A Life in DC
Chaper 4
The city felt different the next day. The usual Gotham grime was still there, a permanent stain on the soul, but the air in the precinct carried a new, electric hum. The Gilded Cage incident was all anyone was talking about. For Vieri, it was a low-grade fever, a phantom ache in his bones and a lingering scent of expensive perfume and damp earth that he couldn't wash off.
The bullpen was a chaotic symphony of ringing phones, shouting detectives, and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Vieri sat at his desk, the report open on the screen. He stared at the cursor, blinking slowly, before typing.
He'd kept his report brutally simple.
**Officer Oliviero Oronzo responded to 10-90. Engaged hostiles Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. Was briefly subdued by botanical means. Hostages were released. Situation resolved by the Bat Family.**
That was it. That was the whole story. He left out the part where he'd been worshipped by one of Gotham's most dangerous women, leaving him sore and bruised. He left out the fact that he'd been stripped naked on a VIP stage, essentially used and fought over like a prize to be won. He left out the part where he'd become the main attraction, the centerpiece of the Queens of Crime's little game.
He hit the save button. The less paperwork, the fewer questions. The fewer questions, the less likely a detective like Bullock would start poking around, nosing into why Vieri smelled like expensive perfume and damp earth. It was a fragile game, but it was the only one he had. His strategy worked. Sort of.
"Vieri!"
The captain's voice boomed across the bullpen, cutting through the noise like a gavel.
Vieri looked up. The captain was standing by his door, a stack of files in his hands. "Two days. Shake it off. Report says you took a few knocks. Don't come back until Friday."
It wasn't a question. It was a dismissal. He was being put on ice.
Two days paid leave, a polite way of saying 'you're a complication we don't want to look at too closely.' He just nodded, signed the form, and was turning to leave when a uniform tapped his shoulder.
"Detective Montoya wants to see you. Now."
The uniform tapped his shoulder, breaking the monotony of the bullpen. Vieri didn't hesitate. He nodded at the captain, collected his jacket, and walked out of the precinct, leaving the chaos of the day behind him.
He found her in her cubicle, a small fortress of overflowing case files and cold coffee mugs. Renee Montoya had a look that could cut glass, but today it was more… analytical. She was leaning back in her chair, boots up on the corner of her desk, watching him approach with a hawk-like intensity.
"Oliviero Oronzo," she said, her voice a low, even rasp. She gestured to the rickety chair opposite her. "Sit."
He sat. The chair groaned in protest, its springs complaining under his weight.
"I read your report," she began, lacing her fingers behind her head. "Clean. Concise. No bullshit. That's rare. Most guys would've written a novel about facing down the Queens of Crime. You made it sound like a traffic stop." She leaned forward, her boots hitting the floor with a thud. "Your conduct was solid. You kept your head when your partners were losing theirs. More importantly, I was there during the cleanup. I saw how you handled the survivors. You helped them out of the rubble while everyone else was running for their lives. You stayed until the EMTs took over. That's not just 'solid,' kid. That's hero work." She paused, studying him. "You've got a clean record for the last year. Not a single blemish. So tell me," she locked eyes with him, "why the hell has a cop with your record been flying solo for almost a year?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and unexpected. Vieri blinked, caught off guard by the praise and the sudden directness. "My old partner, Davies, he took the early retirement six months back. Paperwork was filed. I just… never got another one."
Montoya stared at him for a long moment, her expression darkening. Then, she let out a short, sharp curse in Spanish.
"Pendejos. Probablemente se olvidaron. Con tu récord limpio, y con tu viejo hombre siendo quien era… te olvidaron en el sistema." (They probably forgot. With your clean record, and your old man being who he was… they forgot you were in the system.)
He understood every word. It wasn't just textbook Spanish from a high school elective; it was the language of the bodega on the corner, the muttered curses of perps being hauled into the back of a paddy wagon, the rhythm of the city he'd bled for. It was the language his mother had spoken to him at the kitchen table, a bridge between the old world and the gritty streets of Gotham. A lifetime in the city had picked up more than just police jargon, but he had a foundation that was far more personal. He met her gaze, and for a second, the badge and the rank didn't matter. It was just two people from the same neighborhood, sharing a moment of cynical understanding.
"Sí," he replied, his own voice quiet but clear, the accent a perfect mirror of her own. "Probablemente sí se olvidaron." (Yeah. They probably did forget.)
The effect was instantaneous. Montoya's sharp, detective facade, the one she wore like armor, cracked. A slow, disbelieving grin spread across her face, and she let out a short, surprised laugh that was more genuine than anything he'd heard from a fellow officer in months.
"No way. You speak Spanish?" She shook her head, the amusement warring with pure disbelief. "For a guy named Oliviero Oronzo, son of one of the most stubbornly Italian-looking cops to ever walk a beat, that's a hell of a surprise." She leaned forward, her elbows on the desk, the professional interview melting away into pure curiosity. "Let me guess. Your mother's side. Elena Sambueza. I remember the name from your file. Argentine-Italian, right?"
