you’re boss’s new ‘friend,’ huh?” Contractee dragged out the word with a smirk, heavy with implication.

 

“Uh, not sure about friends… but—somewhat, yeah,” Chance muttered, tugging at their shades.

 

“I see. Well, I’m sure boss is waiting in the dining hall. I’ll take you there.” Contractee pressed a gleaming gold button inside the elevator.

 

“Breakfast? With Mafioso? Oh, how sweet,” Chance cooed under their breath, feigning innocence.

 

As the elevator hummed downward, their grin faltered. Thoughts began to spiral. They had plans — paperwork stacked like towers, Elliot, their bestfriend waiting on them, Spade, their pet bunny probably hopping circles in worry.

 

“Unfortunately,” Chance murmured to themselves, “I’m busy today. I won’t be able to indulge in breakfast with Mafioso.”

 

The words sounded like refusal, but their tone betrayed them. They didn’t want to decline. Not really.

 

“Awh, what a pity. Tell that to the boss yourself,” Contractee chuckled, his voice dripping with mockery.

 

Moments later, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Velvet carpet muffled their steps as they entered the dining hall.

 

The first thing Chance noticed was Mafioso, seated at the head of the table, three henchmen lined neatly to his side. Two empty chairs waited across the spread, positioned as if reserved just for Contractee and Chance.

 

For the briefest second, Mafioso’s composure cracked. His eyes locked on the gambler — suit pressed sharp, cologne still clinging fresh, confidence radiating like smoke curling through the air. God… they look stunning. The thought tripped over itself in his head, again and again.

 

Chance caught the look, saw how he really did seem to be waiting for them. Maybe — just maybe — Mafioso wasn’t lying about wanting them close. Maybe they really were friends.

 

“Well…” Chance muttered under their breath, changing course, “…I suppose there’s time to spare. I’ll stay.”

 

They slid into the seat opposite him, their gaze colliding with the shadow-veiled stare of the mafia boss.

 

Mafioso’s chest clenched tight, each beat of his heart hammering too hard, too loud. His breath caught uneven, his control slipping by the second. He didn’t know what this feeling was — and even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t ready to admit it.

 

“Boss, you okay?” Soldier leaned close, patting his back, concern edging his voice.

 

Mafioso dragged both hands over his face, forcing himself upright before clearing his throat. His voice came sharp and commanding, though it cost him every ounce of composure.

 

“Yes. Go on and eat, boys.

 

The clatter of silverware filled the silence, the henchmen digging into their plates without hesitation. The long oak table gleamed under the golden chandelier, spread with dishes that could’ve fed a small army — eggs, fruit, pastries, even a whole roasted quail.

 

Chance whistled low. “Well, this sure beats bar peanuts.” They leaned back in their chair, shades tilting just enough to flash a mischievous glint.

 

One of the henchmen snorted, quickly stifling it when Mafioso’s glare cut sharp as a blade.

 

Chance smirked and reached forward, plucking a croissant from the silver tray. They tore it lazily, crumbs scattering, before letting their hand wander further down the table. Their fingers paused on the edge of Mafioso’s plate.

 

“Don’t,” Mafioso warned, voice low.

 

Chance grinned wider, snatching a strip of smoked bacon anyway and popping it into their mouth with exaggerated delight. “Mmm. Knew yours would taste better.”

 

The henchmen froze, eyes darting between the two men like spectators waiting for blood.

 

Mafioso’s jaw tightened. He should’ve been furious — should’ve barked at them, slammed his fist, made them regret it. Instead, he found himself biting back the corner of a smile threatening to betray him.

 

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, tearing into his own food with deliberate calm.

 

“Aw, don’t say that. You’ll hurt my feelings.” Chance rested their chin on their palm, studying him across the spread. “Besides, you look too tense. Breakfast is supposed to be relaxing, y’know?”

 

Another henchman, Soldier, leaned close to Contractee and whispered, “Never seen the boss let anyone get away with that.”

 

“Shut it,” Mafioso snapped without even glancing, though the redness creeping up his neck gave him away.

 

Chance chuckled, leaning back with the easy satisfaction of someone who’d just won a hand of cards. Chance lounged back, crossing one leg over the other with all the arrogance of a king who didn’t own the castle. They sipped orange juice like it was champagne, smirk tugging at their lips.

 

“So, tell me, Boss,” they said lightly, “is this how you start every morning? Surrounded by men in suits, choking down quail and silence?”

 

One of the henchmen choked on his coffee. Mafioso’s glare snapped his way like a whip. The poor man straightened, muttered an apology, and focused on his plate.

 

Mafioso turned his gaze back to Chance, shadows heavy beneath his fedora. “Eat your food and stop running your mouth.”

 

Chance grinned. “But running my mouth is what I do best.” They plucked another slice of bacon from his plate, bold as ever.

 

Before Mafioso could retort, a sharp buzz split the air. Chance frowned, pulling their phone from their jacket pocket.

 

The screen lit up with Elliot’s name, followed by a string of texts:

 

Elliot: WHERE ARE YOU??

 

Elliot: Spade’s been restless all night. He won’t eat unless you’re around.

 

Elliot: Don’t tell me you passed out drunk again.

 

The smirk drained from Chance’s face in an instant. Their shoulders slumped, and for a moment, the gambler mask cracked clean through.

