Y/n

If there was one thing Y/n feared more than acid-washed jeans, it was not being in the mafia.

Y/n had grown up watching movies like The Godfather and wishing she could have a molecule of their coolness. Yeah, that made her feel like she was in high school all over again, but who cared? What mattered was that Y/n would do anything to live up to her mafia dreams. It wasn't like she had parents to disapprove or siblings who could stop her, so the only thing holding her back was... nothing.

Well, except for her inability to do crime.

Y/n faceplanted (for the fifth time that day) on the cracked concrete making up the "city" America called NYC. Land of the free, home of the brave, yet whenever Y/n did anything brave, it ended with her needing a root canal. That included that moment, where Y/n found herself smelling the rotten sewage spewing from the countless manholes and subways. Oh, and who could forget the weed and smoke from vapes and cigarettes?

"I'm walking here," the man who she had attempted to pickpocket said as he stepped over her flopped body and continued his trek down the poor excuse for a sidewalk. She barely heard him over the stereotypical honks of New York City.

Some stereotypes were true. In NYC's case, most of them were true.

The New York accents around her were stronger than Everclear's alcohol percentage. The soundscape of the City consisted of random voices saying it's hot as a sauna out here (with heavy emphasis on the u in sauna), car horns, and rapid footsteps. Y/n had to scurry off to the side under the metal scaffolding to avoid getting stomped on.

Manhattan was quite the joy, huh?

Y/n gazed out and saw she was near Madison Square Garden, which had young adult women lining up for some Korean soloist named DPR Ian. All of them looked slutty, and Y/n applauded that. Get that bag, right? That was what Y/n had been attempting to do all day, yet little success made its way to her. Instead, she received dirty glances and laughs from the fake homeless people next to her with iPhones in their pockets but dirt and grime covering their faces. Same with tattered blankets despite it being summer and over eighty degrees out. Anything to sell the show, Y/n supposed.

How was she supposed to get into the mafia when she couldn't even pickpocket a random dude on the street? Oh, and the best part? She hadn't held a gun before, much less fired one. Or a knife. Or brass knuckles. Or, hell, even pepper spray. The most experience she had was high school when she got the world's blurriest video of the two popular football guys fighting over team captain. Neither of them ended up getting it.

Gee, Y/n wondered why.

Y/n got off her fat ass and placed her hands on her hips, right on the waistband of her high-rise jean shorts that covered her stomach that her short-sleeved yellow and white floral crop top otherwise would have shown. No one paid attention to her. Not a single person lining the sidewalks. Not even the damn scammers.

"I hate my life," Y/n mumbled to herself, patting down her top that had been dirtied by the stinky sidewalks.

With her pride at an all-time low (not that she had much to begin with), she sulked away and returned to her car in one of the various parking garages that cost an obscene amount of money. She plopped inside the white Kia and found out the hard way that her AC didn't work, her CD player wouldn't play music, and her gas was lower than her IQ.

Alright. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Y/n huffed and buckled up. And then, after a moment, undid the buckle and realized mafia don't give a fuck about safety. So, she backed out of her parking spot, hit the car next to her by accident, cursed, and drove away without caring if she dented the stranger's vehicle or not. She slapped her hands on the dark steering wheel and whistled to herself to soothe her heartbeat and get her brain juices flowing.

What crimes could put her on the map? Pickpocketing never worked, so scratch that. Grand theft auto? No, Y/n didn't want to break a nail. Armed robbery? With what gun? That left few options that were intense enough to give her a badass reputation. New York judges would let her out of jail in ten seconds anyway, so she didn't care about getting caught. In fact, maybe she preferred it. The notoriety would be sick... for ten minutes until the next shooting happened and that overtook the news. Whatever. Even ten seconds of fame was a start.

And a start could get her into the mafia.

