Dollhouse | Italy Brothers x Reader

WARNING: This is a little disturbing. Read at your own risk!

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You have a lovely new doll.

You added him to your wonderful dollhouse one night….

….the same night the youngest grandchild of Rome was found murdered in his kitchen, missing his honey-coloured eyes as well as his right hand’s pointer finger.


The cook fled from the kitchen, a horrified look on his face. “SIR!” he screamed for the master of the mansion. “ROME!” He looked as though he were about to be sick. But who wouldn’t be nauseous? He had just seen the mutilated body of the master’s grandson, sprawled limply out on the counter. He scrambled to find the Italian man, completely overlooking the sweet young girl sitting at the kitchen table, in the very corner.  

You swung your legs as you ate from a bowl of vanilla gelato topped with a….peculiar red syrup, a strange smile twisting your lips. A kitchen knife sat next to your left hand resting on the table, the blade coated in the same thick red syrup you had poured onto your gelato. Or at least it looked like syrup. You hummed to yourself as you wiped the crimson off of the blade, as well as your chin, and skipped to the rubbish bin to toss the dirtied napkin away. Then your eyes wandered to the corpse on the counter.

When the cook returned with the Italian, all that was left behind was a few blood smears and a half-eaten bowl of vanilla gelato.


Your doll is very handsome, with shining auburn hair and sweet, sad empty eye sockets. He wears a simple blue uniform, dotted with lots of pockets and buttons. One of his fingers is missing. His smile is wide, although it seems a little….off, for some reason. And he’s real. So eerily, incredibly real. From the silkiness of his wonderful locks to the genuineness of the expressions he makes.

You love him.

He’s been yours for the longest time. You’d never let this doll go for the world. He sits in your large old dollhouse, perched on the wooden rocking chair, gazing out the window. You like to peek inside sometimes and gaze right back at him.





You collected another lovely doll.

You placed him in your dollhouse one night….

….the same night Rome’s oldest grandson committed “suicide”, found swaying from a tree in the mansion’s garden in the breeze, fingers clutching at the noose and mouth sewn in a permanent smile.


A shriek of terror split the night as a maid for the mansion stumbled back, eyes glued to the figure spinning slowly in the cool breeze. She scrambled back to the back door of the mansion, shouting, “ROME!” as loud as she could. Her eyes skipped right over the little girl who was swinging on the rusted swingset in the garden as well.  

Your head tilted innocently to the side as you observed the body drifting back and forth in the light wind. You tucked the frayed rope into your pocket, as well as the needle, thread, and the scissors used to cut that same rope. You hopped off of the swing and wandered over to the hanging figure. You giggled a bit, kicking the wooden stool into place, right in front of the dead man. Then you removed the scissors from your pocket, stepped onto the wooden stool, and reached for the knot in the rope with the blade.

When the maid returned with the one called “Rome”, the body was gone and only the noose remained, along with a wooden stool. The squeak of the still-moving rusted swingset could be heard as silence came over the stunned pair.


He has luscious chestnut-coloured hair and warm butterscotch eyes. His neck has the strangest red blotchy mark on it. He wears a cute little tan uniform, covered with pockets and buttons. His mouth is always set in a gruesome smile, but it suits him. The smile seems….fake, for some reason, as the thread sewn through his lips stretches his face a little too wide. But he feels so real, especially when his eyes follow you all around.

He’s wonderful.

You love this little doll with all of your heart, as if he was famiglia. You adore everything about him. He fits in the dollhouse very well; your other dolls seem to welcome him into the house. You never let your dolls out of your sight, even when you’re called away to another task.

And now, as you admire your wonderful dolls, one of the voices whispers to you that the man called Rome will soon attend a closed-casket wake for his grandsons. It suggests you go. You hiss at the voice to go away. You turn your attention back to the dolls, a Cheshire cat smile curling your mouth up at the corners.

There’s no point in going.

There are no bodies to display in the coffins anyway.






“And that’s the story of the Italy Mansion,” the guide finishes, a bright smile on her face. She strides over to an old rocking chair placed beside a window set into the east wall and seats herself, crossing her arms as she looks back over her now-terrified audience of tourists. “Legend has it that the little girl spotted at each scene of death was named (Name), and she was a girl who had been brutally murdered. Out of rage and pain, she went after those who were rich and had wonderful lives. She’d murder them painfully, then steal their corpses and forever imprison their souls within their dead bodies. She’d then make those corpses into dolls for her collection, then bring them to her ‘dollhouse’, which was this very house. When she came across the two Italy Brothers, she immediately sought after them. Veneziano, whose happiness was just a mask for the sadness he really hid inside, and Romano, whose constant anger was also just a hard shell to defend himself from the depression within. (Name) killed them both, and added them to her growing collection. She’s now known as cadavere bambola, or ‘corpse doll girl’ in English.”

“How do you know this house is safe to be in now?” someone with a thick Italian accent asks.

The guide gives an airy laugh. “It’s just a myth. There’s no such thing as a personified Death, nor do the so-called ‘Italy Brothers’ exist. Honestly, a country representation? Ridiculous!” The group of tourists laugh except for the one who asked the question, and the person beside them. The guide eyes the two of them curiously. “What made you ask a question like that?”

The pair, which everyone can now see are two men, both with similar hair and build, step forward to the front of the group and face the guide. One wears sunglasses that shield his eyes from sight and gloves, while the other bears a thick scarf that hides his mouth and neck. The man who had spoken earlier grins and whispers, “No reason.” Then the two turn to gaze out the window.

“What are you doing?” the guides questions, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re watching for our mistress. She likes it when we look at her from the window.”

“What?”

“She likes it when we watch her from the window.”

The guide shifts a bit, looking uncomfortable. “Who does?”

“Our mistress.”

“And who is that?”

“Oh, we think you know her quite well….” The one with the sunglasses begins to remove his gloves, while his companion starts to unwind the scarf from around his neck and mouth.

The guide shrieks and staggers back when both men successfully remove all of their odd accessories. The one who spoke has no eyes and is missing a finger, while the other’s mouth is sewn in a terrible smile and his neck is blotched with red.

“….Her name is (Name)….and she needs some new dolls.”