Vieri gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "My great-grandparents on her side. They came over from Buenos Aires. The name was Sambueza, but the blood was… mixed. Some of it stuck." He looked down at his hands for a moment, the calluses on his knuckles a roadmap of his own life, then back up at her. "My mother made sure we knew the language. Said it was useful in a city like this. A way to hear things people didn't want you to hear."
Montoya's grin softened into a genuine smile of appreciation, the kind that reached her eyes and made her look ten years younger. "Well, I'll be damned," she said, leaning back again, the tension in the room completely dissolved. "A ghost who speaks Spanish. You're just full of surprises, aren't you, Vieri?" She studied him for a moment longer, her eyes no longer just analytical, but seeing him for the first time, not as a file or a statistic, but as a person. "Good," she added, her voice dropping back to a serious, but warmer, tone. "This city needs more of those."
She let the moment hang in the air before her expression shifted, the detective sliding back into place, but without the earlier edge. This time, it was all business.
"Alright, that's the unofficial reason I called you in," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial low. "Now for the official one. I'm putting together a task force. A special unit designed to do what the rest of the GCPD can't: handle the Queens of Crime. If we can cut the head off that snake, we might actually be able to make a dent in the manageable scum that crawls out from under the rocks afterward."
Vieri remained silent, his body still, but his mind was already racing.
"We've got four confirmed members," she continued, ticking them off on her fingers. "Me, Crispus Allen, and your partners from the other night—Wiktor Owen and Kingsley Glass. They both put you in for a commendation, by the way. Said you were the only one kept a level head when the spores and the fight hit."
She paused, letting that sink in before she delivered the hook. "We're looking at two more spots. One is a detective from Metropolis—Maggie Sawyer. Her temporary transfer isn't finalized yet, so she's a maybe. The other spot… is for you."
Vieri's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. It was one thing to be praised for surviving; it was another to be offered a seat at the table.
"Look at your file, Vieri," Montoya pressed, leaning forward again, her voice earnest. "With your record and your history, you're on the slow track. Detective in seven, maybe four years, if you're lucky. If you join this task force, I can get you a promotion in under a year. Gold shield, detective pay, real investigative work." She held his gaze. "You've got the instincts. You proved it the other night. You're not just a beat cop, no matter how hard you try to blend into the wallpaper. This is your chance to stop being a ghost."
The offer hung there, heavy and real. It was everything he thought he didn't want anymore. Responsibility. Visibility. A target on his back.
He took a breath. "What's the primary objective? Just investigate the Queens?"
"Primarily," Montoya confirmed. "We build the case from the ground up. Find their patterns, their safe houses, their supply chains. We hit them where they live, not just where they cause a scene. This isn't about reactive arrests; it's about proactive dismantling."
"Level of danger?" he asked, his voice flat. "This isn't just a higher risk of getting punched by a two-bit hood."
She didn't flinch from the question. "High. These aren't just costumed freaks. They're strategic, intelligent, and lethal. We'll be operating with more autonomy, which means less backup and more exposure. But it also means we get to hit first. You saw what they did to your squad. Imagine what we could do if we were prepared for it."
"Is the team fixed at six?"
"Seven, ideally, with Sawyer it'll be six. But I'm not gonna add a warm body just for numbers. If she doesn't pan out, we operate as a five-man unit. I want people I can trust, not just bodies to fill a roster."
"How much of our time? Is this all we'll be doing?"
"For now? Yes," she said firmly. "This task force will be your life. When you're not sleeping, you'll be working the case. It's an all-or-nothing assignment. That's the price of the fast track."
Montoya watched him, a flicker of appreciation in her eyes. "I'm glad you're asking questions. It means you're actually considering it, not just dismissing it out of hand." She leaned back, giving him space. "Look, I'm not gonna pressure you for an answer right now. Like I said, Sawyer isn't a lock. I'll give you the week. Think about it. Talk it over with… well, whoever you talk things over with."
Vieri stood up, the chair groaning in relief. "Thank you, Detective. I appreciate the consideration."
"Renee," she corrected him, standing as well and offering her hand. "We're on the same team here, Vieri. Or we could be."
He took her hand. Her grip was firm, confident. "Oliviero," he replied. "And I'll think about it."
He walked out of the cubicle, leaving the fortress of files behind him, and the automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him back into the humid, neon-soaked night of Gotham. The drive home was a blur of wipers fighting against a relentless downpour and headlights cutting through the fog, illuminating the city like the ribs of a dying beast.
The city felt different now. It wasn't just a place he existed in; it was a puzzle, and he was being offered a chance to be one of the people who got to look at the whole picture. But as he navigated the gridlock, his mind drifted back to Montoya's offer, the gears of his survival instinct turning over the possibilities.