That had Y/n making up her mind as she drove down the streets at a snail's pace thanks to the congested traffic. Constant honks didn't let her think for more than a second, so she huffed and decided it was time to do something rash. No pickpocketing, no grand theft autos, no armed robberies, no assault and battery, and no murder. But kidnapping a grown man? That would put her on the map. A woman everyone underestimated overpowering a man? Yeah, that'd be a story for the ages. Bonus points if the man was scary-looking.

That led Y/n to searching the sidewalks to find anyone who could work as her victim. She searched and searched until she found a corner not far behind the Flatiron, and she spotted two men—tall, buff men with tattoos, sunglasses, and all-black clothing—lingering in the dark by an overflowing dumpster.

The scale of the Flatiron—a famous building in New York that, quite literally, was known for its flatness—caused shadows to blacken the vicinity. Okay, Y/n was being dramatic for sake of cinema. No, there were no shadows or anything cool. It was a sunny day with a hot temperature and sweating bodies making up the streets. That included those two men since they wore black turtlenecks and trousers, topped off with black dress shoes and a belt holding the whole fit together.

They were good targets due to their disadvantage—they were hot. Not like attractive hot- okay, yeah, attractive hot, too, but focus! They were sweating more than the others. Y/n could tell due to their black hair (that matched their fits) being dampened and plastered to their strangely attractive foreheads.

Without wasting time, Y/n swerved onto the sidewalk and stopped in front of them, causing the two to glance up. Damn, no flinching? Y/n knew she was in New York of all places, but that was odd even for New Yorkers. The other pedestrians yelped and flung her off before walking around her. Awkward.

Y/n grabbed her bright ass pink lanyard that held all her keys. Her apartment key, two of her old keys from college that she forgot to put back (and had to pay a hefty fine for), her car keys, and a key to her safe in her apartment. Five keys. She slipped them between her fingers and crawled out the driver's side before opening the backseat of her Kia and turning to the men with her eyes narrowed and her bling-covered hand pointed toward them.

"You two. Backseat. Now."

The two exchanged a look, and Y/n got a chance to observe them closer. One of them—the one on the left—was more tattooed than the other. His neck had a cross tattoo on the side, and his right hand had Latin letters Y/n didn't recognize. He also seemed to be the protective type, seeing as he stepped forward without missing a beat until his potential "boss" held him back from engaging with Y/n. Y/n sent a mental thanks. In all her planning (of which there was none), she hadn't considered that the grown men would try to fight back. Whoops.

"Us?" the boss-like man said, his voice deep and smooth like his skin. He smiled and showed dimples in the process, and he was a tiny bit taller than the man on the left. "You must have the wrong people."

"Oh, really?" Y/n tightened her grip on the keys and ignored how she began sweating more than them despite the clothing difference. "How about I slit your throat, and then we'll see just how 'wrong' I was."

The boss-like dude dropped his smile and gripped the other dude's shoulder. "Do as she says."

"You can't be serious-"

"Do it."

Man #2—the scowling one with thin lips, a mole under said lips, and chest muscles bigger than Y/n's forehead—obeyed with a grunt, hopping into the backseat of Y/n's car and motioning for his superior to follow. The superior did, albeit slower. He stepped by Y/n, his head dropping and then rising as if scanning Y/n up and down, and then he got in.

Holy shit, that actually worked. She was not expecting that to work.

Y/n squealed and hopped up and down before rushing to the driver's side and getting in. She dropped her lanyard in the passenger's seat and backed out of the sidewalk and returned to the road the second she got a clearing to do so. Ignoring the honks from other drivers, she cruised the streets while humming and bouncing in her seat.

"Don't take it personally," she said to the two strangers who kept their sunglasses on despite no longer facing the sun. "I'm just trying to build street cred. I'll let you out as soon as the police start hunting me down. Need that newspaper report, y'know?"

"Oh, is that so?" the boss-like man, or Man #1 in Y/n's mind, said. "Street cred? Why do you want that?"

"To join the mafia, duh. I was made for it."