 

“Damn,” they whispered, more to themselves than anyone. “I forgot…”

 

Mafioso caught the change, his fork pausing mid-air. Chance’s usual bravado was gone, replaced by a rare flicker of guilt — worry, even.

 

“They need me back,” Chance muttered, sliding the phone away with shaking hands. “Elliot… and Spade. They’re probably worried sick. I can’t just sit here stuffing my face while—”

 

They cut themselves short, realizing the words had slipped freer than intended.

 

The table fell into a hush. Even the henchmen looked up, surprised to see the gambler — usually so smug and untouchable — look so human.

 

Mafioso leaned back slowly, eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his fedora. But inside, something twisted. Whoever Elliot was, whatever Spade meant to them — it mattered. More than debt, more than bravado, more than the reckless grin Chance wore like armor.

 

For the first time since breakfast began, Mafioso set down his fork. His voice was steady, almost quiet:

“Then finish eating. I’ll have someone drive you.”

 

Chance blinked, caught off guard. The smirk didn’t come back this time — only a small, genuine nod. “Thanks.”

 

 

Notes:

Mafioso prolly doesn't even care about the debt Chance owes atp 💔

Chapter 5: Breakfast, debts and bad decisions

Chance’s fingers drummed restlessly against the leather seat of the limousine. Soldier sat up front in the driver’s seat, silent for the first stretch of the ride.

 

Elliot. Spade. And—though Chance hated to admit it—even Mafioso’s name tugged at the edges of their mind.

 

“Shit…” Chance muttered under their breath, leaning against the tinted glass. “Wonder what Spade and Elliot are up to…”

 

Back at the decently sized penthouse perched atop Chance’s casino, Elliot and the black-furred bunny had collapsed together on the couch, tangled in their own quiet world. Elliot’s blond head rested against Spade’s soft body, both of them lost in slumber, no doubt wandering some whimsical dreamland. They’d gotten used to Chance’s vanishing acts by now.

 

“So…” Soldier’s voice cut through the hum of the engine, rough with amusement. “Mind me asking what your relationship is with the boss? I only knew you as his debtor.” He chuckled, letting the implication hang in the air.

 

“Maybe it isn’t all about money.” Chance tilted their shades down just enough to meet Soldier’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

 

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. Because even Chance didn’t know what to call it. A deal? A debt? A friendship? Maybe something else altogether. Whatever it was, for the first time in years, Chance didn’t hate the thought.

 

Mafioso wasn’t that bad of a man after all.

 

Maybe—just maybe—Chance was even considering paying off the debt.

 

It wasn’t like money had ever been an issue. They have tens of millions. Chance knew that. Mafioso knew that. The only thing holding it back was Chance’s own stubborn streak.

 

But if they were honest with themselves… they didn’t want to end it. Not yet.

 

They liked the chase, Mafioso dogging their steps, demanding what was owed. They liked the way it gave them an excuse to meet again and again, a reason for Mafioso’s eyes to stay fixed on them. They liked the attention. The company.

 

And damn it, they knew they shouldn’t. Those were selfish thoughts, and Chance wasn’t supposed to be selfish when Elliot and Spade needed them grounded.

 

Still, in the quiet hum of the limousine, it was hard to ignore the truth: a part of them wasn’t ready to let Mafioso stop chasing.

 

“We’re here at your destination, Sir Chance,” Soldier said, breaking the chain of thoughts looping in the gambler’s head.

 

“Ah, thanks. See ya!” Chance flashed a quick grin, waving goodbye as they slipped out of the luxury car.

 

The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, cutting off the hum of the engine. Chance straightened their jacket, eyes lifting to the gleaming golden doors of their grand casino. Neon lights bathed the entrance in a false warmth, but the marble floors echoed cold beneath their shoes.

 

They walked through the buzzing lobby, dealers and patrons alike turning heads, whispers following the gambler’s sharp silhouette. But Chance hardly noticed. Their mind was still elsewhere.

 

Up the private elevator, past floor after floor of spinning wheels and clattering chips, until at last — the penthouse. Perched above it all, glittering like a crown.

 

The doors slid open to silence.

 

It was everything anyone could want: glass walls stretching toward the skyline, velvet couches soft as clouds, chandeliers spilling golden light across polished marble floors. But without Elliot’s laugh or Spade’s thumping paws, the penthouse felt cavernous. Empty. Maybe, Chance thought fleetingly, they should invite Mafioso and his goons over — just to fill the silence.

 

The truth was, they didn’t need the towering penthouse to themselves. It was more like a hotel than a home. Half the floors were given to workers who needed a place to rest; Chance even charged them far less rent than the rooms were worth. A luxury refuge, gifted to the lucky few who stuck by their side.

 

Only the top floors belonged entirely to Chance.

 

They had always lived alone. Always, except for the times they weren’t. On those nights, Elliot would come over, not just to watch Spade, but simply to keep Chance company. The pizza worker had a way of cutting through the silence, his laugh filling the empty halls, Spade’s soft fur grounding everything in warmth.

 

Those moments drowned out the loneliness.

 

Those moments made this penthouse feel less like a tower, and more like home.

 

Notes:

Atp Chance gotta accept the fact that they have a crush on that big guy vro

Also this fic is gonna take so long. LIKE DUDE I ONLY HAVE ABOUT 4000 WORDS RN ON CHAPTER 5 AND THESE GAY PPL STILL CANT ADMIT THE FEELINGS THEY HAVE FOR EACHOTHER. LMFAOOO