He knew Selina. She was a variable he could predict, a woman with claws and a heart that beat in time with the rhythm of the rooftops. She was a conquest, a memory, a complication he had already learned to manage. But Ivy and Harley? They were wild cards. Ivy... she had been practically worshiping him, her plants clinging to him like a second skin. It was a strange, biological fascination that he hadn't quite figured out. Harley was just chaos in a clown suit, unpredictable and loud. The goal of the task force wasn't necessarily to put them all behind bars for life—that was a pipe dream—but to dismantle the group, to make them scatter or surrender. Capture the members, break the head, leave the body behind. That was a tangible win, a standard he could actually meet.
The faster promotion was tempting. Detective in four to seven years was the slow grind, the promise of a gold shield that might never arrive. But the danger was increased. He knew that. But when he weighed it against the underworld of Gotham—against the mob families with their hitmen and shooters, the drug cartels that bought judges, and the super villains with unimaginable powers—he found the risk manageable. He was a cop. He was used to bullets and knives. He was already in the VIP room with a plant-woman and a clown. Compared to that, a task force dedicated to hunting the Queens of Crime sounded like a promotion, not a death sentence. The target was acceptable. He would survive.
He watched the city lights blur past, the rain streaking the glass, and finally pulled into his driveway. The silence of his house was heavy as he stepped out of the car, the sound of the storm muffled by the brick buildings. He walked up to his front door, key in hand, and paused.
There was a silhouette in his living room.
He sighed, a familiar weight settling in his chest. Of course it was her. Who else would be sitting in his house at this hour? He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit hallway.
Selina was sprawled on his couch, the oversized grey t-shirt he wore to bed slipping off one shoulder, paired with his old jogging pants. She looked like a cat that had taken over a house that wasn't hers, but she looked comfortable. A bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table, the buttery kernels scattered as she reached for another handful. She was watching a rerun of a crime drama, completely absorbed, completely at home.
"Welcome home, handsome," Selina called out, her voice soft but laced with a purr that vibrated through the quiet room.
Vieri dropped his jacket on the rack and started unbuttoning his shirt, the fabric sliding off his shoulders to hang loosely around his waist. "You sure look comfortable," he said, glancing at her. "Taking over the place already?"
Selina didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I planned on surprising you completely naked. I was sitting on that couch, spread-eagled and dripping wet, waiting for you to come home and fuck me." She paused, feigning a pout. "But you took way too long to get here. So, I had to improvise."
Vieri laughed, a low rumble in his chest, and walked over to the couch. He sat down beside her, the springs creaking under their combined weight. "So, you borrowed my clothes because I was late?"
"Something like that," she replied, leaning in close. Her breath smelled like cherry lip gloss. "But enough about me. I saw what Ivy did to you. I saw the way she looked at you. You really think she's just gonna let you go?"
"Jealous?" Vieri teased, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head, offering her a view. "The Queens of Crime fighting over me?"
Selina cursed, a sharp string of Spanish that made him grin. "She touched you. She smelled you. She marked you like a bitch in heat." Suddenly, she shifted, straddling his lap with a fluid motion that left him breathless. "I'm going to remove her scent. I'm going to remove her prints from you until you only smell like me."
Vieri reached up, his hands gripping her hips, then sliding down to squeeze her firm ass. "You're a jealous little thing, aren't you?" He spanked her hard, watching her hips jerk. "You want to be the only one who can make me feel good?"
"Shut up and fuck me," she growled, crashing her lips against his. Their tongues tangled, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of popcorn and mint. Vieri's hands roamed freely, kneading her soft flesh, pulling her flush against his growing erection. "You're right," she mumbled against his mouth, her hands working on the button of his jeans. "I want to be the only one."
"Then free my cock," Vieri commanded, his voice dropping to a rough growl.
{R-18 Scene Vieri x Selina Kyle 3541 full word count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. They lay there for a long moment, their bodies entangled, the room filled with the heavy, wet sounds of their lovemaking. Selina was a broken mess, her body covered in bruises and scratches, her eyes glazed over, her mind completely blank. But she was happy. She was completely, utterly owned.
High above the city, deep within the cavernous, humid air of the Batcave, a monitor flickered to life, displaying the grainy feed from a camera Batman had installed in Vieri's apartment weeks ago. It showed the small, red light blinking in the corner of the room, hidden behind a stack of old magazines. The device had captured every primal moment of their coupling, the wet slap of skin, the guttural screams, the shock of milk, and the violent climax. It had recorded the complete destruction of Selina Kyle, watching as she was reduced to nothing more than a breeding sow for a man she couldn't resist. Batman watched the screen, his gloved hand tightening on the console, his chest heaving with a mix of shame and a burning, possessive jealousy.
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