Man #1 chuckled. It was harmonious. If the situation was anything else, Y/n could have found it sweet or endearing; however, she had to focus, so she kept her eyes on the road and did her best to ignore the thumping of her heart and the sweat dripping down the sides of her head.

"How do you plan on joining the mafia?" the man asked, and Y/n slowed to a stop at a red light, listening to the tires screeching on the pavement followed by honks and shouts from angry New Yorkers on the sidewalks.

Well, shit. For all her dreaming, she hadn't thought of how she would ask a mafia member to join. How could she? She thought joining the mafia meant waiting on tables and doing small jobs until she landed a larger role, but she couldn't do that without street cred and notoriety. Or maybe it wasn't like it was in the books and movies.

"I'll figure that out when I get there," she said, her voice tighter and deeper than before.

"You're pathetic," the man replied, his voice light and high, almost like an echo.

Y/n whipped her head to glare. "You're in no position to say anything right now."

Man #1 furrowed his brows and shook his head. "I... didn't say anything."

Y/n rolled her eyes at the stranger's deflection and turned her attention back to the road. Just in time. It turned green, and before she could touch the gas pedal, the car behind her blared its horn, and she flung it off and started away.

"Asshole," she mumbled, driving to her apartment complex and parking in the garage.

Y/n had been out for the day to run "errands," or, more accurately, attempt to do crime. That failed. Until the kidnapping, of course. It wasn't like her day job—a remote marketing assistant with a 90k salary—got her out of the house, so she had to do something.

"Let's go. Follow me and don't make a sound."

The two men didn't argue despite Man #2 grabbing and tugging on Man #1's arm. Y/n ignored it and led them to the elevator and up to the thirteenth floor. Y/n had been scared of heights since she was a girl, yet she chose to live in New York City. That was why she had no New York accent; she had grown up in the countryside and moved to New York with hopes of joining the mafia. Why else would she voluntarily live in the shithole?

"Why do you want to join the mafia?" Man #1 asked as the elevator zipped them up. It was like teleportation. Completely unlike anything Y/n encountered in the countryside. Even when she traveled inward to shop at the fancy two-story or more malls, none of the elevators had moved any faster than a snail. Yet, in New York City, they had it down to a science.

Y/n was also scared of elevators, though, so her needing to take one every day was wonderful.

Every time she stepped in an elevator, she thought the cables would snap and she'd fall to her death. That was why rides down were easier than rides up: with every floor that passed, she felt better. Up, though, led to her cradling her arms and zipping her eyes from one direction to the next as black splotches filled her vision. It was weird, though. Black splotches were common no matter if she was afraid or not. Sometimes they'd show up and run around her eyesight for several seconds for no reason. She didn't know why.

Once the man's question processed in her brain, she answered with, "Are you crazy? Look around. All the books and movies. Haven't you seen John Wick? The Godfather? Literally any enemies to lovers book? Why would I not want that? They get money, good looks, and hot partners."

"The violence doesn't scare you?"

"Honestly, it's one of the only things that doesn't." Y/n shrugged and felt a lightness in her mind, but she brushed it off and instead shot them a smile as the doors opened. "I've spent enough of my life cowering in fear. Don't you think I should do something for myself?"

Right when she got off the elevator, it creaked, and she flinched and almost let out a yelp if it weren't for the saliva clogging her throat. She coughed and wiped her mucus-covered nose. Y/n kept her now-lopsided smile and beckoned them forward. They hesitated but eventually followed her to her apartment, and upon entering, Y/n saw it was as depressing as ever.

For normal humans, 90k a year was a great salary. Suburbs and rural areas could take yearly week-long vacations with that kind of money. For New Yorkers, it didn't mean much. Cost of living was through the roof. Literally. That led to Y/n's apartment being one bedroom (not that she needed more) with a cramped kitchen, a tiny living space, a bathroom with one of the two lights busted, shitty AC and heating, and a window overlooking the dump called the City that fogged up so often that Y/n didn't bother looking out it. Not that she would anyway. Fear of heights, remember?

"This is a waste of time," Man #2 whispered, though Man #1 shushed him.

Y/n decided against questioning it and instead made them sit on her queen-sized bed with a mattress that felt like laying on needles. She wondered if that added to their kidnapped experience or not.

"So," Y/n said, keeping the curtains closed and not caring how dark it was. Sunlight peeked through the tiny gaps, but it otherwise remained dim. "Names?"

Man #2 flung her off, but Man #1 lowered the stranger's hand and scooted in front of him. He took off his sunglasses, and Y/n got to see his dragon-like eyes that weren't as aggressive as she was expecting. He didn't yell, scream, or complain about the scenario—instead, he kept his voice low and steady.

"Namjoon. This is Jungkook."

"Full names?"

Namjoon hesitated and nodded. "Alright, you win: Kim Namjoon and Jeon Jungkook."

"Good to meet you, Kim and Jeon. I'm Y/n."

Namjoon quirked a brow. "Full name?"

"Ah, touché, Mr. Kim. It's L/n." Y/n leaned against the wall and observed the two, ignoring how Jungkook fiddled with his watch for the tenth time. She had noticed him doing it earlier but passed it off as a habit. Lord knew she had a bunch, like biting her nails. "Hope you don't mind me doing this. I'll let you go in a bit. I want to see if the police tracked us here."

"That's... not how it works," Jungkook mumbled, facepalming.

Y/n wanted to slap him, but knowing her luck, she'd somehow end up slapping herself. "Well, look, I'm not good at this criminal stuff, okay?"

"No shit."

Y/n glared at Jungkook, but he didn't react, so she kept speaking. "Whatever. I'm trying to figure this out, so could you shut up and let me think?"

Namjoon stood and walked over, stopping on the wall next to her. The wallpaper was covered in her art that she sucked at. Scribbled lines of random animals and ideas infected the otherwise white canvas. If her landlord found out, he'd be pissed.

"You should stay out of the crime business, kid. It's not good for you."

"Kid?" Y/n backed up and rubbed her arms, resisting the urge to scowl. "You're not much older than me, weirdo."

"Is that so? And how old are you, Y/n?"

Y/n held onto herself a bit tighter. "Twenty-six."

"Yeah, I have a few years on you. I know I don't look it, but I'm forty-five, so trust me when I say you don't want a life of crime. I've lived a lot of lives, and that one's always the worst one. Avoid it. Please."

"Namjoon," Jungkook said, but Namjoon ignored him and kept gazing at Y/n.

Y/n cleared her throat. "I..." She coughed. "Well, you're right: you sure as hell don't look it." Silence carried on, but Namjoon broke it a minute later.

"Why don't we give you some space to think? I don't think the police are coming, so-"

"Namjoon," Jungkook interrupted, his voice sharper than before.

"That's enough," Namjoon said without giving Jungkook so much as a glance. He spoke to Y/n instead. "Does that sound okay? Can we go?"

"No you're..." Y/n felt as if her mind was getting squeezed by heavenly hands. Or maybe they were from hell; she couldn't tell. The pressure building up on her skull led to her heart, quickening her pulse and breathing as the corners of her vision blurred. "You're not... leaving already, are you?" Her voice hiccupped as it left her quivering lower lip. "No, you wouldn't do that. Right?"

"Y/n..."

Before Namjoon could get another word out, the front door opened to reveal three men stepping inside with black suits on. All three of them pulled out pistols she didn't recognize the model of—not that she would recognize any model to begin with, even a generic Glock 19—and aimed them at her.

"You should probably lock your door if you're gonna kidnap people," Jungkook said, adjusting his watch as he stood and joined the other three. "Thank you, Yoongi. Glad you got my signal."

The front man with the palest skin, shortest height, and shortest silver hair nodded. He broke out into a gummy grin that showed off his teeth—which were not a rich man's white but not yellow either—and waved his pistol around, not caring that the barrel switched between pointing at Y/n to pointing at Namjoon to pointing at Jungkook.

"Anytime," Yoongi said in a high-pitched tone, and then he pointed the firearm back at Y/n. "We'll be taking our boss and my bodyguard home now."

"Boss? Bodyguard?" Y/n mumbled, glancing at Namjoon, who pulled at the collar of his turtleneck.

"Let's just get going. No need to drag this out."

"Ugh, tell me about it," Jungkook said with an eye roll, and then, he spoke to Yoongi. "She kidnapped us because she wants to be in the mafia. She wanted street cred. Can you believe that?"

"Wow. Even Jimin's not that desperate."

Y/n cornered herself against the wall and watched as Jungkook slipped away, becoming foggy in her mind as she tried to remember what he looked like despite seeing him seconds ago. Her breathing remained fast, and her eyes darted between all four of the remaining figures in the room. The other two behind Yoongi wore masks to hide their faces, same with sunglasses to hide their irises. Only Yoongi had his face visible.

"I just... I just wanted to..." Y/n swallowed. "Please, I'm sorry. I suck at crime, I get it, but please... I just want to prove myself."

Yoongi snickered and came closer, waving his gun around in front of her head, getting close enough for her to smell his alcohol-stained breath. "You think you can join the mafia, huh?"

For once, her voice came out clear. "Yes. I do."

"Well, I'm all for a little fun." Yoongi tucked his weapon back in his jacket and raised a brow to Namjoon. "Why don't we take her in? She managed to kidnap you, so she can't be so bad. Maybe we make a little bet to see how well she does."

Namjoon didn't hesitate. "No."

"Oh, come on, boss. When's the last time we had a new recruit?"

"Yesterday."

Yoongi grunted. "Okay, last time we had a new recruit as fun as her, huh? Come onnn, we need a spirit lifter, and her blubbering will give us a real show."

"We don't use people as entertainment, Yoongi," Namjoon said, his voice tight and scratchy. Y/n noticed he curled his hands into fists at his sides, and then, he stepped in front of her. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Why don't you let the girl speak for herself? What do you say, whatever your name is? You wanna join a real mafia?"

"Wha... what?" Y/n peeked out from behind Namjoon with her eyes almost bursting free from her tight skull. For years she had imagined the moment she'd hear those words, yet she never imagined they'd come like that. But that didn't matter. She wasn't picky. That was why the room erupted with the sound of a loud, "Yes!"

"See? Don't make decisions for grown ass women, Joonie." Yoongi patted Namjoon's shoulder. "Unless you want to ask for Jimin's opinion first, but I think we both know what that dumbass will say."

Namjoon narrowed his eyes but otherwise didn't answer.

Yoongi smiled, clapped his hands, and beckoned Y/n forward. "Don't mind our grumpy leader. For a mafia, he sure as hell doesn't like the mafia."

"But... if you're the leader, why are you letting him make the decision about me?" Y/n asked Namjoon, who kept his face away from her. "And who's Jimin?"

"Jimin is Namjoon's underboss, our second-in-command." Yoongi patted his own chest and beamed. "I'm a proud capo. As for why, well, let's just say Namjoon hasn't made any real decisions in years. That's left to his five closest men, myself and Jimin included."

"And Jungkook?"

"Kook? Hell nah, Kook's my bodyguard. He just follows the others around cause I order him to." Yoongi pulled her forward, and she flinched at the contact. "Now come on, you have a new life to get used to."

"Y/n, you don't have to do this," Namjoon said, coaxing Yoongi off of Y/n and giving her space. "Please stay here. Please."

Y/n didn't know why Namjoon, the boss of a mafia, tried so hard to convince her not to join, but she couldn't ponder that at the moment. All her desires waited in front of her, and she wouldn't let anything stop her from taking them.

"I have to," she said, and then, she smiled and laughed, following Yoongi out of the room. The man had a spring in his step and laughed with her, and for the first time in years, she had someone. A potential group of people. A new life. People who didn't abandon her.

Her mafia dream had come true.

---

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